Category: Poetry
Categories
Life: Still Life
Life: Still Life
Have you seen the still life: a slice
served up by the masters, just so?
One rosy apple, one green pear,
golden round of cheese, knife, platter.
An empty chair, the table set
as if it could be for you.
Or are you in the pastoral?
Lakeside figure, dangling brown feet.
Are you dreaming? bamboo rod,
spade sleep on the bank,
rustic loaf peeks from the basket
lined with blue checked cloth.
Orchard melts to meadow,
sunflowers, sky.
Silent mill expects a breeze,
Inside the stone cottage, a still life
where nothing changes.
Yet, the pear blackens against the hard bowl,
the apple caves where it struck the dry ground,
mildew dusts the cheese,
more yellow than gold,
and lines trace the figure’s face.
You cannot see what came before.
You wonder who set the table,
baked the bread, picked the apples.
You ask what will come when the season goes.
Who will take the seat,
Who will sow and who will reap,
who will dream, who will weep.
You cannot change what came before;
you wonder what will come.
Categories
A Poet’s Resolution
Of means, none silent as the candle
greetings, none soft as dawn
causes, none grand as the moth
to weave moonlight each night.
Of words, make mine such steel
that I too would render
wonder from darkness.
Categories
October: When to Worry
October: When to Worry
Today you would not write lines
on October like the musings
from your teenage brain.
You said the rosy sky was afire
and the smoky air was sad.
You smelled leaf rot (deep in your soul).
You marveled at pearly dew sparkling in morning sunlight
because that’s what dew does,
and that’s what a boy writes
the day he knows October.
He’s learning to write October.
It’s time to worry
when you see brown.
When you hear “the terminal sound
of apples dropping on the dry ground.”
You’re going south the day you see geese flee, sunlight fail, green grind down.
You’ve got bigger problems
than gray wind and dry rosehips.
You’ve pulled out of your dive the day brown becomes cinnamon,
when October nods, slips into red, and Autumn creeps.
You’ve turned the corner the moment you see
Summer pause on sunlit hill,
weep, and move on.
Categories
Daydream: A Poem
I live in an era of stars
Long after their birth
Long before
The last dim red dwarf disappears
My home is a river of light
Bright pin-pricks
And pinwheels
Familiar figures of my night.
Even as I sleep I weave
Color-stained dreams
From threads of daylight.
But I am easily fooled.
The truth is I live in an era of darkness.
The truth is one moment
Of starlight in an infinite
And expanding black pool
And the blessing is this I forget
Peonies remind me of June and my grandmother, whose garden was ruled by these grand blooms. Here’s a short poem I wrote during an early morning walk some years ago, and revised over the years.
The Gift
In my final hour
give me one June dawn,
the hour of leaf-light
candle glow,
of rising chorus,
heartbreak and promise.
At last I will know
the color of June,
by naming make it mine.
I will whisper its name
to another,
take my place
in the unbroken chain
of every gift
received and passed
linking the first dawn
to last.
Categories
March: Poem
March
gold blades slice
weeping bare limbs
pierce cold earth
ice water
seeping
bright tonic
wake
sleeping roots
rise
Categories
The Pursuit of Happiness
Happiness is not yours.
A guest in our home,
It arrives warm, bright, generous,
Leaves quietly before its time.
Happiness is not mine.
It lives untamed
In wilderness between our hands
But not in our hands.
A tide between our shores,
Happiness is not yours
To keep, not mine to give.
But it may be shared
As you swim beside me,
The wake trailing your body
Gently joining mine.
What comes each dawn I do not know Dawn knows no reason Keeps its own season Buds at budding time Ripens at harvest time Dies in its prime Leaves one fresh gift To confound the clever painter Blending at their palette.
Categories
Peace Keeping
Peace Keeping
My garden has been my refuge,
but I’ve been away too long.
One evening I found my garden
shot through in crimson, gold, and wildfire.
As the sun pressed lower
I drew water for the birds.
Kneeling under red clumps of currants
I plucked greedy weeds and scattered
fists of mulch over sleeping roots.
Now in shadow I chopped tangled
thorns and nettle, avoiding their fire.
I took up my spade and opened a trench
to guard the perimeter from crabgrass.
Come nightfall I set down my tools,
and in the cool darkness
I lay silent and still
beneath the moon’s soft blanket.
I Could Be Wrong 