of winter

On January 9, 2012 By robertalanrifeIn Waxing PoeticLeave a comment

perforate my insolated heart

with rock and stone and bits of branch

that scratch the earthen sky

with its insistent icy gaze

latch yourself rock, stock and thicket,

the budless arms of winter, skin and bone

wrap themselves around the icier heart

of my discontent

cry with wonder at my lack of wonder

this chill stream of unconscious boredom

alive in its deathly hold

we, together, sleep.

where once I stood

brazen, half alive but sure

of my surety finding

none but rockbed nourishment

in place of deeper food

but I refuse to dig.

in this time, non-colored

void of spring’s lithe dance

or summer’s lazy strolls,

only still

lonely, stilled,

stillness alone.

so be it,

come, sweet winter

come, bid me bid goodnight to my childish fears

hypnotize me, embalm and embranch me

let the stark, new life of death

feed this wafer-thin soul.

kiss me with frozen resurrection

till snow becomes dew

and we both

ascend

the perfect purchase

On December 23, 2011 By robertalanrifeIn Waxing Poetic3 Comments

hear the crumpling rumbles, crown-starved lives, stumbling

through the hours, feigning breath for the stale air of hurry.

shops awhirl with tight shouldered pilgrims alert only to winking lights

and brandied windows that steal the real for the on sale deal, steals

for grubby graspers groping for this, grasping for that

filling carts with heartless bobbles of packaged numb –

soul, unknown to its owners, crouches still, hungry, waiting, gasping

thirsty for seasonal wading pool, the drink of tourists

blind to pilgrim feast just beyond the price tag contemplations of beggars.

empty promises, shiny and hollow, lure lusty eyes and hearts behooven

to unkempt desires of lesser men.

how insidious, how stealthy, this swollen debt of mall-booty

accumulating in attics, under porches, staircases, and blankets –

garage sale in the making.

still behind such trackless wastes, just out of sight

behind the aisle, under racks of unpeopled scarves, jackets and panty-hose

lies the tiny, the insignificant, the sacred.

something without price-tag

without store hours

within reach, just beyond greedy fingers –

the perfect – he

purchase…you

tin whistle

On November 21, 2011January 8, 2012 By robertalanrifeIn Waxing Poetic6 Comments

I play Irish whistle. Or, better, I play at Irish whistle. Even better still, it plays at me. Celtic music has changed my life forever. If there is a music that can have me utterly spellbound in seconds and quickly fumbling for the radio volume control, it’s that ancient, mystical but oh so immediate music of the Celts. The following short poem was inspired by a very simple little Irish whistle tune. But first a message from your sponsor…

I’m the first to admit that much of my poetry is so stream of consciousness as to seem like utter gibberish and an exercise in right brain futility. Poetry is, to me, like flushing out the radiator in my truck. Sometimes the result is at first messy, even unseemly, but hopefully the result is a better functioning. Things run better. Smoother. Life seems cleaner, cooler somehow. This is all I can hope for in my poetic endeavors, such as they are. I can only pray that, somewhere in the cascade of apparent lexical misfits, you find something that can flush your soul and give space for newness…and perhaps a little wonder.

come to me, little strains of pipe, sullen and sad, soft and sallow

fill up my ears with the wetted, be-dewed hillsides of morning’s music.

sift me like wheat till there remains nothing but myself,

chuckling in time to tunes both ancient and strange, friend

to brother and breast, bordered ‘round with chimes and chant

thumping drum and hymning hums awhirl and awake

to find my North from earlier ventures.

stop.

stop but once,

stop but once, but twice and find me once more

awake and alive to your dervishing tease,

your dancing, light and unfettered.