They clank along with me
pieces of a longish life
each note a color tone shell
for its part of the story
days or years from a to b
still singing, they diffuse slowly
sound that holds time safe
Category Archives: shortlings
Words
My words flow over the rocks
smooth and gentle things
when what I want them to do
is shout out loud
avoid the boulders by a hair
laughing hard
and coax some stones to spin
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The last line included at the suggestion of fellow poet Kort Fisher.
Insistent messenger
A mourning dove in my apple tree
looks through the window
its message meant to prod
sun shrinks as the cold returns
woods maple tops spike leafless now
bronze oaks and candle beech stand guard
water lilies sink into the pond again
a scooped out moon brings frost
bears already denned up the hill
not quite past time for seeds but hurry
or jays will bring their beaks
A kiss when it’s clear
I was convinced she would never leave
even though the truth of it
ran alongside faster
as she slowed
in the end a quiet moment
took the comfort of her large dog self
and tucked it in the sky
now her gaze is a soft kiss on clear nights
when the stars are watching
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For my Newfie Aggie
July 23 2009 – August 28, 2021
Quiet morning
As the day warms
the roof is smoking off last night’s wet
my dog lies paws crossed
at the screen door
the small world needs watching
Just a bit
I need a little more time
say a month
added to each day
For love so that its echoes
will remain when I am gone
To listen once again to live voices
in sustained pianissimo
And to capture light
the way I see it
A way through
Birds perch on the balding arms
and bud knobbed fingers
of the kitchen door apple tree
There is a flashing gleam
from the eye of a jay
the sun finding unlikely passage
My mind blinks in disbelief
that such a thing could be
My heart knows better
and begins to sing
Reliquary
I search the winter sunset
for a sign
perched high enough
to see earth’s curve
the join of sun to inky space
almost seamless
as the night takes hold
and watch the red glow form
earth’s second crust again
a reliquary for
the day’s events
The Morgan
It could have been
a silver mercury portrait,
but a horse appeared
displacing stiff poses,
mane flying, neck muscles
bunched in effort,
galloping through
a glimpse of the past.
Audio: Read by the author.
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A marvelous photo of a Morgan mare by the photographer Deborah Glessner brought up the last two lines of the poem.
Fragment
Each time I try to find
the edge of space, searching
in the darkest part of blue,
past stars and their hangers on
orbiting a single mote of dust,
it turns out I’m that bird
expecting infinity but
finding sudden glass.
For Mary Oliver.
The Scarf
The eye sees silk,
watered green perhaps,
hanging loose over
oiled bamboo, and waits
for a breath to set it floating.
A sail slowly calling to the skin,
conjuring weightless cover
settling without fanfare,
suddenly warm when it rests
on cheek, or arms, or flanks,
then sparking shivers as
a hand pulls it slowly away.
Reconciliation
I still wear it on my skin,
to conjure touch, intensely green
as if emeralds had visited,
every nerve end bathed in
the musk of an old perfume.
A hand there, and there,
thoughts bent down to mine.
Walls all twilight, music
tracing curves, the beat
of time slowed to gray,
and wanting it endless.
Life With Horace 