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.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Sunday, October 3, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
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
Friday, September 17, 2010
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.
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."
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."
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