The Mute Pain of Trees

Cezanne’s rough, jutting trees
slashing the blotted sky,
at the dark bridge at Mainte,
stone arches stoically standing
as scarred trees hang low,
over the still, black Seine;

while in the Grove of Heroes
an ancient redwood

twisted trunk,
tense muscles,
aching, rising,
spiraling past scars,
past clean cuts of
amputated branches,
beyond the tops
of lesser trees,
all pain forgotten,

spreads its green crown
and shoves the blue July sky
a little higher.

Life

a photograph by Sonja Bingen

You breathe, and my lungs 

rise and fall like winter trees

swaying, sure of spring,

like water-drops, cells

twisting, galaxies pulsing

with  abundant life. 

First Rain

Vincent Van Gogh: A Public Garden with People Walking in the Rain

first rain, wind driven,

soaks my hair; into my face

flies cold grace, fills the

narrow gutters, streets,

eager fields, with life revives

this gray winter world.

fatal night

deep in the night lights

rise and fall, convulsing clouds

fill the sky with death's

blighted breath, my heart

thrills, my blood fails and leaves me

undone, breathless and

blind, 'till in the dark

your eyes ignite and lift me 

out of fatal night.

No Reason

The Call

It happens in the morning
When you least expect it.

You’re sitting at your desk
One day, answering the phone,
When the call comes,
Your brother saying
That your father
Is dying.

You try to answer, to call her,
To make plans to fly
But breathless
You can only
Drive, drive
Drive.

The flight

And later
That night on the plane
You gaze
On the cities of the South,
And the moon is so close
You can see your own face.

The hospital

In the morning
We drove to the hospital
To pick up the brown paper bag
With his things in it –
A watch, some clothes,
His glasses. I waited
In the no parking zone
While you went inside.

When the guard walked up to me
I explained, and he nodded,
And walked away.

Visitation

In the stillness of his face
We try to find reasons

But the flowers are too bright
Violet and red and white

His face does not move
His eyes are pressed tight

And when I touch his hands I
feel ice, the ice of rage quieted.

So close the bright lid
For the wind is cold

Though the sun still shines
For no reason, no reason.

The Call

Over Missouri
A green mist beckons.

I refused the river, the dark stain
On the spreading prairie;
I refused St. Louis, though the trees themselves called.

To the sea it rushes;
I cannot refuse.

Magnolia Poem

Slender magnolia, radiant shaft
Piercing dawn’s darkness, embracing
The frail light of October;

Even the promised night
Cannot disperse this fury,
This joy of the soil.

Bluebell Books: Sunday Interview on Summer Into Fall with Steven Federle

Bluebell Books: Sunday Interview on Summer Into Fall with Steven Federle

Gleams a Light (revised)

Across the darkness

on my windowpane

breaks waves of lace

splits night to color

that night cannot understand,

bright hope ignites

My soul's aflame

‘till the unseen hand

breaks the link

and night fills 

my sight again;

yet I’m content

for deep in my core

the fire still shines

and hope still soars.

Gleams a Light

Gleams a light

across the darkness

casting waves of lace

on my windowpane,

breaking night into colors

that night cannot understand.

Hope ignites,
my soul's aflame!

  

but when the unseen hand

breaks the link,

unbroken night

fills this space between.

Yet I am content,

for deep in my soul

the fire

still glows.

Dappled Sky Horse

image courtesy of Sonja Bingen

*

black veins at the source

wide; narrow as limbs taper.

gaps of dappled blue.

from the black earth, heat

of life rises, flows up

to the folded sky.

This House

In this house

walls vault

rise to high windows, 

arch to sky and tree.

See the bright table,

gleaming plates!

Onions are steaming

in the fragrant air; Oh, hear

the happy clatter

of dinner

in this house.
*****

AN: Photo is of my childhood home in Silverton, Ohio