coming up the hill
toward my kitchen door
on greening grass
almost tintless
in the growing dark
I chase my shadow
in moonlight
just strong enough
to make me glad
it is not chasing me
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Day 19. A shortling about coming home in fading light and a risen moon.
the wind has yet to shift
and racing out toward our spot
and green umbrella shade
I know the grainy sand
will burn until my feet delve down
to meet the remnants of
cool night and seepage
from a moon tide
long fled back toward the deeps
the slap of rope against
the few remaining masts
plays metronome for waves
that curl and thud
against the offshore gusts
quick voices giving way
to silent contemplation
of a prize well earned
small bodies bent to summer work
of finding crabs in shallows
rimmed by treasure rocks
and seaweed drifts
the simple arc of shore
embraces islet archipelagos
that make approach
by keeled or daggered boat
no easy thing
and at the western end
a point of land pokes out
its pines shaped by
prevailing ocean breath
it boasts a solid shingled house
set into skirts of green
downsweeping lawn
and chimneys waving
out to sea
the focus of siesta dreams
I try to live without regret
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Day 11. the prompt to closely describe an object or place and finish with an abstract line that seemingly has nothing to do with that object or place, but which, of course, really does.
Consider the lilies Kim,
in the garden behind the moon.
Enchanted place
of skylines and horizons
outside our house of light.
Drifts of common birds
skim the river flow,
returning north
from life in mexico.
Following the imprint maps
of Prester John perhaps.
Light dimming,
the day’s play over,
our precious fairy book in hand
we turn for home.
The song of hiawatha
echoing like fog
upon the land.
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day 10. a book spine poem, of twelve titles, with my own words the glue.
morning light in eyes
beams peek past the window edge
a friend has returned
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this morning the sun returned from its winter sojourn away from my window, continuing the slow dance from solstice to equinox, right to left. shining across the bed and into my eyes. a welcome thing in the pit of winter.
a whole moon
shrinking
without stark relief
or angles
perhaps hanging
in a mist I cannot see
its clear light
muted and opaque
entering my room
by stealth
air brushing
walls and shapes
and sets them floating
in the glow
along with me
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a shortling, about the moonlight that found every corner of my room last night. it was so different, I couldn’t help but notice.
after sun’s descent
with afterglow in slow pursuit
the light outside begins to fade
until one sees all hue has gone
a world soft palleted in gray
before deep purple
and true night
an oddness, this, I think
that with light’s advent or decline
the ordered spectrum has no steady march
but serves the sun and air, its masters
angled to the earth
at day’s beginning
the gears of light move
to reverse extinction
from the night before
black to grape toned whisper
I am coming, yes, believe
and like a drop of color into water
at a point so undefined and quick
the eye and mind are fooled
the gray point fulcrum tips
to show the world in monochrome
until God’s brush begins to paint again
and it is dawn
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in Miss Entrican’s Fifth Form Biology at Channing we learned the eye sees color only to a certain point of diminishing light, after which everything is gray. decades later I still love to watch for that moment.
She calls me now where once she hid frozen,
afraid of dark paned windows,
conjured menace staring blankly in.
I first returned to grasp at shards of understanding
and found instead a small hand needing mine,
we stood together, unafraid.
There was a magma shift, the hard and inky dark
shape-changed by love’s reagent into brightness,
the bond of trust rewarding us with grace.
This seems the time
to tend one’s soul,
not just resolve
but looking out
and seeing in,
as dark recedes
and light is growing
in the mind
and to the eye
Why does the spirit
need a reset?
Dug, then redug
like a garden,
soil turned up
to meet the light
The answer lies in
life’s renewal
making fertile
that inside us,
ready to be open
and receive
the heady rush
of spring
This old house sits well below
Monadnock’s western arm,
embraced by friendly woods
above a part-time stream,
where sunrise is a straggler
with extra feet to climb.
In winter, light leaves fast
East Hill, across the pond,
brings sunset much too soon,
but night time is a glory, with
no clouds or dimming light
the brilliant heavens send us
our reward, a rain of stars
down to the trees.
At the piano I watch small fingers make their music so determined so well done the joy in her eyes is in my heart joking laughter with her brother so much taller than the last time more movies made and volumes read a classroom visit sticky hands and icing gingerbread embellished a dog asleep in sunlight the rhythm of lives cherished and held close in memory to be enriched once more
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This prose poem was written as I read about the events in the lives of two very dear members of an online creative group I belong to. it is posted in recognition of profound love and loss, and my abiding gratitude for the love of my family, as we gather together this week.
Upright still sentry
outlier for the world beneath
a winter effigy belying spring’s next promise
it stands in ice and snow
A window sill
bright warmth and light
protects a tender shoot
fresh green against
the gray and silver backdrop
green lava moving upward
My own such point
is not so clearly seen or felt
a junction of my spirit
trust and will reagents for the heady mix
that grows joy in my soul
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A poem for a winter afternoon, as the days draw down to the solstice.
Life With Horace 