Four windows float the bed,
light outside and some in.
Ground opals bounced off snow,
that four month guest.
The moon is almost full,
curtained behind snow-melt fog.
Later, when the woods are green
there will be fireflies.
Category Archives: night
sideways view
I can see you, all of you
from where I sit
a few thousand miles
up or out, take your pick
your lives are match flares
as we pass away from light
small bursts of color
flaming out, why green
or red or blue tonight?
my whims connect the dots
entertaining tales that may be
lies or just bad guesses
we know you watch us, singing
songs and writing maudlin verse
to our cold rocks and shifting shape
light breathed in and out to wax and wane
you could not know that we are joined
silly schizoid world, for you
it’s either his billboard smile
oddly neutered, hardly male
or country place of, me
who lives to hunt, a
woman with a wicked bow
one would never see us as
a pair much less coupled by
love up on our pockmarked
fluorescent lighted sphere
sling shot surfing
to the beat of star pulsed
fragments of forgotten gravities
we have a running bet to see
which way you leap as
we sail by silvering the clouds
our tote board running neck and neck
for half a million years
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Doug Anderson’s weekly writing workshop has us all digging deep, and laughing a lot. the prompt: a myth from other lips.
Stepping onto grass
A sip of camomile
to soften nerves,
a quiet moment on the porch
observing fire flies
punctuate the trees.
Travels through cloud rain,
waiting for the sun
to shiver start the day.
Mind’s eye reaching for
the girl child of my heart,
lace tokening her gaze.
Her brother
brought to sudden tears
on catching sight
of unanticipated beauty
tethered by her father’s arm.
Last moments as the impish girl
who stood upon his feet to waltz,
then stepping firmly
onto sea scent grass
to speak her promises
and dance, love wrapped
as woman on her way.
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twenty three years on, that lovely day still resonates.
For the taking
Perhaps the stars hold memories,
diamond pinholes punched in winter black,
life stretched across infinity, expanding
overhead, even as my focus
might be squeezing in and
only looking back, no counterweight
to shrinking time.
Well nuts to that, I’ll take
the milky way with thanks,
refusing blinkered days
or thoughts, and will not shut
all possibility away.
This heart and soul are
slated to remain
open for business
indefinitely.
The Night Ship
There are times the moon
invades my room,
as opal fingered fog
touching eyes and skin.
And as the night sets sail
around me into sleep
I sense joyous dreams
that dance just out of reach,
or sober trailers on the fringe.
Unwelcome memories to push away
tear welded flashes
from the day just lived, but
not now not yet, as
life’s flow starts
to telescope.
Slow, sinuous, twisting
to its vanishing point.
Each night explodes with color
and a shadow life
of longing,
whose breadcrumb bursts
stay with me
as the sun returns,
in counterpoint
to unquiet rest.
passing through town to home
the day has changed from bright
to scrims of clouds washed sky blue pink
backdrop to summer quiet playing fields
further south a sidelong glance
at underbelly clouds thick swathed peach red
flying over marshes at the river curve
in town the day is winding down
cars and people move intent on fuel
and food and rest for it’s been hot
and by the time the single light releases me
to turn due west deep pink to purple blasts
are shouting over pines and spires
I steal a look into our cafe’s glow
observe last patient walks for dogs
church supper signs and flags
the colors quickly leach away
though day’s end light remains enough
to cover hilly rattle roads
then rollercoasting mountain arms
a final sling to home beside the pond
in time to greet a rising moon
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even though going through town takes longer, I love to observe and watch along the way. the other night the stages of what proved to be a spectacular sunset were a marvelous backdrop to my small country town in the middle of summer.
Litany
What don’t I remember?
My collier brother brain
hoards words and time
with colors joining hands
to sing their song
I don’t remember
any moment spent
without a color wash
intensity of thought
I don’t remember
understanding those who hate
preferring to destroy
instead of build
I don’t remember
living days or nights
without a music counterpoint
embers into torches lighting memory
I don’t remember
sunsets painted on the undersides
of clouds or nature come to flower
without feeling joy almost to tears
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A leftover prompt, from Day 29. Things remembered, and what they weren’t.
Morning as palindrome
As words begin their dance
glancing out at spring
sitting down at last to write
confident of its receipt
asking for serenity
another day a perfect gift
reflecting and give thanks
I close my eyes to sip
hand cupping warmth
coffee and the ritual of smell
checking lilacs apple buds
birds scatter at the noise
opening the outer door
woods featureless and flat
moving softly hug the quiet
slightly damp delight
one slipper at a time
morning work for dogs
stretch sloughing sleep’s cement
a feather shawl to float away
night journey remnants linger
as clouds replace the sun
light diffuse and gray
dog nose to tail against my arm
first awareness as I wake
a dream departs
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Day 28. I loved writing this. The prompt was for an event or story in reverse.
haiku for visitors
tiny coterie
summer toads wait in ambush
cycle is renewed
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Day 23. Very small rubber eraser translucent toads appear on the glass of my kitchen door each summer beginning their night hunting.
night lit
my woods are hung
with lamp lit moonlight
shallow beaver wash
turned into opal pools
picked out by
beams that launched
diffused through
vapor rings we know
are ice but touch
us softly
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Day 22. We have just had a full moon, fitting for the week of Earth Day.
following awareness
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 finalists
November days turn dim and cold
as we slide down to pinprick light
and brace our souls for longest dark,
rich colors chasing flocks of migrant birds
cruel times for light starved eyes.
Yet worse there is the maiden month
that masks her fangs, bright ribbons
trailing barely warming breeze
summoning new green and crocus cups
to come and greet the sun.
Then tosses back her cape revealing
claws, which hold my frozen daffodills,
and shrieks her name in falling snow.
Oh yes sweet April there is no doubt
you take the prize.
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The NaPoWriMo prompt for day 4 was our choice of cruelest month (after T.S. Elliot). Watching snow encase my daffodills this morning, and birds become intent on seeds again, the winner, hands down (at least this year) is April.
Life With Horace 