Tag Archives: poems

Preparations

Leave a reply

When I prepare the yard for winter,
the time when all is stark and lost,
the dead have wilted, scruff and ragged –
and I remove the chaff and croft.

As I gird the garden, whether
further growth is wont or not,
bedded mounds of soil and leavings
cover greener, fledgling thoughts.

Seeded verse on sorted papers
things that sleep beneath decay
seedlings of the spring and morrow
beauty fit for flow’red cliche’

Here I leave the hopes of summer
warm enchantments, an enclave
hidden from the weather – bitter
though purposed to save.

Notions

Leave a reply

In a gift for someone that I once knew-
A few moments wrapped
in crisp paper with string.
each one a mating of calm and called.

Intent on these penetrating emotions-
they are patterns of poetry from memories
underneath the neat taped corners.

They could be jumbled and incoherent,
but I prefer them pressed and bound
and self-contained.
Thumb-pressure creased,
Holding the pieces
firmly together.

Notions of affection
convened for her disposal
will be mailed
in the morning.

***********
A reworking of a poem that I first wrote in 2006.

awaken

Leave a reply

Sometimes,
I want to fall apart-

spontaneously disassemble
and disconnect into hundreds
of small fragments,
interlocking of course-
like puzzles of autumn afternoons
just out of the box.

The ones with rushing streams
that leave the edge of the frame
to some unseen bend.

The leaves are gilded and bronzed,
ready to separate
upon the first overnight rain.

And water droplets cling
to porch eaves, just at the crest
when tension breaks.

And we embrace
with a lingered kiss,
and we are knitted to keep from
unraveling.

A new song

4 Replies

I’m sorry, I don’t have a poem today
the fairy-dust magic will not have it’s way.
The dawning is fell
and I don’t take it well
when barbarized don’t cultivate.

I’m sorry, I can’t have a poem today,
the trampled impatiens are flattened and splayed
from steps that were cold-
no words take ahold
to mend it, describe or portray.

I’m sorry, I won’t have a poem today,
the world is too quiet, and I’m led astray
to ponder the pain
of our powerless reign,
while the children go outside and play.

I’m sorry, I shan’t have a poem today
it’s broken and crying, I can’t make it sway.
Perhaps on the morrow
a finch or a sparrow
will sing a new song and allay.

chalk

Leave a reply

I use chalk to smudge the lines a bit
and shade the parts where I don’t feel I fit.

Fermatas placed to hold the chords in time
while I dance around cadenzas dipped in rhyme.

I’d rather stare and watch the sun in parallax,
circumventing pain and disappointment – that’s the fact.

Beauty walks, and moves, and sings in form
and transits over paths that I have worn,

shows indifference to my charm- my soul in kind
and I have nothing left save yearning in my mind.

And these, the words of someone sacrificed
to life and how I bleed on paper, less precise.

To stand and sing of resignation, it is mine,
and using chalk can smudge and blur the line.

lagniappe

1 Reply

Because mornings emerge from misty bayous
and moss that hangs and touches the sky-
a reflection in glass.
Because the thickness in the air wraps
the sunlight and holds it close.
The moments are a drawl, and a legacy of
stillness waits-
it waits between each drawing breath,
lingers between each morning glory
and rain lily-
a sweet kiss from a drowsy boo
and its momentary entanglements.
Even before the first note sounds
the blues, there is beauty conjured in the
slim to none spell-
and it is some kind of wonderful,too.

Bird, bees, flowers, trees

Leave a reply

The bird that spreads it’s wings to fly
aloft in winds and lullabyes
will often finds a hiding place
with little bustle, subtle grace.

The bee at work, no time to spare-
buzzing, fluttering, from here to there
to stigmas moist with other fare
but not a sound to make aware-

The flower blossomed, spread in view
with pink and yellow, vibrant hues –
and undulating sun and dew
confessed in morning light, anew.

And ever green, the pine tree stands
accepting flight with steady hands.
Each bough abets, make no mistake
and comforts those who stay awake.

Diligence

2 Replies

Encompassed by her stare
as she reveals a confident esprit,
and wanders in my mind to be omniscient,
salient for me.

Deluged by her rhapsodic reign
and drenched in love time and again,
a dousing seems a welcomed bane
upon my weary soul and stain.

Subject to her word and tome
complete and perfect, craved and honed,
every act a sin – atoned
and riddled cunning, bone-to-bone.

Details

8 Replies

I remember the blue in her eyes,
though often they were green –
a wistfulness, when she tilted her head,
sentiment at the seams.

Her fingertips, absently tracing the rim
of a cup or a saucer, or both.
The governed expanse of the contour
revealing as is, clothed.

To lean in, whisper lure and yearning,
so bold and sacred, so preferred –
then settle back in tidal fashion
sands and beaches bared – secured.

I recall the mounting balance
that melody and rhythm bind,
a song there at the nucleus
hastened,
fresh and primed.

I have felt the blue of her ocean,
my eyes remember the scene.
And I am the breeze that comes off the water
pensive and longing my dreams.

blink

3 Replies

In the green, a want
is growing – still and hopeful-
rapt. And knowing that the spell
is brief,
a pin-point moment -lust-
a thief glances – no-
it clutches
hold and deepens,
dilates what was touched
and seasoned.
Lines and edges, flecks and flux
core and flesh, entwined amok.
And somehow, moments in the end
a cured and coupled image
penned, a brush too lightly
to offend,
and focused there,
she starts again.