Preparation Day

The light is fading early today.

Rain turns the whole world to night.

I drive through watery streets,
headlights
stretch to bright tapers,
red lamps
softly trailing
blood beneath my wheels.

Death’s details
fill my busy day.

First, the uncut granite,
sorted and sized,
words neatly arranged,
ready to inscribe
the bare facts of your life,

and then on to the small, white house,
with its big front window  and spring  garden
hidden behind the black iron gate;

this is where your party will be.

Our guests will arrive soon,
and I must order flowers, great
purple blooms
to dim this too bright room.

Now we’re nearly finished,

but first I must see
to your final ground,
small patch
of turned earth,

and then tomorrow you can finally rest.

Attend us gently
as we weep
and slowly walk away.

(28 Dec 2010)

This Christmas Moon

This Christmas moon
breaks shining through
my empty, dark night.

Its aching light,
in waves of delight
bathes
stark winter’s shore
in the glittering sea
of Nativity!

Sunday Morning Storm

High above, shifting in the storm

all leaves finally dropped and raked,

the tall tree feigns death,

as emerald grass glows

in winter’s rich rain.

But, late as usual,

the apple tree, like a queen,

spreads her royal leaves

into a golden robe

below.

Requiem

My eyes search the ceiling
in death’s darkness I wait.
My arms lie unfeeling
in death’s stark embrace.

Paralyzed prisoner,
helpless I call.
Oh, bring me sweet freedom
from this still, lonely cell.

Alone in my darkness
I hear your clear song.
Sing gently to me
and I’ll try to sing along.

I’ll reach your strong arms.
I am ready to go
to my love’s sweet heaven.
Oh, take me back home!

The Breakthrough

Slate sky,
the wind has died

calm chill
flows over
the sleeping street

when
bursts a white flame
feathers rising
to the heavy sky.

To the impending rain
ascends the crane

to heaven’s
dark promise.

Life Flies

Life flies into the sunset.

Ride this spinning ball
and chase the sun
on jets streaming
across three time zones.

Set your watch
back an hour.

With speed and
boredom,
buy another
portion of breath,

but it is an illusion.

Life flies swifter than high clouds
ignited by jet stream fire.

Life taunts you.

It will not wait,

not split
even
a tick. 

Empty

Gloom infuses
my desert soul.

I cannot see the stars tonight.

The moon refuses
Night’s lifeless void.

It swallows the sky
and leaves us nothing but
windy lies.

Burial Day

Bright chill

coiling clouds

roiling coarse space

welling

heaving seas,

while naked

free

from death’s

empty pledge,

at last

I leap

into the lucid

air

Sunday Morning after the Storm

Clear sky, vaulting blue

drives out the ragged clouds,

of yesterday’s storm.

Yesterday

the wind raged

as we huddled close

behind closed windows.

Lightning

enthralled the night

as thunder intoned

basso profundo,

felt before heard.

From behind drawn drapes

we felt trees thrashing

releasing spent leaves

until barren and clean,

fearless at last they faced

winter’s cold scythe.

But now the bright Sabbath

breaks through,

and the resurgent sun

pierces

spare nature’s

pure architecture.

A Good Day

I called today
and heard the sharp alarms
ring by his bed,

but you said
it was a good day.

He was awake and
though gagged raspy with tubes
again humor filled his sly eyes.
He Laughed at the irony
that he, of all people,
should be rendered
speechless.

So through your speakerphone
I spoke to him,
uttering my limp, encouraging words
into the silent, empty air.

But you said he had heard
and with his eyes smiled,
happy to once more
be part of the conversation.

After we ended the call
I felt your cheer; not quite hope,
But not despair.

Waiting

Waiting

sitting in silence

finding things to do

on this normal , quiet evening.

rustling papers

and tapping keyboard,

with one eye on the phone

waiting for disaster

to ring through my complacency.

I can almost see

the sterile walls, the contained chaos

as hurried doctors and nurses

bring relief to the battle-weary  

binding the hundred wounds

of collision and anger,

cancer and a failing heart. 

I can almost, but not quite, hear

The IV pumps, heart monitors,

crash-carts clattering down

shining halls, carrying the artillery

we aim at the enemy.

But right now,

right here

all is quiet;

the cat mews patiently

for her evening meal

as I watch for the phone

to light up

and give me the news

that will shatter

this quiet evening.

Puritans

Puritans roamed Salem
clutching rough stones
to split tender flesh and stain the
virgin land with the guilty blood
of dire Satan’s slaves.

Cheerfully they prayed
for the blessed day when all true Faith
would flow righteously into
the common trough of their Truth.

And so, devoutly, they hung the witch,
cast out the papist, and
derided the Quaker as
friend to the fiend.

Stiff necks bent, they peered
into bright clouds
for a righteous wind
to suck them up
to their austere heaven.

But these modern puritans
eschew clumsy ropes.

Favoring the forward thrust
of a stolen jet, they plow through
high fields of glittering windows,
shouting suicidal chants,
riding on orange glory,

and expunge the infidel
from the spoiled earth,
smashing Satan down
into a hell of melting steel
and shrieking glass.

Gladly they die smiling, these martyrs,
certain they will soon drink heavenly nectar
in the airy laps of celestial virgins.

November Morning Storm

Overcoming
the ascendant sun,

dark clouds
fill the world.

They nearly scrape
our tallest trees

barely clearing
low delta hills

gray folds flush
the new day clean

New rivers rush
through empty streets

driving deep
into compliant earth.

Thus derided and left for dead,
the sun abides its golden birth.

October Evening

Tart wine on my tongue
the memory of warmth
in the cold autumn night
nearly gone.

I see myself
in the naked window
watching me,
ghost glaring
at my uncurtained face

falling,
dissolving in darkness
dim trees
whispering rumors
of impending winter.

I watch and wait.

The glowing clock,
my calm friend,
calls me off to bed
again.

Sunflowers

up this steep grade
to the  high rocky ridge

the sunflowers sway
in the cold autumn wind

like weathered grand-dames,
gowned in grey lace

they stiffly resist
their slow fall from grace,

and fiercely they cling
to the thin, rocky dust,

stubborn, still in love
with adulterine lust.

 

image at http://www.redkettle.com/images/products/contemporary-canada/rock-sunflowers.jpg

Dolour

The sun has gone.

Night resumes its dark song
longing for stars, reaching
for the rapture of eternity.

You wait so far away,
in your own private night;

I feel your fear trembling
like fitful autumn wind
rushing through my eves,
filling my garden
with the spent leaves
of youthful summer.

I know you wait in his dim room,
curtain pulled, tv on,
door discretely ajar
as you watch him sleep.

I wish I could help,
and pray
the perfect prayer,
conjure God out of the night
and force the miracle of morning.

But God is silent,
His will is not known,
and my prayer
impotent.

So I send you this poem,
to sing you
my tears.

I can offer nothing more
than a brother's love.

Shattered Night

I hear the trees sing
their whispered hymns of praise
to the moon
lingering high
over bowing, bright branches,

when exploding past
glaring red lights,
angry motors and anxious sirens
shatter this sacred night.

But still I wait,
and at last I hear
that voice,

the small, soft voice
that says
"I am."

Autumn

still green, supple leaves remain
though heavy apples fall
fragrant, brown,
and rotting to the ground.

summer lingers
rubescent rose and heavy fern
looking good as July

while in dark, northern mountains
stealthy winter waits
to cast down spectral leaves,

and silently creates
its first, cold rain.

Dragon-fly

Warm winds flood
this darkening Georgia sky -
lightning flashing!

The elegant dragon-fly
hovers over
my dark window.

Poised on thin pane
looking my way,
it's drawn into my storm.

Driving at Night

Driving to Napa down highway 12,
winding up Jamison Canyon Road
under the night sky alive with light

we see the full moon
shine on lingering cattle,
still grazing in quick-silver shadows
through darkly rising pastures,

and as we glide past dark cliff and ranch,
a new brightness gathers
like a busy, hovering helicopter,
or an airplane
searching for its landing strip;

but never moving,
far too constant to be human,
this bright planet rivals
even the rollicking moon,

this Venus,
mad lover
of the philandering sun,
guides us on
to Napa.

Unripe Apples Fall

Unripe apples fall

and lie wasting on the ground,

spots spreading into brown,

circles, decaying, waiting

for sun and time to gently take

seminal seeds into the warm earth.

Small birds fall

down low

from their high, swaying tree,

to where patient

fallen apples

melt and glow.

Two looming hawks rise

waiting for the time to be right,

to turn their dark wings

and with swift silent stroke

give feathered death

to these surprised souls,

casting them like seeds

into dark soil.

Limited Vision

I can see 

through the far 

arched window 

nodding leaves 

and bright limbs 

rising over my 

popsicle-stick 

fence. 

I can see 

shimmering, 

blue heat 

rising like oil 

thrust high into 

the empty 

glimmering sky; 

But from this comfortable, dark room, 

confined by dimly glowing walls, 

soft light melting 

through heavy drapes, 

I cannot see 

the whole picture: 

The insect 

trembling on the vine; 

the hungry finch darting, 

or the hawk, 

rising on invisible gyre, 

soaring beyond 

my limited vision.

photo Copyright (c),© 2003-2007 by Soleil Lapierre

Hunter Hill

Above Columbus Parkway
it rises to the east,
creased with oak
and dry grass,
grazing cattle, bored,
loitering horses,
and the gliding hawk hunting
in the rough granite
and withered timber.

But hidden by high, jagged peaks,
the mute Miwok headman observes
the cattle and the hawk,
and the swift automobile
hissing
down the smooth, black road
below
Hunter Hill.

Author's Note:
the Miwok were the indigenous people of the nothern part of the San Francisco Bay Area. They were nearly wiped out in the 19th century by diseases (mainly small pox) brought by the European settlers. Miwok descendents still live in this area, though.


My Miwok would be a ghost.
(image of "Miwok Headman" from http://www.firstpeople.us/)

The Confrontation

The angry sparrow, narrow and light
fiercely pursued the thieving crow
slender beak stabbing
smooth black feathers,
rising and diving,
rolling and turning,
a vicious top-gun
dog-fight.

Then the crow, tired of torment,
set heavily down on the high lamp post
as the small bird circled, crying invective,
taunting the crow to rise again and fight!

but the old crow, patient and wise
settled comfortably for this shrill siege
and calmly waited for the air-show to end.

Finally, exhausted,
the sparrow gave up,
but claiming victory,
like Odysseus
nearly home
at last,

became Homer,
and composed his own
epic poem
of the fierce
midnight raven,
homewrecker
wrought low,
driven down
into death’s
bitter dust,

which, of course, he sang
in heroic,
avian meter
to his faithful,
Penelope.

From this High Window

From this high window
the invisible wind
moves silent trees:
motion without sound,
dance without song.

Behind painted walls
and heavy curtains,
I cannot not hear
the tumult,

but opening the heavy door,
at last I hear the trees sing,
stirred to passion
by unseen hands
waving branches
swept up
by the compelling wind

and drawn outside,
exposed and complete,
finally I face the clear maelstrom,
my own hair flying free,

and gaze at the trees,
wild men
dancing as they chant
savage hymns
to their howling god.

The Doctor Said

The stroke was bad, and arriving at the hospital
we expected hushed, grim words
from the preoccupied doctor.
The doctor said it was brain-stem, hopeless;
the coma was total; his mind, the doctor said,
was at the bottom of a deep well.

So we entered his room and
saw the machinery of life-support,
reassuring noises, glowing red displays,
tubes and wires tethering his shattered mind to the bed.

The doctor said that Ed would not come back,
and we should cut off the milky food
flowing down a clear tube to his still living gut,
and give him a gentle death by starvation;
it would not be painful, the doctor knowingly said.

But his coma was so restless and active,
his eyes were wide and darting,
his mouth opened, as though to speak,
and his legs rose and fell,
like he was walking to Sunday Mass.

He looked alive, so we refused
and directed the nurses
to keep hope flowing,
at least for now.

When it was my turn to sit with him,
I said, “Hey Ed! You know,
I’ve been drinking all your beer at home,” and he smiled
and looked at me with humor and said, “ohhh?”

But the doctor said it was automatic reflex,
and smiled indulgently at me.

The next morning the doctor,
(expecting no response) said,
“Hello Ed. How are we feeling today?”
but stopped, nothing to say at last,
when Ed replied, “Lousy!”

Ed lived for the next three years
as grandchildren were born,
baptisms were witnessed,
and first communions were celebrated,

and ready at last, he died
one bright, peaceful
April morning,
with nothing more
to be said.

Grounded

The afternoon breeze
rushes through the top of my big tree;
its canopy sways and sings in hushed tones
as the declining sun ignites
its outermost leaves
with green fire.

Through swaying limbs
I see brilliant summer sky
promising stars beyond
if only I can rise high enough
to achieve black space;
but I’ve never been there, never risen
beyond this illusionary, flat world
that confines my sight.

Never have I ascended that pillar of flame,
pressed deeply against the astronaut’s contoured seat,
breathing noisily in helmeted glass,
as computers glow reassuringly in darkness ,
promising that everything will work,
and orbit will be achieved.

No, my space journeys are all interior.

Earth-bound, I am firmly cradled in my deep, leather chair,
and only through my high, arched window
view the nightly dance of wind and tree,
of moon and rising stars.

Envious, I hear excited starlings, one to another,
tell stories of daring flight
through the good sky, high
above this green,
firm earth.