O Copper Moon

O copper moon in cobalt sky,
brush back confining trees.

Climb Jacob’s silver stairs and rise
on sparks of angel-fire, free.

Incite in hidden, mystic night
God’s own sacred, fearful delight!

On a Razor's Edge We Live

“Despair is the absolute extreme of self-love.” 
― Thomas Merton


Gazing into bright desert space
we see endless highways, distant
mountains we never reach,
sharp hills, steep cliffs
receding
as we move closer,

closer,
to the pacing sun
creasing dark canyons
casting amber light
into the gauzy sky,

yet our dark dreams trouble
the faint stars and reeling planets
throw wide nets over
haunted, lost souls

when, morning at last,
we begin again
pursuing the tumbling edge
of this turning globe

and we believe that
it will never end, will never
end,
will never
end.

Turbulence

layer upon layer

pounding out

justification,

         

charged and ready to strike, 

cold winds blow,

bright rains ache 

ready to flow.

Window

Opening the morning drapes,
I let in
streaming gold
to rout night's shadows.

Renewed, the sun glances
through bright autumn trees,
through this naked window,
transparent and radiant.

Subsumed into the ruddy world,
the humble window draws me out
into the glory of this autumn morning.

But at night
the window
is self-conscious,
ashamed of glaring,
naked panes

reveals a mirrored world
simulacrums darting through ghostly rooms,
doppelganger
crossing empty space in hurried fright
to draw closed the curtains
on this fearful night.

Sunset and Fog, Suisun Valley

blue haze

fast fading day

cut-paper ridges,

saw-tooth hills

scrape raw

the black maw

of space,

while pockets of fog

narrow valleys fill;

milk 

for giants

in these sun-

set hills.


*

голубой дымке
быстро угасающего дня
сократить бумаги хребты,
пилообразный холмы
очистить сырье
черная пасть
пространства,

в то время как карманы тумана
узкими долинами заполнить;
молоко
для гигантов
В этих солнцем
набор холмов.

After the Storm

Light surging down glistening lanes gleaming torrents consuming the rain the blazing sun floods the damp valley floor from somber penumbra the bright star breaks forth radiance shatters the storm’s dark pall The sun drowns dull night In its flashing flood-tide.

What Do You See?

When your spirit goes
to the glowing
edge

do you feel terror
as you hunger for
air?

What do you see
in that bright, distant
light?

Do you gaze through dark pain
into heaven’s living
flame?

Through Thin Windows

Through thin windows
I see young leaves
rising to twilight storm,

blue mist shimmering

on quick-silver street,

as glowing grass drops 

into blackening copse. 

With Stygian hand

has night claimed 

declining day.

San Francisco Bay Excursion, May 16, 2012

Fullsail Sloop Seaward under the Golden Gate Bridge

Call of the Sea

Photo: Angel Island, Steven Federle

Photo: Blue Boat, Steven Federle

Photo: Blue Boat and Signal Light, Steven Federle

Photo: Rough Water Steven Federle

Photo: Fog over Sausalito, Steven Federle

Photo: Angel Island Immigration Station "Golden Mountain"
Steven Federle

Photo: Lines and Mainsail, Steven Federle

Photo: Rough Water and Mt. Tam, Steven Federle

Photo: Ropes, Steven Federle

Photo: The Fog Descending, Steven Federle

Anniversary (November 24)

The treasure of trees
golden mounds
on the green ground.

Urged by the morning sun
yellow leaves
coruscate in chilled air
radiant
with the afterglow of a summer
well lived.

But thirty-two years ago
the light died
when dark death’s hand
seized your struggling heart.

We buried you,
bright treasure,
under still
green grass.

The mud from your grave
clung to our shoes
as we wept our grief
in bright puffs of white breath
ascending like incense
into the good sky.

And thirty-two years later
I still choke on bitter sorrow.
Tears
still sting my eyes.

But looking through the bright window,
I see in November’s gold,
a faint reflection
of the enduring glory
that lights your
endless day.

Author's Note: In Memoriam,  Arthur Federle, 1910-1978

Georgia Forest

This Georgia forest,
is sundered
by winding highway
into green canyon walls.

Dark pines subsume
the mid-day dusk;

black trunks thrust

into red forest floor

when, with sudden, golden shaft,

the faithful sun splits
its sullen core.

Invocation

O fill me

with your breath.

My soul

will dance

like leaves

glad in your breeze.

In green morning

will I arise

to sing your gladsome song.

O call me

and I will

rush to your side!

Deep in your holy wood,

will we walk -

you leading the way

and I behind

in your sacred shade.

In My Silence

In my silence I hear your song,

gentle breezes

filling tender leaves.

O feel my prayer,

my failing despair.

In my darkness I feel your breath

echoing my heart’s

steady beating,

O fill my emptiness,

my dying,

with eyes

like stars

consuming night.

The Next American Idol

Is it true that all my motives have meant nothing?
Is it true that all my desires were an illusion? Thomas Merton

I want to ride the wind,
feel the rush of pride
as I stride front and center,
to  become the next
American Idol!

My flame rises high into
the summer night sky.
Garish and bright
My eager stars spread
the heat of grandeur
the light of illusion.

But in the soft dawn,
in the morning rain
only smoldering
lies remain.

desert sketch

Dust-devils rage
across the dry sea
tornadic
self-important
ineffectual
as deluded Lucifer

while in the blue distance
a sharp mountain looms,
granite clouds
wrapping its slate grey peak
in a slowly winding storm.

As valley demons spin 
their dusty lies,

rocky peaks 
and roiling sky
erupt 
in radiant 
righteous light.

Sunset

The evening wind stirs
our high, green trees,
whispering down the westering sun,
as shadows scale our eastern fence.

The sun surrenders its May heat
to a cooling Suisun breeze,
while already looming
on the eastern horizon,
rising from the gentle green swell
of low delta hills,
the copper moon vaults
into the cobalt,
its ascendant mastery astonishing
even the wading, gazing egret,

as on the other side
of our slowly rolling planet,
the bleeding sun declines,
searching the sea for healing.

Thus, from conflict and transition,
come poise and redemption.

Question and Answer

“God, with You it is always the same thing! Always the same question
that nobody knows how to answer!” Thomas Merton


What should I say
when night ignites
your question?

You ask me
again and again
and patiently wait for my
answer,

but I don’t understand.

How does the faithful moon
ascend, transcend
night’s fatal space
with love’s perfect,
forgiving grace?

To your dull-witted child
oh, give your sweet breath,

and my answer I’ll shout,
my joyful
“yes!”

Curosity

I'm waiting for summer to start.

I want to see through emerald leaf
how the young sun rises,
how waking birds nod
to the familiar sky
and sing to life their bright day.

I'm curious.

When will the stoic snail finish
his pilgrimage
into the cool shade
of this airy fern?

And in blazing noon
tell me
if the fussing wren still
flits or throws back
feathered arms
behind downy head
to siesta.

But most I want to feel
the precise moment
when blushing sun
spills his red life
into the gentle arms
of his dark love, night.

Cold Sailing

Wave enfolds wave.

With rolling swell
we rise and fall.

Through deafening static
of storm-struck air
I hear the rigging’s
ringing fear

as under the bridge
titanic ships
plow darker paths
through
shadowed bay.

With sails engorged,
we fly away!