Archive | Poetry

The Poet’s Memories

Torn from an event
with memories still alive
and placed in an incubator to breathe
are poets expected to live.

Leaving a world incomplete,
they wander in vegetation totally unfamiliar
and yet expected to survive.
And give rise to credence
in a world with no root,
where trees are shades of others more vivid,
whose flowers whisper their names
in a forgotten language,
whose people are ghosts of livelier images,
all crowding the nimbus.

Where horizons are vast
and what eyes behold are stark lines
dividing two dimensional realities
pretending a depth that fools not a one.
Where snow sheds its stars
on a crystal night and the night becomes
a holy night eliciting unexpected
extravagances bestowing grace.

All grasped in a moment's vision
to linger through worlds creating ulcers
by gnawing the viscera
with dreams not completed.

The poet's pen translates worlds
of mean existence from memories held
long in the heart's pocket.
Translates the colors of those other places
where winds caressed and sun bathed
a skin unlike their own.
In another place and time they walk
and because they do,

their memories give rise to Others' dreams.
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GENETIC MEMORIES

Lurking behind every door are ghosts
from a shadowy past,
eager to be translated
to a dubious present.

Impregnated in genes
are the memories of these ghosts,
split second DNA, with desire housing
the delicate substance quoting life.

Stupid am I to allow
others' memories,
lurking in my fresh Being
to suck life out of my present.
But power filled, even to think
that I could release their tenacious hold
from a life unfulfilled
and requiring recompense.

Helplessness rages simultaneously,
pleading a judicious balance
to satisfy life's imbalances,
yet knowing

I cannot do it.
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The Farm Woman

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Woman of the Earth,
you are loved.
You gather the fruits
of your labors to your bosom
and feed the children.

You’ve inched your way
along the dusty path
with back bent in great fatigue
and cultivated the rows
yielding wise fruit.

You would feed out of your mouth,
those you think hungry
and then beyond measure.
The fruits are the heart
of your labors, the harvest of
your mind’s philosophy,
spilling indiscriminately.

Who is left to feed you, farm woman?
What commissary is left open
to feed your hungry soul after hours?
What bookstall will house the words
between stiff covers
to increase your harvest?

Labor, till the sun
closes its blinds on the day.
Restless legs will
speed you through the night

to find the bins ever full.
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Like Minds

My thoughts rove the ethers
like a magnet pulling
like thoughts to themselves.
The excitement rumbles
through my belly
while heart accelerates its beat
forcing my blood
to course through my body,
drunkenly.

Heady stuffs
to know that mine is thought
matched by invisible minds.

I swim in conscious waters
resembling earthstone.
Pulsating, yearning,
I find it humbling to think
that heaven's thought

has searched out mine.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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