Sunday, April 27, 2008

Where Flowers Bloom

Where flowers bloom in desert sun
a passion from the heat is spun.
An unexpected beauty buys
the wonderment that lights our eyes
where flowers bloom.

When cactus-yellow and pink adorn
the sand, dead-dry from lack of storms,
I'll find my faith, though paper thin,
renewed as life springs up again
where flowers bloom.

And when the day is finally gone,
now put to bed, the flowers dawn
in dreams as we retain the prize,
a comfort for our lazing eyes
where flowers bloom.

Tuesday, April 22, 2008

A Klee In Blue

A Klee in Blue

Abe sketches trees in charcoal
as he rides the train to London,
makes sure they're true-to-season
without the luxury of color.

He pauses now and then,
the same as when
the rain rests intermittently
beneath the underpasses.

Abe moves his pencil once again,
rakes smudges into fruits,
then curves his thoughts
to what stays in the main:

a day in March two springs before
when all was new
and leaded lines of Oxford's trees
had not turned lavender
to shades of mourning blue.

©1999 - first Published in 2RiverView

Monday, April 21, 2008



He makes love to me in the mornings.
We are a sun rays striking a tree.
I am a leafy Queen. He is a Monarch.

He lights upon my branch,
then with a sudden hush
I turn pale green.

I might have fainted
had he not given pause,
a softly measured reprieve.

Once, then twice again
he flutters up and down.
Crescendos dawn
to waken every vein.

First published in Lucid Rhythms - Winter '07

Friday, April 11, 2008

To Vincent

To Vincent

I wish he could have seen the fields of Spain,
the massive blocks of sunflowers,
their pug-nosed faces upturned toward the sunset;
more than enough to paint past thirty-seven's gate.

Have you seen yellow ochre past a tender age,
its vintage kept by shaded, airtight glass
beyond the pale of early learning years,
still wet enough to draw the latter rains?

In Holland there are colors known to few
where pails of silver poured the milk and lime.
I saw them once and never left behind the taste
of umber's golden sunburn on my tongue.

I wonder if he listened to his peers,
which paintings that we'll never chance to view,
forever buried under yellowed graves,
and if, perhaps, the best were left undone?

- first published in Fall/99 2Riverview

****There are other versions I've written of this poem. I can't seem
to settle on just one. So I keep them all scattered about.

Tuesday, April 8, 2008

At Trevi Fountain

At Trevi Fountain

Remember how the chuckling water fell
on marbled stones and horses galloping,
and coins we tossed behind us in a spell
of wonderment like pearls thrown from a string?

Recall the ripples that we made that day
the drops that swirled together, circling out – - -
and out forever. People stopped to pray
at Trevi Fountain as children ran about.

I saw your eyes; they pooled with joy and fear,
and in them shone the sunny hills of Rome
reflected from a half-reluctant tear,
our journey nearly ended. Traveling home,
we saw three roads and took the highest one
that rises towards the all-consuming sun.

Sunday, April 6, 2008

Cranberry Glades - (Monongahela Song)

Cranberry Glades
(Monongahela Song)

A weathered boardwalk circles through these Glades
for hikers trekking surly woodland scenes.
Bemusing chipmunks furrow rye-grass blades
and sparrows search for worms. The mountain greens
weave offerings of freshness through the air.
The West Virginia sun splays mellow beams
as rolling hills betray a harsher glare.
Cool river water fills our small canteens.

Monongahela is the forest's name
from natives who traversed this rugged land;
their spirit that moved here seems to revive
when cardinals light up cedars with their flame
and dulcimers and banjos carved by hand
rise up and “Almost Heaven” comes alive.

You Say My Name

You Say My Name
- for William R. Bryant -

You say my name, yet I don't know from where
you learned to curl the vowels like whispered twine
or silken breath of gossamer. With care
you say my name.

You speak and once again – your words are wine
and California poppies, grapes and air
as thin as in some northern mountain clime.

Your voice of elegance makes my name rare;
it takes me to a deeper place and time
where I forget my troubles. In a prayer
you say my name.

Wednesday, April 2, 2008

JOURNEY - (Last Hours of Ancient Sunlight)

I want to walk with you while there is light
and breath can still be drawn to feed our lips
with sacred words. As we approach our flight
to the beyond and join the ancient ships –
those vessels that endured the wrath and winds
blowing below the heavens. How we’ll sing
for joy of recognition, like lost friends
who know a celebration is the thing
we've come for. Even in the midst of war
let us remind each other of the day
we're navigating toward – it’s not too far,
our journey to the light. Let’s keep at bay

the passing darkness – and not let this night
obscure our upward visions of delight.

Calico Quipping

Calico Quipping

Our orange-cream calico is quite polite.
She comes to visit very patiently,
does not meow or paw me with a slight
concupiscence for petting. Silently,
she seems to know the power and the pull
of meekness – how its beauty draws me in.
Her peace commands attention. Now a full
but tempered purring brings my face a grin
as I contrast her personality
with Blacky's – how he nibbles at my feet,
not sparing my own flesh his tooth or claw.
I love them both, what's better, they love me.
And if they really had nine lives – how sweet;
our home would be a feline Taj Mahal.