As it happens, I get lost in the sky
where sunsets stroll away.
A peaking light around a corner
beyond the frontier of yesterday
I look to the last remains
even when the shadows begin
and wrapped from behind in covers
I gaze toward a fading din.
I dream of passion reds
that trail to orange, bleed to pink.
Turning around in silent awe
to indigo in a wink.
And there the fire ignites upon
this early autumn eve,
a lover of the colored sky
embraced without reprieve.
I do not wish to know
tomorrow’s faint and slow
ascent, nor do I care to see
if yesterday was lithe with glee –
Wasn’t last year so obsessed
and burdensome?
We can attest.
And back ten years, if sighted, could
we not have worried where we stood?
To keeping in the ‘now on scene’,
I hope that all my words are keen
and opening new each day
-as morning glories say –
that past affronts have gone to sour
and I embrace a blooming flower
that opens with the sun.
And here I have begun.
I find it in the feet of bell tones,
after sorbing the sound as struck and deep.
I see the auric crest at the tip of leaves
in the moments of late summer’s wanton eve.
I feel the arc that bows in honor
of poetry heard, and hopes that won’t cease.
I hear it in the intake of calm
from the instant of lighting, the droning that sleeps.
It caresses the silence just beyond music,
and lingers on fingertips framed in release.
It walks in the tawny remembrance of noon-tide,
and ploys in the finish of our masterpiece.
And sounding the whisper of midnight and morning,
the tolling of hours when time passes, sweeps
away the cache of conflagration
leaving morsels we should keep.
I find it in the feet of bell tones,
with sounds that amble soft and sweet.
Can you walk among the grasses, ornamental in your step?
Unseen, wavering in the flutter, moving with the ebb.
Do you glide among the flushing, hues of sanguine be your veil?
Camouflaging simper, as you sweep through with avail.
Will you pace ahead in rhythm, accents driving your advance?
Pausing, as an instrument, to cause my soul to dance.
Opening a gateway, hearing sounds of air
watching, waiting for a glimpse of allure unaware.
Can you wander through my field of view, as I write a verse?
Something about movement, and a guise you can’t rehearse.
I find that beauty walks along
the pathway paved with grit and stone
hovering with each stride.
Moved with light, so to prevail
above the fragments, dirt and shale-
a footfall in each instance, hails
her balance undenied.
And as I watch her sunlight glow,
her poise and pace, from head to toe,
where she walks and ploys-
I am drawn with nothing said,
no words to compensate ahead
and on the pathway, I am lead
in muses lame and coy.
So watching beauty, as she spies
her lover in the western skies
fade just out of sight,
I wander in the settling dun,
scuffling, as I ramble on
and wonder then, without the sun
if beauty rules the night.
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.
there is no answer
only trees with spindled branches
that vanish in the beauty of the green
and trails that wander off
behind the distant hillsides, pastoral scenes.
no remedy – with wind between
the spruce’s fingerlings
since moved along to coastal shores and things.
no antiphon in plummeting
in ocean depths – it’s just serene
and emptied of all guff
and echo that there’s ever been.
no pleas as silent offerings proceed
to culminating crests, and heights convened.
and this, the peace of things
that is to be –
the answers all in all, are unforeseen.
The clouds are just now learning how to speak.
There’s a foothold in the daisies,
and a slow descent of water from the creek
The sun is rising amber, slow and weak.
The melody of morning turns
it’s ear upon the repeat cooing dove
and smells of honeysuckle
wafted in from somewhere down the grove.
A single tuft of flowers out among
the complete scene of hurried traffic,
other places here and in-between-
a foothold in the daisies –
a shared embrace,
devotion to a yellow speck in space.
And safe return to where began this whole mystique,
and I am learning -just now- how to speak.
A camber in her first and last embrace
and welling tears I wipe against my face.
Lingered time, that passes under breath
and desires to leave are changing less and less.
Words do not exist to tell this tale,
just kisses, fumbling hands, and hearts impaled.
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.
Taps and Ratamacues 