November Dawn

I wake to greying dawn of day
as time stands still, suspended…
breathe November’s crisp and brown
edge of winds upended.

Westerly gusts, with gratitude,
turn my head to see the dawn
escape above the edge of earth
into the grey and covered morn.

Last slivers glint unto my eyes,
raise a spark of hope, I pray,
carry me beyond the waking,
pull me through another day,
calm in all life’s coming…

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A Poet’s Wish (a Madman’s Dream!)

Along this fading line of time, along this simple thread of life
that speaks so strong to what I write,
that calls to me, that calls to me…
Here my purpose pulled in rhyme, here my pen becomes my wife
that beckons lays to what is right,
that sings of me, that sings of me…

For I know no other reason in answer to the “wheres” and “whys”…
I know no time of season that stills or strokes the errant tries!
I know that only tempests call within my soul to write it all!

As every dew drop glistens in every moment’s pause, I listen,
‘til sweet the strong confusion reigns, until my thoughts, and pen, sustain
some moment captured, acquiesced beyond the simple thoughts confessed.

Here, in time’s sweet undulation, here in moments caught from you,
I do that which was meant to be,
to sing of thee, to sing of thee…
As moments ebb in transformation, poised through life yet fading, true,
I write of what you let me see,
and raise to thee, and raise to thee…

For life is living’s reason in answer to the “wheres” and “whys”…
Life is born of treason, for in the end we all must die!
But by the tempest’s raging call, it’s life that stakes the stays to all!

The dew upon the rose’s crest defines the truth of living’s best!
In honey sweet of summer’s rain my lays will live beyond my gain
to leave a blessing’s hope for all, as whispered from your kindest call.

To hope, to dream, … to pen it all!

(note – if anybody asks, the “you” in reference is life!)

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Southern Pine

Now the southern pine recedes
in hushing stir past autumn’s morn,
bends each bough in gratitude
as winter’s rush, in distance, born.

She stands beneath the luscious pine
upon a trail where few have stood,
yet few who have engraced this path
hold history here, within the wood.

As evening sun withdraws,
leaving shadows hazed and long,
the voices from the solitude
tell the tale and sing the song…

Where soldiers passed beneath these trees,
when to the call they raised their heads,
where four years later passed again
returning home, both live and dead.

Here is told the memory
of summer hearts’ escape to love
that manifested romance
beneath the fir and pine above.

Here the whispered story sings
in soulful mourning, life’s despair,
where aging brought the hearse to pass
en route to family plots somewhere.

Here a quiet tune is stretched
for poet’s pause to draw it in,
who by this wood found solace,
who brought it to the page and pen.

For here the path so few have trod
has relished in its history,
by forest musk and dim decay
has carried life’s sweet mystery.

She stands beneath the alpine boughs,
upon this path in silence poised,
witness to the whispered calls
that sing in history’s pains and joys.

As the sun sinks lower
and shadows stretch across the wood,
she gently bows before the pines,
here, where long they’ve stood.

So to home she turns in peace,
grateful for this sweet release,
thankful for the moments there,
small, beneath the southern pines,
engraced within their care.

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Winter’s Vale

Upon this gilded crest I stand
where winter’s dancing dress adorns
the regal length of dale below,
skirting foothills, neatly worn.

A split rail fence, in signature,
defines a wild and aging seam
that hems this ageless beauty,
proposing hope, exposing dreams.

Coyly courting winter comes,
dressed in softened white and grey,
shy and timid tucked behind
the granite range and soft woods fray.

Yet the valley stands unmoved,
flirtations feigned unnoticed there,
coaxing slowly winter’s sum
to speak in cooling wisps of air.

Between the knees of foothills rolls
a slow progression, crystal white,
gathered low across the vale
caressing with a love, a light.

Above the hush approaching,
the sky recedes in charcoal black,
wraps the moment’s solitude,
granting solace, stealing back.

Winter finds its bolder self
and rises to a bitter howl
that bursts in sudden hemorrhage
of driven snow and gusty growls.

How innocent here the valley lays,
silent in the storm,
subdued in gathering crystal white,
enrobed as winter’s wife, and warm.

I deny my presence
to the sensuous play beyond my stance,
chased from this my borrowed perch
to let this moment’s pleasure dance
and let this moment turn,
where what the season’s changing brings
is what this vale so deeply yearns.

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The Spectre

jaybluepoems:

Another own for Halloween! Enjoy!

Originally posted on jaybluepoems:

Softened shadows follow me
between the temporal poles of light
as dawn is echoed hauntingly,
reflected in this dusk, this night.
Yet heartfelt scent
on whispers lent
does bathe each silent moment spent,
that stands me breathing sparingly
amidst this hallowed fright.

The footsteps in the corridor,
in pensive creaks and strain,
bear the question still once more,
“who’s there?” in feared refrain.
The words once said
drift overhead,
thus beckon moans from one long dead,
that freeze me at the bedroom’s door
in pounding heart and vein.

Long the silence holds me still,
afraid to move or breathe,
as courage seeks to gain my will
and from this frigid posture leave.
Yet curiously held
by what befell
the one who moans beyond death’s knell,
I wait in silent pause until
I hear the voice in heaves.

Tis time immortal spent in haunt,
a penance price, my dues,
to…

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The Haunted House Upon the Hill

Left upon the hill in ruin, aged beyond its years in count,
stands a house where terror reins and nightly screams of horror mount.
Ne’er a soul has lived there since long before the paint has peeled,
yet ghostly apparitions drift in shadows and throughout the field!
Its windows blank and broken softly glow at midnight’s call,
while screeching cries of mourning echo through its vacant halls!
The organ in the parlor stands as relic to its richer past,
yet late upon a full moon night maniacal chords come loud and fast!
Behind the dreadful music, between the ghosts at window’s light,
beneath the mournful screams of grief an evil laughter fills the night!

Oh how it sets my heart to shudder! Oh how my fears recoil my skin!
Oh how my bones in terror flutter and chase me back to home again!

Ne’er a living a soul has witnessed, for those who’ve gone have not returned,
for once within its halls and doorways the living flesh is taken, burned!
Yet some have claimed a glimpse in daylight, when quiet the house seems to resplend
a calmer tone of living, a relic from an ancient wind.
They claim the claims of rotten horror, when through the vacant windows seen
the blood upon the organ keys that softly growl, low and lean.
They claim a cackled cat sits by the marble stairway’s rotting rail,
they claim its eyes glow red with fire while guttural moans transcend to wails.
They claim above the mantle sits a portrait of a frightful man,
whose eyes are wild and vivid, whose sneering grin states, “Off my land!”

For those who’ve made such claims, they say, have placed the miles twixt them and here,
for not a living local soul will claim they’ve seen much more than fear.

High upon the hill of fright stands a grand and ghoulish sight,
where horror bends the midnight’s air and feeds a terror to those who stare.
A haunted house of huge proportion, a portal to an evil space,
a house whose iron fence gives notion that nothing should we dare displace.

So in the village all abide to steer away, to steer aside and never bring a question,
never try to reason why, but grant the hellish mound our fears and to our curious minds, deny!

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Where First Snows Fly

AAA

Between the hills of time I rise to meet the last of autumn still,
paused at moment’s pondering, with cup in hand near lea and rill.
The morning air does call me to kiss my love, my fall, goodbye,
to trek the path to timber’s edge, to meadow’s cirque where first snows fly.

So gather what I need and must, I set my path to cairns I trust.

aab

Between the hills of time I walk along the rill that whispers still,
I leave the lea behind me with grateful steps to bless my will.
The grasses dry, and seedless,enwrap the feet of aspen groves
whose spotted bark stands white and bare, midst ruddy leaves heaped up in loaves.

aac

aad

The summer’s scrub that once was green stands burnt in tarnished autumn red,
portrays a pillow sweetly laid in meadow grass for winter’s bed.
The silent breath of morning prays undisturbed by wind’s caress,
yet joined by quiet prattling of falling leaves released to rest.

aae

aaf

As the hills in confluence meet, the dell’s denied its fold,
leads me cresting rise and roll to stand at valley’s longest hold.
In the distance stand the Massives, the granite Kings and Queens of Earth,
that draw my journey westward in hope to witness winter’s birth.

aax

As stream’s companion through the valley, I step in quiet contemplation,
drawing every whisper in that speaks anticipation.
At Massive’s knees the valley ends with guarding alpine fir,
whose dense and stretching boughs deny the slightest wind to stir.

aah

So to climbing stream I must, to lead me to the cairns I trust.

aai

Above the stream’s sharp climb I find a path that deer and elk must know.
In steps of theirs I follow, ‘til only echoes far below.
There I find the higher road that very few have seen.
There I rest within the sight of Massive King and Queen.

aaj

Through alpine thick, luxurious, I trod with gypsy song in heart
and sing until the green wood rings through echoes harmonized in part.

aak

As through last twist of trail I climb, I rise upon the final crest,
where blowing snow does kindly greet and hide the Massives grey in dress.
I turn my face from stinging snow as wind whips cold toward autumn’s eye,
now caught between the Court of Kings and crystal azure sky.
Before the stolid cirque I kneel, courage facing King and Queen,
I beseech a moment’s council and beg the sun to grace the scene.

At their feet the marsh stands still, reverent yet commanding,
as I in drying grasses claim the truth of where I’m standing.
In whispered tones and crystal light, winter’s voice asked why I’m here.
With gracious bow and nod I said, “To find if winter’s edge is near.
I’ve come to seek the point of flux where sun and storm cast crystals blue.
I’ve come to vow my love of life and give my thanks to all of you.”

aal

In sudden hush the clouds withdrew! The sun in glowing rays did stream
upon the cirque and meadow’s keep! Upon the face of King and Queen!
Awestruck from my lowly stance I raised my face to God above,
whispered kindly, “thank you! This moment blessed! This life is love!”
Gently in the warming air October’s court drew softly blue
and stood this life in sharp relief against the growing azure hue.

As winter’s force is master in October’s court of King and Queen,
with bows and some relenting, I turned to face the alpine green.
As I walked my path to home, I thought of Autumn’s fade,
knowing well her work was done and winter’s bed was surely made.

Today I gathered what I must along the cairns I’ve come to trust.

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