Dreaming Still
In a place where stardust dreams,
stoke fires too hot for the touch starved;
come melted wings of pixie dust,
in the heights where our stars
are carved.
In a million illumined wishes from earth, like fireflies eluding capture;
they're a gossamer flight,
on the tail of a kite,
swept up in a blazoned rapture.
Arisen against a curtain of black,
and strewn with surprising twist,
constellations once pressed of diamond ore, bleed in a scarlet mist.
Ember flecks and stippled burn,
are the remnants of fear we allay;
by seeing in rust, the color of trust,
out from the ash of decay.
Tender things and renderings,
our falling stars display,
knowing that with the fire, it brings,
a sun who governs the day.
In stardust light of paper white
there rubs a revelatory burn;
in perfect space between
still and flight,
is a place where dreams return.
*Credit photo: D.M. Yope
Butterfly installation/ATX
Sanguine Pearls
Happy are weekends I paint in the splatters
a life while imperfect says that it matters
pondering on Sunday like a Wyeth in wheat
a favorite bound book and the dog at my feet
More distant the days of Piglet and Pooh
the heart of a bear, Robin and Roo
the wisdom of Owl and happiest lots
peppered in always their quandary of thoughts
It's simple things really, like pearls in the rain
their droplets from puddles of unlikely pain
where yesterday's clouds held the tears of my face
now rain over me from a heavenly place
not counting for sorrow in things where I lack, but here as I lay in a night without black
dreaming where yellow strikes in staccato
her peek in my yet unopened tomorrow.
*Painting: Andrew Wyeth "Distant Thunder"
1961
Impressions
"And yet I see a light in the distance so clearly;
if that light disappears now and then,
it is generally my own fault."
~Vincent Van Gogh
I read the words of Van Gogh
and the words read me.
From my vantage point,
fragile Cirrus clouds
like bone china, streak
the powdered blue firmament;
their strands suspending the
softest billows like picture
frames hung on a wall.
Spring is springing,
all around
and where I have been
waiting for words to fall,
there are none.
The leaves on my trees
are falling;
this the absurdity I
essay to make sense of;
putting thoughts to words
in hopes I might part
the very clouds
which have obscured
me from them;
words which sporadically
leak in prisms their Ebenezer-like
visitors
I am in want of a poem
where my words will form
some Migratory V
and soar the skies in search to see
where none return as though in vain
tracing rainbows through the rain.
These words I look for,
but they will not take flight.
...
Early this morning
a salt and pepper squirrel
scampers back and forth
along the arms and under
the sprawling umbrella of my
White Oak tree.
He's in a twitching frenzy
for Sunflower seeds
scattered along the fence;
as if somehow I thought him
unable to forage for himself.
My very colossal and
olde love of a dog
makes a valiant effort
for the warm blooded prize,
but with eyes
now resembling more
the clouds he used to chase,
falls short this night.
Reaching down to scratch
behind elongated tufted ears
I validate his efforts
and he presses into my thighs,
returning the gesture
with a humble wag of his tail.
An ineffable beryl yellow butterfly
flits about his head
but he pays no notice.
...
The hours have whiled
this day from morning
to dusk like a high speed camera.
From the pulse that is my home,
Cornish Hens have satisfied,
allowing bits and scraps
enough extra for two dogs
who lap up clean their bowls.
I've stepped out onto
our back deck and
into the breeze of the evening
with my noble foot warmer
and truer half of
'Till death do us part.'
He settles into the familiar
fluff of cotton ticking blankets
I've piled for him
where he's curled in the corner
by the birch stacks
licking away the aches and rattles
from his bones.
I'm hoping for a little while longer
with my furry companion,
not taking for granted the days;
believing soon
he will be chasing rainbows
instead of clouds.
I know full well when he
decides to leave us
he will have taken with him
a very large season of
what was our life together;
and for a moment
my breath.
...
An awesome spectacle
is overhead tonight.
The Westward sky
is boasting a painterly
crescendo of colors
in palette knife strokes
of Turquoise.
The ethereal Beryl yellow
of earlier, is V'd into
an impasto thick
Blood-red orange;
bearing the footprints
of a master
impressionist's
marks
...
I am warmed this moment,
under the canopy of its colors;
which has generously
wrapped within its splendor
a poetic offering to me all its own;
one for which I had
been eluded earlier.
A heavy curtain of clouds
has parted, making way
the stage for a setting sun
to take his final bow.
I stop on cue and follow the star
paying homage and knowing,
at least for the moment;
it is not
a want for words
I am after,
but silence from them;
standing beneath the one
before whom
all my questions
seem to fall
away.
photo credit: becky e
location: austin, texas
date: april 2015
Birdsong
A little bird told me you were coming today
with the sun and the rain and oh by the way
I made up a bed, fresh linens instead
feels like a summer is just up ahead
There's tea in the kettle or beer on the brew
our old ruff hewn table, and a picture of you
the cabin sits open, through the windows you'll see
a basket with lavender bread and some brie
I'll be in white linen with braids in my hair
and butter your bread in a world without care
take off your shoes and barefoot let's be
my feet off the ground and you catching me
a breeze kicking in and it's starting to bring
a night that will fall where we won't need a thing
in colors that spill out of cornflower blue
I'll paint it by numbers the lyric of you
Wherever you've been, I just want to know
you'll stick to my ribs so I can let go
our hearts are wild things, behind cages to care
but rattling the ages, there's truth in the dare
bird like the rib, she sits in the center
between heart and a flesh in a cage none can enter
and the cage rattles loudly, for noise she can't hear
but once it is opened her heart song is clear
soar from this place and leave your protection
a chance in the song there is no destination
the risk to not know if your feet will touch ground
but home is the meadow and green when it's found
A little bird told me he's coming today
with the sun and the rain and oh by the way
I'll make up our bed, fresh linens instead
feels like a summer is just up ahead.
Rain On
I watched you
in the music store
rock a neon beauty
solid gold guitar
playing it groovy
like a ten cent movie
the lines on your face
mapping the road to
some far-out place
stage lights blurring
a psychedelic blend
burnin' like incense
smoke in the end
you said it had a good sustain
your Les Paul
make it rain
got a lyric or two
left in you
yeah you do
I heard you sing
head back
throw it down
pick is rocking
your old sound
lights surround you
back to back
faces painted
fade to black
heard the roar
hush the screams
fans and dreams
of your before
now and then
you're asked to play
you decline
say, not today
except I heard
when I happened by
heard you play
and make it cry
just another shadow
audience of one
in a blaze of purple haze
before you were done
a skipping record
replay groove
made me dance
made me move
ten feet tall
and I could see it all
through your eyes
even though
they were
closed
credit photo: second life marketplace
The Nothing Box Is Or Is Not
how heroes leave
and mothers grieve
you weren't expecting this
sorry's made and promises fade and "see you's" say "I miss"
pennies for thoughts
are cashed in lots where futures can't be bought
free are the hands where nothing holds or binds us to a task
nothing told or plans unfold
a man behind the mask
no vain attempts to flatter
for words it cannot spare
the riddles used in poet's muse are neither 'hear' nor there
it will not wait or carry on or fan the flames to where
as if on cue no crueler ruse you'll find it doesn't care
we count the loss in spades
the deck of cards it blows
the blur of blackened symbols
a feast among the crows
what's the use the nothing box reminding of no-mores
a loved one's face has been
replaced and what forever for
or perhaps the maybe makes us
better than we might
otherwise the nothing wins
and this the long goodnight
the box cannot refill itself
and then a quest explained
to find the possibility however
fought the gain to make a life worth living and the nothing
not remain
we find among the measure
a treasure where it's made
where kings and queens of hearts can trump an ace of spades
for one the key that wakes us
the not of nothing be
or one the sleep that breaks us
the eyes that will not see
the nothing into something
in which the box fulfills
the life that lives in giving back
the nothing for the will
