The Road Waits

The road waits,
but I’m not ready.

I pause, cradled by soft leather
In this silent room,
listening to morning’s
soft breath stirring
the glimmering summer leaves,

as the perched bird
gazes through my open window
into my wondering eyes
and waits.

But this is a good morning to wait.

Look how the extravagant grass waves,
and truant weeds luxuriate along the fence,
while in the small central garden
red flowers gather like
warm, slumbering children
under the wide,
spreading vine!

But still the road waits.

I’ve seen
the glistening pavements
slide under my rolling wheels,
the river to my right,
green Ohio rising
into northern forests,
and misty Kentucky
calling to me
across the wide,
glittering waters.

The road goes on,
and I cannot
wait.

(16 March 2011)

nightfall

grey limbs twisting

through emerald shade

reaching at last,

clear blue day!

fern overflowing,

with living lace

red rose embracing

impassioned grace.

the sun’s final flames

high leaves emblaze,

soft summer night claims

fading day.

(25 August 2011)

City Nocturne

“Where there is no peace, there is no light.”  Thomas Merton. Honorable Reader: 
Reflections on My Work

I dwell in city nights
hear cars cruising
down streets
streaming confusion
whispering,
boulevards of light
stunted lanes,
high-
wire siren, stunned
shot-
finders, tense
dispatchers rolling
black and whites,
ambulance
coroner’s wagon

while laughing,
from theatre emerging,
from restaurant and bar
unaware, we swarm
through rivers of blood
to black cars, crush
of silent plush
power windows up
lock the doors
and slowly drive
through these
shimmering
terrible,
beautiful
streets.

(2 April 2012)

late in the day

late in the day

the shadows grow

                                                                       

night rises, upwelling,

overwhelming

delicate myrtles -

roses drowning

in the darkening tide

(7 July 2015)

They Are Strangers Here

Seagulls circle high,

In the heavy October sky

wide, white wings

nudging the dull air

riding gyres 

past the waving crest

of our highest redwood.

They are strangers here.

They’ll find no shallows to fish

no mussels to lift

above the concrete wharf,

drop and crush

and delicately dissect

still living white flesh.

They must be lost.

Here they’ll find no flying sail

no schooner driving into

wintery winds. They’ll have

no rising bow here

to amend their errant way.

And yet, for now, they’ll stay,

Graces of light

In the gray gloom

of this cold autumn

afternoon.

(27 Oct. 2010)

In the morning, early

In the morning, early

before the sun has cleared

our neighbor’s roof,

we move through

our morning chores:

You water your gardens

and I feed my birds.

The rose, the morning glory,

creeping higher

up the blue trellis, reaching

for the brightening sky;

in the window-box

the vinca flaming red,

as sparrow and finch tumble

from the cherry tree

swarming in noisy congregation,

fussing and quarreling, shoving

for more seed -

rejoicing!

(1 July 2015)