Archive | Poetry

Midnight Excursion

I saw them,
leaning against the rail
with grey curls circling their faces.
They were in animated conversation.
Their eyes were glued
to the waters, I think.
The wind blew their housedresses
about their knees.
Frowns and furrows
made ridges on their foreheads.
They giggled with laughter.

Not out of the ordinary, you say.
Certainly a commonplace happening.
The hazy sun was evident,
but most of the surroundings, blurred.

I could have stepped
into their conversation.
They would have welcomed me.
But I did not.

It was with a start
that I realized I was the visitor.
The midnight excursion
placed me in their time.
I had broken stride

and found me another world.

King To Pauper

Rendering itself useless now,
the elements of Nature
first borned by Man
to work for him have gone rabid.

But in wisdom still,
the moon continues
to pull the oceans by great force
and gently lays the rolling waves
on windswept sand, clearing man’s debris.

The wind if amortized,
would harness its power
to push the plow.
And sun, first born of woman
would gladly warm
the earth’s chilled bones
and never cast a shadow.

The earth would form the nested nettle
where foot transgressed,
with pleasure support
the frame of man forever.

Air in bunches note
the going in and coming out of men
and upholds their stance, untiringly;
gladly yielding itself to noble ends.

Relegating himself to the beggar’s position
of that which man himself created,
the Art is lost and in its stead
small triumphs rise.
Birth and death are Nature’s saviors
preventing man

from raping her in anger.

Shared Silence

It is a time
past the time of talk,
past the time of argues.

There is a time of silence,
a shared silence;
a time to accept,
a time to simply
slip into old slippers
and Be.

No matter the world,
this time is ours.
Maybe not to fill
all the empty spaces
but given time,
blends them

into a communion
of shared silences.

When David Died

I say that David took the hands off my clocks.
It was the greatest gift he could give me.
I tire of running my life with a large hand and a small hand.
No time for this, hurry for that.   Do this now, do that before.
I hate it.   With a passion.

I want to immerse myself in time and swim in it.
Feel it around me yielding
and yet holding me up.
I want to feel the eternity of it
and I want to see my house and yard
at different times under the sun.
To be able to say that in the morning
this is precisely how they look.
I want the information stored in my Memory Bank
for those times when I feel bereft.

I want to see the moon rise and give way to the sun.
I want to see the rainbow
around the moon and say again
we are in for a big snow.
I want to find the joy in the mundane task
of shaking out the kitchen rugs
on the back porch and feel the cold boards
beneath my slippers and the cold air
stealing beneath my clothes.
I want to keep looking at the moon with a glance
because no farmer stares at the moon too long
and say hello David.

And when I feel very homesick,  I will again
as I have in the past, take my coffee
out on the porch and sit beneath the midnight sky
with the stars daring me to look up
and identify them and again

revel in this multifaceted existence called Life.

Gift of Time

I am in a January
which thinks it is an April.
I fully expect to see
the rose in bloom and perhaps it is.
In my mind I have transplanted
the marigolds and set the annuals
in their proper places.

In my part of the world I awake.
It is dawn and I prepare for the new day.
The dogs are put out and  
the papers brought in.
And in the dailyness there is virtue.

I marvel at the continuity of it all.
In the beauty of the day
I now see all days and
in the quiet of the night,
I note the world's silence.

In recognition of who I am
in connection with All That Is,
I am grateful.
I have taken this gift of time

and richly wear it like a money belt.

A Toast

May the winter sun warm you
and the winter moon
house your heart.

May the world
set the stage for your dreams.
And may love
choreograph your life.

Look up!

With these the New Year will be rich.

Christmas Lullaby


The moon assists the drama
heralding the arrival
of the event
locked within memory.

A place, deep within time’s measure
nudges from familiar territories
the clockwise turn of events.

Incense, sweet hay,
pungent holly, sweeping palms,

The eye follows the moon rays
to find the final beam
lodged in our heart.
The ear strains to hear
the lullaby last

to find we are the music.

An Offering

In all things good we ask that a Light so shine
that the good works which are ours
will glorify and exemplify all that is true
and divine,  both within us
and within the Earth.   We ask 
Divine guidance be placed
upon our heads and within our hearts
that we may bring to light
all that we have been taught and
all that we have learned.

We ask in all names that signify
the blessedness of life and the glory
which is both Divine and human.  

We ask,  please receive.   Amen.

Waiting For Santa Claus


The bare floor of the landing,
midway to the top of the stairs.
began to bite her knees and she grew weary.
Her chin pressed the ledge of the frozen window
where her breath left a misty hole.
Her eyes followed the range of the stars,
afraid, afraid of missing the sainted friend
who would deliver her heart’s desires.

Her vigil continued and
the night grew weary of itself.
The house slept under the weight
of the wonderless slumbering within
and its old bones creaked with fatigue.

She did not move and
her  eight years spoke her eight millennia.
The promise was not for now but of forever.

Erstwhile urchin, never blended the phases
of  the child’s dreams, but the boiling
of  the witch’s brew to drink
from  the cauldron of life’s ironies.

It was the story written of the night
in  which a million stars stole the night.
She long remembered the banishment
and  in her vigil she would have
reclaimed  the homestead.

It was not to be.    But in its stead,
the  morning fir stood and the lights
reflected  the stars which distilled
their  radiance in the eyes of the child.
Not for long was the long wait.
She claimed her right as a child of the night

and  gift wrapped was her life.


Great Songs Will Be Sung

Should you find the need
to tell your story in words,
think mightily on them
and they will be caught up
in the air’s currents
and carried on the birds’ wings.
They will reach the ears
they were designed for.

You will find
you are not alone
and in this infinite universe
you will be heard.

And when the thoughts
reach the places in
the heart of  an Other

great songs will be sung again.

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