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.
to sing with my friends
brings joy to those
who hear us
but shoulder to shoulder
we who give voice
have earned
the greater gift
we stand inside
the living body of music
connected by
sublime resonance
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Day 9. A shortling about the gift of singing in a group. Day 9. The words wanted my attention, but not for very long!
like clouds washing in
to butt against prevailing winds
close on the heels of rain
my path through time leaves more behind
than there are miles ahead
and I now gladly shed
the layered skins of reticence
once meekly worn, redundant chrysalides
freely spreading mind and heart
to net a cloud of lightning darters
filamented possibilities
imagining the shape and heft
of those not evidenced as yet
and make them real, ripe thoughts
such easy fruit within my reach
to smell and taste and feel
their juices staining lip and memory
the gift of years is freedom of the heart
to move the other way
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this evening, clouds coming from the east seemed to move contrary-wise on the heels of rain squalls, making me think of moving against the flow. A poem for day 7 of NaPoWriMo, and a present for my youngest sister, Julie, who understands the flow of life, and whose birthday it is both today and tomorrow, down under.
There is quiet now
where rich color
had been heard,
deep and sensuous
His turning notes
of fluted california
honky tonk remain
a potent legacy
Rest easy
we will hear
your echo.
_____________________________
day 6 of NaPoWriMo. RIP Merle Haggard, who left us today. Singer, brilliant songwriter, early voice of Bakersfield.
The catalog arrived today
injecting green into my thoughts
lush garden dreams now underway
Vast lettuce rows not puny pots
rich hills of beans with tongues of fire
espaliered trees of downy apricots
Splashed color stokes my fierce desire
until the bubble pops and I fall back to earth
my garden plot is small, the barrow needs a tire
A reset needed for this year’s rebirth
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NaPoWriMo Day 5: the prompt was exotic seed names, using one in a poem. I had a yen to dabble once again with rhyme and a bit of humor, and chose the terza rima: aba bcb cdc d.
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.
Dear poet sir,
where to begin,
your words press tightly
side by side,
to pull me through
the shiny skin of thought,
a mirrored surface of
another’s world.
Words of early years
and soldiers gone to fight
a hellish, fruitless war.
Survival and regrowth,
sharp perceptions of
time’s road.
A place so different
from your youth
yet you can laugh, then
fete with knife edged pen
and dazzling words
the mix and contradictions
of accumulated life, that leave
my inward turning eye
and mind replete
at least for now.
Until another clutch
of welded thought
brings me full awake
and ravenous
for more
______________________________
NaPoWriMo day 3, in which the prompt was to write a poem as fan letter to a celebrity, unrestricted as to time and gender. Disliking the idea of kowtowing to mere celebrity (as opposed to creative talent), I chose to write to a (celebrated) poet whose work I admire.
Outside an open window
long bones of morning light
stretch across new green
and under petal floats
Mind’s eye leaping past
advancing spring
to waiting brown woods
Snowdrops hang, quiet white
broken only by the calls of jays
or arcing cardinal voice
I ache for home
those starker hills
and life lived on a wilder scale
With the flow of my brook’s
ambient song in counterpoint
to raven growls and beaver slaps
The shouting silence of the stars
that touch my trees
Small-hours communion with the moon
cupped softly by the dark
My homeward journey’s pull is strong
yet it will be hard to leave
a house so filled with love
and people of my bones,
Twin pole stars
anchoring the heart
outside my door the guard has changed
a day of wet and gloomy gray
whisked off by racing clouds
abdicated winter steps in minuet retreat
the sullen blue gray glow of rained on slate
is caught by short lived slants of morning sun
and wind, a small all-hands treetop voice
is loath to roar (for now)
the dripping cloak that wraps this house
begins to dry and shed small gleams
the morning raven fly by
lacking winter urgency
green daffy blades push up
brash in return, migrating from the soil
no longer threatened accidents
almost time to prune and clear a way
for the celadon and smell of spring
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I’m mindful that March in New Hampshire is fickle, and for a good long while snow will be a possibility. the path to spring is never straight up here.
I dream of deconstructing beaver weirs
layered dams of branch and mud
fiendish things set up by stealth
to drown my woods
and work to draw up plans,
a personal peninsular campaign
fought in the boots of wellington
besetting toothy bonapartes,
guerilla skirmishes to win release
of chokepoint water pools
allowed to stream again towards
the pond beyond its sapling fringe
growing up we know some barriers too,
thrown up to block our childhood path
casual injected freeze,
anti action dollops of impatient noise
thoughtless shards from adult tongues
that carry all the power
of their world, and leave us
with no voice to tell them no
unconscious joy leaching from
young porous souls, replaced by dust
to render us no longer fully vested
in our birthright gifts
oh we will feel creative pull
and try to move toward its warmth
each with our signature routine
to step around the wall,
with time and luck that sidestep waltz
will lose appeal, prompting us
to search out understanding,
mighty antidote to doubt
and let it heal our hearts
armored with new energy and joy
thoughts free to wander where they will
we ride the flow
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there is a vast difference between thoughtful words to guide and tossed off criticism. as adults we often forget the power of what we say to a child.
I stand quite still snared by unaccustomed silence backlit in a pool of warmth and kitchen candle light looking out at darkness intimate in thick falling snow soundproofing all that lies beyond its edge until a car appears creeping down the mountain arm headlights poking through lace curtain flakes wheels soundless on the road deeply masked by white a traveler almost surely blind determination understood and much admired by me we share this moment and our quiet space until my door is shut again and he has passed us by
______________________________________ The world is well lost and soundless when it snows here. Like an infant’s view of life our boundaries shrink for a bit.
Life With Horace 