Tag Archives: poem

Stills

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Knowing the value of such blooms,
she recorded the moment of their heyday.

Just when the cannas overflowed
and the pear trees erupted-

the flushed colors dotted her mind

so that she could memorize each cast and tone
and whisk them onto winter’s canvas

smears of rust and scarlet
over rifts,
wan and chill.

******************
Autumn is passing its apex now. It always brings with it a sense of nostalgia, a sense of loss, an appreciation of beauty…These are some quick thoughts about the season brought on by viewing some recent photographs taken by a blogging friend. Thanks for visiting.

loop

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I’ve seen the gyre and pivot
around the grain uncurled,
still- reversal and stagnation-
(and as the water swirls)

The contemplation makes its way,
all coy and taciturn,
into a rolling, restless gob
that smolders as it burns.

As leafed through- which is page on page-
then little more is left to do,
than humor – pander – orchestrate
these words that I’ve warmed to.

written while considering a photograph of a poet

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in that she kneels
by the hawthorne in spring, leaning in
to absorb the blossoms
-their balm and velvet-
in silent acquiescence.

her own shoots and sprays
grow inward
and she seeks a dovetail,
tallied to share her joy and rage,

and calm the gathering in her soul.

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I happened upon a photograph of Sylvia Plath as a teenager, sitting by a flowering bush, and began to consider a poem. I rather like this, it is very uncomplicated – but foreboding in a way. She was a brilliant poet. Thanks for visiting.

Lucent

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The underbrush, dingy and hewn
beneath a stack
of loose forest-

what we gathered in late afternoon
while the sun hung orange under red smears of
a deepening blue.

Sparks drifted and cackled
into something conjured-
wafted from burning sticks,

and we watched them woo
with embers, now
in a conflagration
alive and luring the night air.

It was a synonymous path.

.

Sonnet for Longing

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Silence telegraphs with empty leaves-
lines that flowed in likeness, ink and clue
what once was filled with calligraphic ease
and endeavored to connect, just as you drew.

Of arcs entwined and crossing interplait
a scratch adorned the page as I cannot.
Written from this shine and crimson faith,
this rose in thorns will finish my last thought.

Urged to move in pacing and in slant,
on fertile ground sent forth from secret souls
in purposed guise impressing and entranced-
and held in hands imploring rhythmic tolls.

Your cursive memory lingers and demands
confession, written -scored- in my own hand.

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Thinking a bit about writing -actually physical writing- this morning. The art of penmanship is fading. I never excelled at it, mind you, but I appreciate the beauty and craft of well-done handwriting. And the personality of handwriting…it is so intimate.

Anyway, this poem started as a few random couplets, and then blossomed into a sonnet. Let me know what you think.

are the angels come?

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across the face
of the moon,
lights tinder by
in a slow procession
passing from dark
to light
and back to dark.
that brief time,
pronounced holy,
of all bright with allure
of anointed time [when it resolves]

and on the lake below
a herald
shimmers
a reflection
in the shallows-

and I ask, when?

flashback

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just because
a spark burst
in sun-ly ways-
an excimer flare-
a dazzle- beware
the aftermath
of this exclaimated
instant-
when the airs
are gone – vaporizing
and in the moment,
extemporizing-
a crumbly proclivity
appears and departs
in a fluted nigh,
and we are left with
a notion-
nary embers or sighs.

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I do enjoy the sounds of words. Also, I enjoy the freedom, as a poet, to create a “word” where none exists -if it suits my purpose for conveying a mood or contributing to a sound collage. This poem, I think, does both. Thanks for reading.

onliest

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A red door
with plate glass casements ’round
enclosing a deepened vestibule-
and shadows on white walls are bound.

bold-faced clouds that billow
into thunderstorms on Sundays-
woodland sunflowers that line
shadowed waterfront lanes.

alone under
a darkened rift of stars –
in wonder of their stillness,
yet know not what they are

it is the wind that blows from the shore
out to sea.

it is the light that steals from obscurity

it is the embrace of an onliest thing

it is the sum of these
that sways me on a quiet string.

culminating moments

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Sometimes the best place to be is inside the mind of a writer,
as an undeveloped character just observing the story as it erupts.

Sometimes the best place to be is on a field, just ahead
of a brewing thunderstorm, feeling the wind as it sweeps the grasses.

Other times it is best to be there when the rain is stopping
and the sound of thunder -far-away- rumbles on an unseen field.

Sometimes to lie on a field, and watch the stars appear.
At times, to wake in the night, and hear the silence
as it lulls you back to sleep.

Then sometimes, when the sun-rays fan between houses
capturing the morning in a blooming progression, it is best to be there.

Sometimes it is best to be the pivotal word in a sentence
from your love, her inflection and enunciation drawing a painting of the next moment,

where it is best to be.

assent

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the rain crept in
at night –
these are stranger puddles,
reflecting
the morning brume, battering
the ground with purpose
and the beginnings of a day.

***

the sky
as it divulges
a mood, bathed in muted temperament,
each second brings a new
brilliance,
as seen by
its reflection
in pools of water.

***

in the guise of a bond,
that which comes down
must return
and a kinship is embraced
and eminence reflected.