First Day of Spring

doors open, ancient

hinges grind, summer’s sun grows

immanent as love

as trees, bare, bending,

tough and twisting as small buds

prepare to explode.

Apple Tree Waiting

troymainelocalnews.com - 1600 × 1200 -Photo by Dana Wilde

An apple tree gnarled in the snowless cold off the Myrick Road on Jan. 11.

the apple tree waits.

its bare, twisted limbs reach up

to the trusted sun,

thrusting inward, to

the core

of its own

sweet

fruit.

(24 Feb. 2014)

Origami Master

"Perfect openness born of complete self-surrender, brings us into uninhibited contact with God." Thomas Merton

My soul's a sheet

of flat paper,

unfolded and featureless 

until your hands press

and pinch, pleat

my stubborn fears

to your desire.

You know what fills

my nascent core

and never give me up

but with your strength

to fine edge crease

and make of me at last 

angel's wings.

(10/15/2012)

The Waiting

The fields are ready,
furrows made deep
for farmers’ prize seed.

Vineyards recede
into straight narrow lanes.
and twisted vines
in cruciform lines
conceal summer’s new wine.

They wait, well quenched
by winter’s rain.
Sweet tears
drench the ground with
baptismal springs,
and leafy green shade
will soon to spread
over orchard lanes.

We wait
as the moon, crescent mother
cradles her star-swollen belly,
and amorous crickets leap into the night
to sing her a waiting lullaby.

El Nino

Vincent Van Gogh, Wheatfield with Crows, 1890 

fill your heart

with rush of rain,

open your palms

to receive

new life

for your heart

of winter!

oh, see how

the birds

fiercely sing

my love!

(5 January 2016)

   

Delta Rain

Soft rain

on dark oaks

Clustered green 

curving canyons rise

to velvet crease.

Thick mists consume

stoic cattle, 

slowly climbing

verdant slopes.

Meadows gather 

new-born lakes.

Delta birds -

grebe and pensive loon,

goldeneye and pintail,

ibis and snowy egret 

slowly wade.

With flashing beak

they break

black waters.

(29 Apr. 2013)

Binary

A young child falls

and, laughing, rises to

his mother’s arms.

Rivers of youth

cut canyons

from ancient

bones.

(16 Nov. 2011; Rev 2/15/2017)

Beautiful Cellars

‘No clock: only the Heart’s blood. Only the word.”

“I think poetry must,

I think it must,

Stay open all night

In beautiful cellars”    Thomas Merton, A Book of Hours

          ***

High round windows

over wide glass doors

fill with night;

The world’s gone to black,

to void,

to nothing.

Can you hear your whispering blood?

- surge of surf, wind in dark trees

alive - alive -

so arise now and go

down the noisy steps

to the beautiful cellar,

to the poetry.

(18 March 2013)

Pax Modern

Away from fading windows

sealed deep within the efficient building

empty chairs wait.

Gleaming floors echo

friends laughing

hello and

goodbye,

but here I sit
alone.  

The sun set without me tonight.

Through long corridors I watched
as slit windows softly glowed
with withered passion.

Night rises suddenly!

Night is a fast clock,
firing rounds of morning, tomorrow, next week,
next year
into my defenseless heart!

Night is a rude guest,
an expected surprise.

But where is God?

In this comfortable cave

sterile bright altars serve

quick

convenient offerings.

No squalor of crucifixion here!

These are painless rooms,
climate controlled,
self-satisfied.

My soul dozes.

From troubling dreams
of resurrection
beige walls lull me
to dubious peace.

While you were asleep...

The sun has not cleared

my neighbor’s house yet.

His high trees glow

golden-green, nodding slightly

in the morning breeze,

but he is not about,

probably sleeps

deep in still rooms

curtained and shuttered,

easily breaths

unaware

of the deep chorus

swelling in the brightening sky,

mourning dove and

mocking-bird, jay and sparrow

and clicking hummingbird

singing into being

the new day;

but I see

and I hear.

I’ll tell him

what he missed.

On Viewing Inferno of the Innocents

Poised on the edge of the bed

she sits in sharp light,

pointed feet barely touching

the dim floor.

Through fear-filled, furrowed brow

she stares at the encroaching shadow.

I want to protect her, reach into the canvas

and take her home,

adopt her

make her my grand-daughter

hold her safe and warm

make her whole

watch her dance

fearless

in the golden morning.

As I despair

another little girl approaches the painting,

and broadly smiles in recognition,

nodding to this new-found playmate.

She knows how morning light

always pushes back

the black night.

(24 April 2013)

Author notes

to see the powerful, heartbreaking works of Gottfried Helnwein, visit his website athttp://www.helnwein.com/

Hamza al-Khatib (We must not forget why there's war in Syria)

Hamza al-Khatib,

smiled sweetly.

Was he thinking of school

and soccer, or friends

waiting to play

when they caught him,

roughly hauled him into their white van

took him to their station, and demanded

confession

from his glistening tears,

from his tender face flushed

with confusion and fear?

They would make of him

an example

of what happens to those

who pursue happiness

in Assad’s Syria.

But you, weeping parents,

you-tube us your tortured child’s

distorted face, gaping chest

torn arms,  dishonored genitals.

Show us how

Assad destroys your future.

O parents of Syria, rise up

and send Assad 

to cower before heaven’s gate

as Allah

gently cradles

your slaughtered

children.

(7 June 2011)

  

(Image from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Death_of_Hamza_Ali_Al-Khateeb)

The Poetry Lesson

I’ll turn off the classroom lights

and open the windows wide

so you can see.

Look deeply

as the sun shatters

our rainy world

into rainbows.

Feel how cold wind,

flooding through open doors,

drops to the darkened floor

your poems,

like seeds

piercing fertile soil -

can you hear it?

the steady whisper

of God?

(26 March 2011)

It Happens

 

I can see it coming,

small in the distance

just a spot at first,

but I know

it's coming for me

sure-air, clear

cross-hairs

frame my soul,

zero-in

on my languid pen

til, joyfully I bolt

for the house, tear

through dark rooms,

turn on my dim light,

and breathlessly wait

for the poem

to strike.