emerald,
which is
all I see in a memory
passing a hallway and a staircase.
to a glass door.
yet in the moments after
the vision of her dress-
her hair, streaming in cinnamon
and obeying the pace,
the sounds of her walk
her lips moving to an unassisted conversation
these details attend and amass
a likeness,
but always with emerald first
as I exit.
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.
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.
*************************
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.
In her imaginary distraction,
everything
stops as she looks around.
She selects a turn,
the one of coloring
and innuendo-
a highlighter pink
in the field of grey-
intimate overtones
of a sacred familiar-
and she pursues it.
She captures the banded words,
a gathering of flowers
to fill her hands
and draw in close,
holding her breath,
when exhalation
means
absolution.
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?
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.
*************
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.
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.
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.
interlacing threads
in the tissue of her time
she spent long intervals
on cross strokes
slanting down
and open form,
committing each letter
of woe
to a fabric-
bound to make something
beautiful.
it is not among
their repertoire – blithely sung lyrics
in their intercourse – yet undeniably
the intrusion of words
breaks a pliable barrier
that has become
contrapuntal – similar in a fashion
and built upon
the tacit crescendos.
********************************
I was thinking this morning about the power of the “unspoken”, which can be an essential part of communication between two people -as much as the words even – in some circumstances. There can be an energy to that seemingly empty space that is unrivaled. This poem seeks to describe that. Thanks for visiting.
Taps and Ratamacues 