Scattering

SCATTERING

I wonder

If you noticed

As you left

The way the light

Behind you

Gathered on the plains

And how the blues

Distilled from noonday skies

Became a darkened canvas

Of the day and how the dot of sun

Would pull our eyes

Away from that one spot

Where you had been

To somewhere in a distance

Past the clouds

To places you might wander

Through again.

I wonder if you took

The time at all

To have a look behind

To fix the spot

Where time and space

All scattered have become

A picture of the place

Where you are not.

Your leaving is a telling

Beyond words, an empty seat,

A setting, distant sun,

A barren tree,

A scattering of birds,

The painting of a sorrow

Just begun.

GRACE

The TFE Poetry Bus is up and running, leaving from Scotland this time, as Rachel Fox takes us on the first leg of the International Tour. Our challenge was to write a poem about one of our favorite words. This poem and the poem that follows, Serendipity, both were inspired by that challenge.

GRACE

Brace yourself

For a fall,

For a sparkling

Sprinkling of golden,

Whirling seeds,

A covering

Of cool geometry,

A misty morning coat

Of quenching rain.

Brace yourself

For a slaking

Of your thirst,

For fulfillment

Of yeasty yearnings

For the stir

Of summer soil,

For the touch

Of someone other,

For the gravid

Nourishment

Of life.

For what are you

But a cup to catch

The wonders

Of the world?

And what is this

But a libation

Poured in offering

To the earth?

So, brace your

Undeserving self

For the feel

Of freely granted

Grace,

Covering you

Like water

From Creation's Sacred Well.

Serendipity

SERENDIPITY

millions trailing comets

seeking soil

to plant their flags

you found me

Serendipity

twenty-three

and twenty-three

a diploid number

Serendipity

addition and division

replicate the entity

a new reality

you found me

Serendipity

Serendipity:
accidentally stumbling upon something fortunate, especially while looking for something entirely unrelated

In This Town

In This Town

Under the wrinkled

O ANH DLING sign,

He stood, and I,

Puzzling out the note

Above his head,

Almost missed his own,

His crayoned willingness

To work for food.

He wasn’t fit for work,

Anyone could see,

At least not any work we’d

Have in this dear town.

And as I watched the locals

Move him on along,

I thought how often

We must beg forgiveness,

For we know not what or who

We do not do

Unto.

Aurora Redux

Dawn,

Like a strumpet

In magenta,

Steals furtive glances

At Morning’s misty mirror.

Batting coquette’s eyes

At Midday,

She covers her thin golden gown

With Noontime’s turquoise cape.

When Twilight comes to call,

She flings on ebony furs

And toasts from Evening’s starlit cup,

Then she drunkenly fumbles home

To change her nighttime costume

And pass out of day into dark.

Stella!!

STELLA!!

You can have your Stella McCartney;

I prefer my Stella Arty.

She makes me tell you what I’m thinking --

only do that when I’m drinking --

otherwise I keep it mum;

let them think I'm playing dumb.

People say my water’s still;

I say silence fits the bill

for someone who prefers to keep

her pretense of being deep.

So I play this silly game --

Keeping Secrets is its name –

and as long as Stella stays

on the shelf, I do okay,

but when she fills my frosted glass,

I open my mouth and show my...!

Spring Training and Dancing to the Clack

The TFE Poetry Bus ticket this week is a poem about trains. Well...he didn't say we couldn't use a gerund...














SPRING TRAINING

Robin, ready for the game,

Struts among the puddles,

Sporting black masked face

And red chest protector.

Jonquil, in uniform of green,

Does pushups through the grass

And huddles on the field

With members of the team;

They raise their golden bats,

Swinging as they all

Heed March’s airy call.

Bluebells on the verge,

Cheering to be heard,

Dance before the sun --

Spring Training has begun.

Art by Tania Radda, Artist

"Spring Training" 2006

The following poem is something I posted last summer. If you've already read it, please don't feel obligated to comment. This is my train ticket for the TFE's Poetry Bus:

DANCING TO THE CLACK

Take a bit of creosote,

soak a wooden tie,

press it on a gravel bed

and spike it in the ground.

Do this and do this

‘til all you can see

as far as you look

looks like piano keys,

moving to a pencil point

far down the line.

Now you are ready to

lay a penny down,

or even better yet,

to dance to the sound --

heel first, toe next,

heel now again --

arms spread out,

ready to fly

west to Kentucky

Indiana Illinois,

where you can see forever,

not just around the bend,

where the sun comes up

right out of the land,

where the sun goes down

in the field behind,

where you can hear the whistle

long before you see,

long before you think it’s time

to think of heading back,

long before you run along,

pacing with the clack,

arms pumping

knees rising

cheeks blowing

chuff chuffing,

long before you hook your arm

on that rusty rail,

long before you swing on up,

grinning from the feel

of the run and the journey

and the warm metal bar

crooked in your arm

as you watch from the car

the smooth, flat land that

rolls beneath the wheels.

Just a bit of creosote,

soaked into a tie

pressed on a gravel bed,

spiked into the ground,

just one penny flat,

or even better yet,

just one kid dreaming

of dancing to the clack.