Resting in the cool of dusk

Resting in the cool of dusk 

under the porch 

in the swing by the pool --

nothing quiet,

everything a riot of crick

and creak and whine.

Who knew such tiny things

could moan and click

so loud? The lowing cow,

the cawing crow,

that hootie hoo hoo 

in the woods 

over and over 

until dusk itself 

hovers then grows wings,

whose soft brush in flight

fills with hush 

the night.

Third Eye Blind

Third Eye Blind 

Supposedly, there's an eye

in the middle of the forehead --

third eye, chakra, blind.

I wish I could open that one

and the ones in the back of my head,

feel my way, steel myself

instead of fighting currents.

I would flow on streams of knowing

gliding forward, kicking back.

It has been a long time since I have written, and it feels like I have been just carried along blindly, letting things just happen. It's almost as if I've abdicated. Writing this helped me see that I have to find my flow...and kick back.

cleaning adolph's tub

This poem is inspired by the photo at The Mag, Tess Kincaid's weekly poetry prompt.

cleaning adolph's tub

what can wash 

                      the grit

from this man's tub

bits of bone float 

                          porous

but abrasive rub

drains fill 

             with ash 

and teeth

even the pipes 

                         shriek

Some things I've learned about leaving

Some things I've learned about leaving

If it's by choice

There is no mercy.

They'll split your chest

And cut apart your heart,

Pull out and read your guts;

Everything they look for is corruption.

A kinder method is

From sudden going.

The factory's moving to another town,

Your section's shutting down.

As long as you don't want to,

They will miss you

While they clear your things away.

Any leaving's better 

than the absence of leaving

Where you are sitting there,

Your motions only gestures

Breathing air.

Every wish they have 

Comes down to mercy:

Please just let you go.

They'd put a pillow to your face 

If they could do it 

And celebrate your passing

With a cheer.

My Mother's Smile

My Mother's Smile

I don't know how, my mother says

When told to smile for the camera.

The truth is, she doesn't like the way 

She looks, so in pictures, she mostly stares.

Somewhere, un gros chien noir

Walks across my grave.

Ghost of a smile, that shadow on her face.

Truth is, she is no laugher. Never was.

Moment

Fractured light

swans along the hills,

Leaps and ebbs

like feathered fire.

Knee deep in wooded awe, 

we peer into the lapis haze above.

Divine artist, roaring 

down the corridors of time

burning cold as serpent's scales,

Your hands, your brush, they crackle.

Touch you, and we burn;

Look on you, we stay.

You charm us with your song,

Asking nothing for our passage 

but our love.

Birthday

BIRTHDAY 

Under the moon of the fairy night

When the days are short 

And the stars are bright,

On a puff of air and a sea of red

They rend the veil

From the Land of Dead.

Before, behind, betwixt, between,

In the nether world,

They bloom unseen --

A ghost, a thought, a root, a stem,

A silent bud,

An unsung hymn.

Shake off the veil and beat the drums!

Let cymbals play, 

For angels come!

Sing Thanks

Sing Thanks

Little creature on the tree,

Are you thinking thanks like me?

Sow and reap, cook and stow,

Washing dishes as I go,

Wondering when I see,

Feathered wonder on the tree,

If you remember, if you know 

Gratitude from long ago

For the good gifts God does bring?

Lift your throat and with me sing.

The Long Way

THE LONG WAY

Today, the road is muddy,

Rutted.

I recall it smooth, 

But was it?

Always there were stones.

I bear them in my flesh. 

See the blue 

Under ropey skin?

That's hope I carry with me.

Who says you can't go home?

Photo prompt @magpietales.blogspot.com

Thanks, Tess!

After

After

When words have gone

And brushes dried up in their jars,

I play the cards.

Solitaire,

Where nothing matters,

Nothing is at stake.

When the cards are bad,

Just shuffle.

Child of Time

Child

Of time

Turn

To me;

Fresh faced child,

Return.

Run

With me

Once again.

Apple cheeks grow thin,

Bright eyes dim,

Summer

Fades

Away.

Child of mine,

Harvest

Ends.

Don't run,

Stay.

Illuminated

ILLUMINATED

You are framed in finest gold;

Brilliant pigments run you through.

Ancient beauty, but not old --

You are framed in finest gold.

Swirled and flourished stories told

By the manuscript of you,

You are framed in finest gold,

Brilliant pigments run you through.

Light in Darkness

This is something I've wanted to draw/paint since I recently read a passage in a Louise Penny novel that uses the image of a moth's battering itself against a porchlight. It didn't occur to me to write it until I saw a prompt at d'Verse Poets. I still will draw it. That's next on my list. Meanwhile:

LIGHT IN DARKNESS

As for the Light in Darkness,

it's only just

a bare bulb promise

against which the lonesome soul

taps and taps 

her insistent longing

in an inevitable song 

of the night.

Gift

I give the earth,
indescribable as it is,
soft words
to catch the hem
of these wide cotton skies.

What else have I to share?

I am small and simple
as the prayer I breathe;

Even the ivy sings more sweetly.

Little art I own
to claim my place
that I should walk rightly
in this vast and wondrous world.

My words, soft as air,
are the humble gifts I offer.
Poor widow's mite,
what else have I to share?

If they gunned me down

Photo from Internet images. 

If they gunned me down,

ripping through my head,

would they leave me there

for dead, afraid my years would

would snatch them up?

Is walking in these old white bones

crime enough?

Everybody knows how they are.

I'm not prejudiced, but...

old white women, capped

and dyed and tucked!

You can't disguise deceit.

They're Dangerous, not Us.

Would they let me bleed,

if they gunned me down

because I'm white and old?

Would I lie there dead and cold,

and would they ever see

a human heart shot through?

If they gunned me down

If they gunned me down,

you?

I saw this quote on Unvirtuous Abbey: "For those who say, 'I'm not prejudiced but...,' Let us pray!"

Circa '62

Circa '62

Through a trapdoor

down steep stairs

on the dirt floor,

beside some dusty shelves, 

it stands: a rusted can 

as tall as we are tall.

Even with the cover tight,

the odor fills the room,

and in the dim light,

we swoon in yeasty haze.

We fill our cups

and dare to tip them up,

secret in our ways,

these heady home brew days.

Peace Song

Peace Song

Someday, we sing of peace

as shadows sing,

as wind.

The cherry blossoms still;

yellow birds sit branches.

Heaven holds its breath.

Someday, we sing again

of peace,

as shadows sing. 

As wind.

This poem is written on the 69th anniversary of the bombing of Hiroshima. God help us.

Prompt, Me

PROMPT, ME

Write about the stars, you said,

The Tour de France, how music looks

If you can see the sound.

I draw short rays, points of dust,

A spiral then a snail

Atop a bug. And clouds.

I've settled now,

Into this sack of bones. Where I want

Is where I go.

I can no more prompt me

Than I can stop the sparks 

In the eye of this winged pig caught in a net 

Of my making.

Prayer of the Soil

VanGogh

Let me not be rocky ground,
parched and cracked, burned by sun
green then yellowed, bitter, brown,
all good intent, but fallow, shallow.

Let me not be choking weeds,
grasping, climbing, blocking sun
roots that run, smother seeds,
thick and high, but sticking, pricking.

Let me, God, be fertile soil,
tilled and plowed, enriched by sun,
abloom with wheat, embody royal
Word made flesh to flourish, nourish.

Mourners Come and Go

 

Mourners
come and go,
come and go.

The ones I know
sit alone in
separate rows.

We're all of us
alone as we come
and as we go

to and fro,
to and fro,
alone, alone,

all, all alone
as we come,
as we go.