whereabouts, then do you see
your comfort, lazing –
hushed, set free.
Among the forest wood so tall?
you’d have to climb to view it “all”
And next to this an open glade
with grass and shrubs and little shade-
surrounded by a green brocade.
I’d seek the quietness in space
with wild oats, primrose, queen anne’s lace-
So lay with me in flower blooms
in this, an isolated room
away from plain, removed from fear
staring at the sky, austere
at its inception-
this poem for affection.
In a field of flowers, blue
she wanders free and rapt,
taking in the fragrant hues-
a path she had not mapped.
Gentle hands reach out to blooms
caressing each in passing
and her random walk resumes
in heaven, without asking.
In the same field, ambles he
who takes a different way-
Spying first the large oak tree
that lingers by the quay,
Stolid-fixed- he moves toward
a vast expanse that speaks-
an oceanside of blue has lured
him to the edge he seeks.
Each, their own entrancement made
as journeys intersect-
She, from wand’ring wood to glade
and he, from larger treks.
Both gone seeking greater things
away from their familiar,
Habitating different strings
yet seeking bonds that whisper.
And there on cliff-side, past the glen
two lovers stood, amore and yen-
led there in divergent ways
and destiny to laud and praise.
I pinpoint the moment the leaves turn to rust
and withhold the diadem – stay if I must –
the pliable eminence that tells of the why
does the moon hang its head in the opposite sky.
The walk of her beauty, in stride upon stride,
she disappears quickly, then looms and arrives.
I cannot yield over- abandon too soon-
and there in the opposite sky hangs the moon.
Breathe out and breathe in, both at tide and at crest
in the wisps of a manner that I can attest.
Her hand upon mine and our place in midair
the moon in the opposite sky, hanging there.
And after our silence, the heart might belie
save for memories, the moon, and the opposite sky.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Show me your heavy eyes.
Between each field’s border,
the ground takes on shadows
as the sun begrudges
being dragged west
drifting in a transmuted
grey.
Let me hear you breathe a landscape
with hills barely hiding the
clapboard buildings and
lonely trees of the next homestead.
Embrace me
into your dream,
immobile among the passing scenes,
drawn into deeper sleep.
even as I watched,
the swing rocked gently
in an auric light.
the flowers leaned
toward the sun
you held close
your gathered words-
berries ripening in the basket
leaves, before falling,
turned from green
to yellow
or red.
the wind blew around,
whisking between the
clattering branches
before a whisper
of snowfall.
an ascendant path
obscured ahead,
reveals much
upon arrival.
There-
Look at how
you make me wait
for you.
*************
A poem about transitions and how things change on/in a moment. Something that is prominently in my thoughts these days. The “and then” moment. Sometimes grand in scope, sometimes merely just a moment. But the ‘and then’ always tilts the balance.
Thanks for reading.
As with a string
pulled in from the darkness
and away from
from the murder of
snowflakes, in paths
swarming
between the linear
and the not.
Away from
the hollowness
that echos
off cylindrical walls
towards a light
embraced in supple warmth,
its source unseen,
encased in distorted glass.
Taps and Ratamacues 