Front Porch

I think I have a mem’ry

of something wide and strange,

with depth of field and

softness, wielding

timely smiles

and old

songs.

 * * *

Sunset Surprises

We’ve been here now for two hours

relinquishing our dust.

It falls like evening’s

slowing moments

fit for love,

this done

day.

* * *

Banjo time

We came to sing and play tunes;

fingers itch to play and

puncture the fatigue

with notes that spray

our faces

with cool

joy.

 * * *

Too many stars

Too many stars are breathing;

unscented, sky candles

point the way to night

and solitude

and whisper,

“please don’t

go.”

 * * *

Counting costs

Little do we understand.

Here, we wait, embracing

what little we see.

How grandiose

these virgin

dreams, how

chaste.

Picture from www.knowingthedifference.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

The ticking of the clock divides the morning

into equal slices of time spent and gone.

Foisted upon the relentless days, it ever reminds her

of this backstage rehearsal for eternity’s untime:

the bittersweet welcome of the farewell to morning.

 

Photo from www.chakrabodyyoga.blogspot.com

Dedicated with love and respect to Lois Keffer – writer, editor, friend, mentor

Pound for pound these words say less than they mean

and weigh more than they say.

Pull away every other petal and one still gets half a flower;

a down payment for the coming Spring

when the world doesn’t mind repetition

for the sake of simple beauties, multiplied.

Is that where you stood

that morning when the sheath’d, embarrassed moon

hid herself too soon behind earth’s broad shoulder?

Inured to tenderness but not without skiff and shuffle

you never made it your way to sing

past noon when the capricious cool lay waiting

for her summons from the heat of shimmering day.

 

Why must the geese shout so loud,

parading their brash story, torn through the ashen sky?

Their mockery only makes you braver

to twist your weary neck from shifting dirt;

the clumping, clodden landscape,

your only refuge.

 

You turn for home and take your place

among the pawns of potential.

Eat enough to remind yourself

of Eden’s meta-narrative, your textbook

with pages missing, the ones you planted.

 

Only here do you hear,

the song of dust, the foreplay of longitudinal seed-smithing.

Despite your doubt, here it makes sense.

Here it doubles up to surrender

the deep bellies of earth.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dedicated to the 26 sweet souls whose tears, now dried, fears now abated, pain now gone and thirst now assuaged can rest tucked in the bosom of God. From our vantage of dark remembrance and empty ache we remember you. We remember you.

I saw you today.

You wiped your nose on the new sweater Grandma made for you.

I saw you today

picking up the rabbit by her ears a little too rough. When she scratched your arm you cried.

I saw you today

fighting with your sister over the last of the McDonald’s fries, a Happy Meal’s empty promise.

I saw you today

playing with the other kids in the nasty ball pit that smelled suspiciously like pee and bleach.

I saw you today

crying over losing your Auntie Doris’s broach you had silently stolen from Mom’s bureau.

I saw you today

yelling at your brother to stop bouncing you so hard on the see-saw.

I saw you today

at your piano recital. You played a piece from “Chopin for Kids.”

I saw you today

through the window as you were coloring something. You chewed on your tongue.

I saw you today

as the school nurse dried your tears while applying the bandage to your wounded shin.

It’s Saturday,

I didn’t see you today.

Photo courtesy of www.funtasianyc.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

like lead on paper the tactile scratch

of winter rakes her rusty back

 

dusting each day for fingerprints

our only hint that somewhere near

 

she hides. like water in the well

down under, below within

 

where the moist and rich grows

before making its appearance, sacheting

 

across a dark-soiled stage where

dirt crawls up her dress and

 

spreads her limbs, surrounds her cracking skin,

pushing until she explodes in climax of more

 

but for now, shivering haunches huddle

encased in dead and dying promises

 

night and dark have outwrestled

her brighter self, denying ascension

 

in her tomb of untouched virginity

she longs in unrequited passion

 

and, donning the satin sash of evening,

the smoky grey of night blows her tender kiss

 

to the shameless, bright day

and whispers, “adieu.”

 

See this and other cool photos at www.fiercefragile.com