Monthly Archives: February 2016

Ocean Mists

beaches-apostles-cliffs-clouds-surf-mist-beach-wallpaper-hd

Mists evade the rolling surf, yet cling to every molecule,
here beneath blue spattered grey, before the cliffs, in ridicule.
Spring the forecast, fall, the truth,
winter’s dungeon through reproof
harbors only summer’s hope when we decide to claim this beach,
gain some sense of proof,
our dreams deny our reach.

Cold the morning air derides all sense of what we hope, to sea,
born on purposed waves of foam through which our selfish lovers flee.
Loath the moment, long for more,
beg a knock upon each door
that keeps a lover’s blush alive within the gently whispered sum,
upon this witless moor,
wonders why we’ve come.

In silent step, pressed in sand,
hushed beneath the cliff’s swift stand,
echoed dreams drift near as ghosts beneath a spattered sky,
walking sweetly hand in hand,
as mists upon tide.

photo courtesy of Public Domain
12 Apostles – Victoria Australia

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Filed under Dreams, Nature, Perspective, Poetry, Universal Soul

The Waiting Room and the Aftermath

Time compressed a lifetime to a single moment, drawn slender, nearly warping the second hand, yet each escaping stroke pounded heavy, a muted hammer against the polished anvil of time’s progression.

The waiting was over. Wringing hands and silent prayers were done.

You entered, unwelcomely wanted, through an angel’s open door. It was June. Iowa June.

The air clung thick. Soundless single syllables just heard beyond the pounding blood of my ears, beneath my mother’s panicked hopeful breathing, against the ironic tapping of your white Florsheim shoes, covered in blood.

Our suspended sanctuary broken with your nod, and respectful question. Yet our vigil held a moment longer, well over the precipice. “I’m sorry,” you said, “he didn’t survive.” All point of reference, gone. Asking, “What!?” You repeated yourself scratching at an explanation. My mother’s orchestral voice raised in tension, sweet timbre of violin strings, disbelieving, could only sing, “Oh no! Oh no! I will never hold his hand again! Oh my God! Oh no!”

To a pinhole view the world resolved. In haunting hush my brother’s sweet tears were all I heard to comfort a life’s long loss. The room devoured, swallowing breath in its labored breathing, Jonah in the whale. Details smeared in fresco, glossy, distorted. Every step, every word relaxed along the corridor, penetrating, piercing my battled grasp to cling on. You there, browning blood rooted in the piped white stitching. Your words, soundless.

Disdain revolved my iron neck, begging to turn away, only to see her there, slanting through hell’s door; a pig in squalor, a nurse in white, makeup of a whore. Piercing the fleeting glimpse of any dream with, “You need to gather the belongings. Come with me.”

Fleeing you, this trap, I followed her. Fat, short, squat legs pounding busy hallway tiles; purpose of a jack hammer. Spinning, burning in overload through hospital denizens, features stretched, some kind, some lost, some loud… An eon’s flooded blur slammed prostrate to clinical white doors. Another trap to open.

“It’s all in here”, she said, thrusting upon me the brown frayed grocery bag, clasped in sparkles of Swingline precision, his name in black, still wafting a Sharpied rush to the end. Would it ever end?

Heavy armed, I slowly turned to face an eternity lulled to desperate lows, stretching it’s Einstein’d moments illusively, forever before me, pressing mass upon mass, gravity surreally bending the tears to flood.
In memory of the waiting room and the aftermath, the day my father died in surgery, June 17, 1985.
Written for d’Verse Poets Pub – http://dversepoets.com/

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Filed under Memory, Perspective, Poetry

The Poet Cow

Ever wonder what goes on in the evening, after dusk, once the animals have all returned to the barn… Consider this…

Stories told at sunset’s arc when last the barn doors come to close, echo frames throughout the day, recalled in honor, artful prose that’s spoke in hushing laughter yet cast about in formal style, applauded when the speaker bows returning to the trough a while.

Amidst the hay and feed there, the poet cow enthralls in song, crafted day’s end stories collected from the farm’s sweet throng of horses bound to duty, of cows molested milking tales, of mice in chase and cats who beg to steal a sip from milking pales, of chicks and hens who peck about in counting grains of sand, of dogs who walk in mending fences beneath the gentle farmer’s hand.

Oh! The stories conjured, each verse with vim and vigor flows, weaves the country’s subtle life with dreams caught twixt the piglet’s toes.

The poet cow in bashful eye unmasks his soul when dusk is past, turns the stanzas fluently till all nod off and sleep is cast. Then to himself he mutters low, in Shakespearean tone and manner borrowed, “Good Night, Good night! … that I shall say good night till it be morrow.”

formatted and posted for dVerse – Poet’s Pub, Open Link Night

http://dversepoets.com/

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Filed under Nature, Perspective, Poetry

To Live Again

This silence only threatened by the straining of my heart, beating, as I wait and wonder. I feel the pressure in my veins, thickened, stained in ancient blood, trying to save me, hoping to quit, forced to move on by only what is left of my physical existence… my beating heart.

Reflecting through the pages, turning each so slowly as if I’ve never known their faces, drawing every image in. A mustiness wafts from the turning, held captive by the dog-eared corners of years long gone. I see my entire life move before me, one sacred image at a time… A whisper culls a quiet question in my mind, “What have I done?” Only to be followed by, “What remains undone?”

History hints at moments hushed, the scent of life, a lover’s blush, then draws a quiet candlelight to show the truths in such. I smile, knowing life’s been good, granted peace as much.

But what of purpose left undone, unshared wisdom, songs unsung? What of steps that fear had stayed when dreams could have been won? Gestalt it seems has made its play, regret has laid its run.

Return again! I must return! This desperation tides my soul, but what of life yet drawn to be, how might I know my role?

Perhaps I come on eagle’s wing, above the alpine valleys. Sing!
Define this life in higher call, perspectives’ sweep to see it all.
Perhaps I come as mountain bear, to dig beneath and find what’s there,
noble in a giant’s strength, yet humbly seeking truth at length.
Perhaps as wolf I come to be, one for the pack, yet one for me
with solitude a living grace, histories ink upon my face.

Oh, but no, I cannot face a life wherein I’d let you slip away.
If must becomes an operand, then for your love I’ll bait that day.
For you, my love, for you, I’d only come to live again if I could be with you.

written for dVerse poetics: Coming Back – 2-Feb-2016

http://dversepoets.com/

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Filed under Perspective, Poetry, True Love, Universal Soul

The Ochre Blonde (A Dream)

Across the fields of mists she rides, in quickened step, as thundered ghost, flashing grey to white in tides, between the shadowed elms and posts. Her ochre hair in fury’s fire eclipsing sun upon her wake, yet glides above in liquid lines, beneath, her courser’s muscles quake… into the wood and gone.

What is this dream that comes to me, what is this deft remorseful scene, as if I own the blame for all, yet nothing I can find, or seem to grasp within that fleeting flash? Who is she? Why? Where did she go? What brings such hastened fury here, within the dreams I ought not show?

The scented mist clings as I wake to urban bed and city scape. The musk of dewy forest floor fills my senses hours more. But nothing haunts me like her fire, dressed in white and flaming hair, racing through the glinting sun, purpose bent, relentless stare…

I’m mad, I’ve surely gone mad! Haunted! Ghosts of ancient realms! Yet oddly feel I’ve been there, and fear I’ve something more to tell, or stop her, or meet her, or beg for truce from things gone wrong! But morning brings the city’s thrum. The image fades soft and long, like shadows caught in acrid film, always there, but somehow gone. I do not know how long they’ll still… but haunting hopes I’ll ride along. Upon that grey and ancient mare, to feel her rush, to smell her hair…

Enough!

I fear my sleep, that crazed I’ve come, yet hope to steep in dreaming’s sum.

I pray for peace and empty sleep, I cast my faith in modest streams, I know I’ll live beyond the deep of ancient mists and woods in dreams…

But never shall I dream beyond, her flashing white, her ochre blonde.

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Filed under Dreams, Perspective, Poetry, Universal Soul

A Winter’s Kiss

Stand still amidst the frozen hush,
suspended twixt each crystal’s blush,
surrendered in mid-winter’s snow.
Starve your senses in the bold
retreat of hearth’s sweet warmth, left cold,
reducing now to all you know.

Iron bare, the season’s scent,
riding on a whisper’s hint,
each frozen note in languid air.
Blushing cheeks of summer rose,
stem the midnight’s soft repose,
hints of jasmine in your hair.

Within your deepest eyes, a smile,
transfixed, transposed in time, the while,
about you snowflakes swarm.
All angels draw their gaze on you,
our eyes, your eyes, here frozen, two,
yet still I find your lips are warm.

Ah! Winter’s night, within the storm,
impassioned hearts removed, reborn,
upon the white and virgin snow,
alive this moment, as lovers, know,
this moment, hallowed, sacred.

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Filed under Nature, Perspective, Poetry, True Love