you give me so little to go on-
when I want a touch
of your soul
and only get a sound
how it can
soothe or incite
and just like that
the air splits with
a song
that is both
joyful and sad.
vox humana
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Tag Archives: poem
lift
in the hollows
and meadows
you call me with the thrushing
of pine needles to inspire
to climb
and place my steps
on familiar ground
pulsating with desire.
bring me closer
to a shared ascent-
where your words, once nestled
in the horizon, peek out
among the clover and the briar.
and we hold each other in the glow
of sunset’s flushed attire.
Whether
calling amid the
intermittent drops
that fall and soak the ground
or
seeing entangled
clouds appear
with the morning light.
not
just as a backdrop
of weather,
but a welcoming
posture
I see coming
into view
awaiting entrance,
her subtle hand
on glass.
soft shoulder
in a moment of thankfulness,
on the arcing turn
where it may be
unstable, and precarious to be
on such an edge-
one part cusp and adamant
yet agreeable
one part adrift, roaming
yet anchored
to each other-
in this moment of his gratitude
held while leaning
into her arching turn.
*********************
A sign I see every day driving to work that warns of the roadway perils became a poem.
sinuous
I followed the sun
on my walk-about, stepping
into places it had washed over.
Reaching out, only to have it cascade
over my forearm
and cast shadows
on concrete
-firm footing and echos pairing.
A recurrent arrangement
coupling in a wake behind me.
The Caretaker
I’ve planted my gardens, the seedlings are nestled in soil.
Their placement in sunshine and shade impacting the toil
of the growth and the fruit that they bear.
All I can now do is tend to the water and care
of the ground and the branches where the issue resides
and pray that fair weather and gain will intensify.
That one day these young for which I’ve aided and viewed
will grow with abandon, and with their sustenance accrued
plant their own gardens and remember the day
of planting and harvesting love in their own unique way.
****************
Not sure of what to call this yet. And I think it is a sonnet in the making. Right now, though, it expresses a profound sentiment in this poet’s life.
debris/hubris
I’ve noticed how
you reach for a speck
or a fleck of dust –
a strand of hair –
and remove it;
using your thumb and
middle finger to cinch
then pull away
the stray trinket.
And just as nimbly,
You eye
with a glance,
just on the chance
that some appraisal is not
justified.
Then release -aside-
the interloping bits
that cling-
These things.
********************
I like to observe how people interact – with others, with their surroundings. Sometimes you can infer things by observing behaviour. Sometimes not…
In all, a simple poem with some nice elements.
ingrained
My poems seem like a recipe
for whole grain bread.
The water and oil,
though critical,
don’t mingle – dissimilar things
have no bound surfaces- but you add salt and sugar anyway-
Having faith in the mix.
Pouring in flour and seeds
can appear chaotic, yet it is
purposeful to the blend. Some flour
is white and smooth,
some of it is wheat and coarse
– textured-
with grittiness of flax seeds,
and oats, and rye.
A small divot in the pile
is home to bread yeast, a catalyst, an ache,
that fuels the rising dough over time.
If using a machine, then you’re done.
The poem can bake and rise, and still be tasty –
but it misses an opportunity.
A need.
Something you add.
Handle the dough
Grasp
Folding the blend
Feeling the texture
between your fingers.
Press into the bowl
massage and cajole-
form and remake
this merger, new
with each tumble
and clutch.
This wielding power comes from you
to make the poem combined and mingled
and mean something that will not dwindle
with time.
And the bread will be just fine.
*************
Trying to jump back in the saddle of writing again. I’m not so sure that this is best, final version of this. I enjoy breadmaking for the robustness of the bread and the physical handling that makes it such an individual creation, much like poetry.
After reading the completed poem, I like the additional symbolism that this offers as well.
Poetry! Poetry! Poetry!
It is National Poetry Writing Month, or NaPoWriMo 2015 for lovers of acronyms (and poetry). I’m going to be putting my entries on the page shown on my title bar NaPoWriMo 2015
Please take a moment to check it out.
Thanks!
If it weren’t for poetry
If it weren’t for poetry
I think I might sleep better
and disregard those dreams
that alliterate the night,
and ride around looking –
looking for new vistas in the dark.
If it weren’t for poetry
I could just look at
red glass bottles and ignore
what hides behind
the refracting light.
If it weren’t for poetry
I might walk on the cool
morning grass, but never
look up to see the sun.
If it weren’t for poetry
words would never project
what I dream or see.
If it weren’t for poetry
I would not awaken.
If it weren’t for poetry.
Taps and Ratamacues 