Category Archives: Perspective

Passion’s Tide

Stalled in waves of motion,
seduced in grace of ebb and flow,
called to shore’s sweet passion
while caressed in wanton’s undertow,

stacked in silver lines of strand
held free in jealous prison’s hand,
marked by courage fear had won
recalling futures yet to run…

Sordid space between these poles
where earth and time dismiss
the temporal call of love’s red blood
to grant this weightless moment’s bliss

that draws the arc from then and there,
suspends the dream in thoughtless care,
entreats the mortal soul with peace
exposing heart in sweet release…

Bound in breakers, pain of life
demands our courage take us there,
to trust that hopes defined in strife
remain as faith in tatter’s tear,

that we may yield to freedom’s tide,
harbored in the ebbing wide,
beyond the rocks at danger’s peak,
to find the love and truth we seek…

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Filed under Perspective, Poetry, True Love, Universal Soul

Above the Alpine Rill

High amid the summer fir,
engaged to overlook the rill
of winding valley’s rising mist,
one moment captured, standing still.

From the shadowed night behind,
swept a feathered rush of wings
just beyond the tall pine’s reach,
aloft this breath of morning, king!

Stoic eagle, timeless brother,
perched on valley’s rising din,
purveyor of this latitude,
great servant to the truth within.

There, by grace of silence
midst summer’s green of sweetened pine,
beheld the hushing heart of nature
in whispered words spoke true and kind…

“Here my sweet beloved
have you come to rest your soul,
where through this moment’s treasure
find the truth that bathes you whole.
Yet for you, in thankfulness,
return the kindness that you share,
in hidden whispered thoughts of God,
aloft this summer’s morning air.”

Not a single breath, took I,
entranced through every stretching beat,
as grace and time converged to still
this captured silence sweet.

… till I …

… till I …

… till I …

Embraced in mountain’s love and home,
adrift in summer’s thermal thrill,
returned His gentle whispered thoughts
suspended ‘bove the alpine rill.

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

The Poet’s Eternal Blood

When ink no longer flows from wells
through pens that bring the poet’s tale –
When stars decline to shine through nights
of bible black and moonless heights –
When breezes fail to stir the musk
of woodland’s stagnant summer husk –

Tis then my heart will write in blood
by candle flame of passion’s flood
drawn sweet across my sweating skin
to bring it all to life again!

When fate denies the hands of time,
freezing metronomes in rhyme –
When strings and bow default to mute,
failing note’s enamored suit –
When carol and the chorus gone
from symphonies’ now retched song –

Tis then that I by stomping foot
will raise the rhythm from the soot,
howling loud with dog and cat
to mount this music strong and fat!

When life blood dries and I have gone
to brighter pastures, green and long –
When heart beat thrums have left my chest
and drift in ashes final rest –
When hands are cold and voices dry,
when worldly sparks deny my eye –

Tis then that I will rise again
through souls of ink and nibs of pen!
Tis then this poet’s art will thrive
and through the ages come alive!

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The Reed’s Lament

Bow to time in passing tide,
as reed beneath the strong spring’s flow,
in desperate stance against the current,
fingers white not letting go.

Last summer’s ancient memory calls
of standing tall midst songs of thrush,
whistling in the breezes there
that call their tunes in quiet rush.

Autumn faded fast to winter’s
standing cold near bank and glade,
christened stiff in season’s charge,
a soldier of the browning blade.

Yet hope held fast for fervent spring
when last all dues were done,
that here amidst the daffodils
would sweetly hear the spring creek run,
that here the hard earned penance paid
would grant reward near burgeoned spring,
to rejoice “at last I’ve made it!”
while chickadees and warblers sing.

How cruel this unexpected life
that drowns him in the current now,
bound by winter’s run-off,
must to its raging currents bow.

Spring will let to mending roots
of hope now torn from place,
drawn from sun’s sweet giving life
to patch the straining tears that face
the distant threat of winter
while standing midst a summer’s seam
with only hope to focus toward
the healing of his hopes and dream.

Cruel the tide of season’s mix
upon this changing earth,
granting life and death through chance
twixt distant temporal poles of birth.

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Filed under Nature, Perspective, Poetry, Universal Soul

Where Once I Died

Thereupon the bridge stood I,
above the crowd’s tumultuous storm,
in offering, what hope had I
against their hapless raging form
that crashed in waves upon the piers
once placed by honest men,
now torn from ragged indolence
of hatred’s depth again.
In lacking faith and understanding,
lost from knowledge kept,
they clamored high in selfishness
not owning all the tears we wept.

So to hope and value pressed,
my hands across their sky,
I tried imparting all my strength
in knowledge, that they too might try
to come to understand the pain
and sacrifice of the few
that stacked, for them, their soapbox pulpits
high to get a better view,
born on shoulders of the past
and those who gave it all
in hope to birth this great tomorrow,
where none would here the tyrant’s call.

But hope misplaced to ignorance
distorts across the sands of time,
degrades to soulless decadence
when all they know is “mine”.

Standing high above the mass,
arms spread wide with calming tone,
plead did I of petulance
to find compassion, here alone.
As the roaring din grew faint
to hear my crying plead,
I saw the flash, heard the crack
from which all hope did fast recede.
Mid-breath in phrase “this hope is mine”,
the thud collapsed my chest,
exploding truth without a breath,
the bullet never came to rest
but caught my soul, eternal,
and cast me heaven-high,
as upon my fallen body gazed,
I watched my mortal image die.

I stood upon that bridge in hope.
I laid my soul to bear.
I gave my heart to save them,
receiving just their leaden stare.
No matter recollection,
their numbers grow the great divide
that separates few honest men
upon the bridge where once I died.

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Blushing Dawn

In gentle rose of dawning light
this alpine meadow sings,
beckoned from her blushing right
to call to day, all things.

From quiet start to fluttered hurry,
all call from one to one to one,
till caught in flustered din and flurry
break the dawning peace in sum.

The forest floor reborn a-wild,
with subtle hints to work yet done,
casts the sun a dimpled smile
and to her burgeoned beauty come.

‘Tis simple best
this sweetly dressed
expression herein lain,
that she embrace
each living face
and with their souls remain.

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

Summer’s Road

Summer’s whisper beckons me
within this blushing vernal spring.
It calls from asphalt’s ribbon twist,
pleads two wheels to roll and sing.

It draws my dreaming vision
through the hills and vales where few now go.
It steams the white line’s passion
to pull me through those turns I know.

It paints me slow in two lane strokes
that vanish through the countryside.
It marks the bygone highway routes
with simple arrow’s pointing tide.

It plies my heart with promises
of love left on the road.
It bathes my conscious glorious,
paying living debts I’ve owed.

It steeps elixir’s fragrant musk
in greenwood’s summer scent.
It kisses oh so sensuous
on roiling wind, on all that’s lent
to free this rider’s passion,
to set the world to peace,
to grant the road’s compassion,
to bathe in sweet release.

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Unholy Gale

In this room where books spill forth
from every shelf set head to toe,
inchambered by the oaken casks
of bookcase tales I’ve come to know,
I sit reposed in couraged fear,
content with snifter wafting near,
loath to let my cold dread show.

In torrent’s thunder, what can’t be seen
haunts in rushing ghastly breath,
thrums the shuttered windows ‘round,
whips the willow’s dance like death!
I shudder with this creaking room,
lost to malcontented gloom,
my courage thus my shibboleth.

Embers of the dying night
cling to evening’s fire in wane,
held by chimney’s banshee howls
that raise the dead to dance insane!
I, content to hold my nose
above the brandy’s sweet repose,
my thoughts disturbed to pain…

That conjure, in the wicked howls,
one million devils streaming ‘bout
my secret lair and sacred peace
in moaning, screaming, crying shout!
So sip the brandy slowly,
pray this devil’s gale, unholy,
retreats before the glass runs out.

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Midnight Peace

Amidst this city’s bustle,
peace, itself, comes in shadowed waves
between the pulse of traffic signals
and above the white noise din it craves.

Yet in the late night hour,
when season’s moon is hushed and full,
summer’s heat brakes the riot
and lays it down in lullaby’s lull.

In these eternal moments,
singular prints of traffic drone
a pinpoint at my ear’s horizon,
gently whir until it’s gone.

The alleyway draws into
the dissonant purr of a window fan,
scuttled only for an instant
by the pattering squeak of the mouse that ran.

The park side pond grows rich in chorus
with bullfrogs’ songs of rich delight,
as quaking moonlit shadowed elms
whisper motion and move the light
of such a season’s moon.

This peace here found is rarely known
beyond the midnight lunch break clan,
but in this hush the city shows
the fabric true beneath its stand.

I’ve come accustomed to this bench
in city park where night-shifts lunch.
Does grant a peace for a weary soul.
Does bless me what I need so much.

There is a ‘coon that visits me
at half past twelve, each night it’s clear.
Begs a nut or M&M
and stands a yard away to hear
me speak of all the daily woes,
of bills and taxes and political rants,
listens to my thoughts of love
and will sometimes watch me dance…

He comes alone as if a pact
we’ve made is to be honored.
He waits in gentle repose, kind,
until our time this peace has garnered
just what our souls so need.

And as my duties call me back,
he too unto his duties heeds.
I close my lunch pail with a smile
and thank the night for this peace indeed.

The moonlight melds to sodium light
as through the alley I return
to task and job and this city’s beat
with a kinder frame of mind so earned.

Upon the waves of city’s hustle
there comes a giving peace,
that if you look between the hours
you’ll find a bit of sweet release…

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From the Bottom of the Ladder

For company, for policy, for rule and regulation,
for managers and presidents, and once a year vacations.

Hey! Listen!
You and I cannot be friends
for where your social antics start
is where my patience ends!
Yes, you were made my master
by the men for whom you slave,
and you think if you work faster
and make your men behave,
that you will one day be rewarded
by promotion up the ladder,
and the fools who did the work for you
will stay, they do not matter.

Oh yes, it’s very possible
and even what you need,
and you know with every rung you climb,
the more you’ll have to bleed.

For company, for policy, for rule and regulation,
for managers and presidents, and once a year vacations.

But remember this each time you kiss
the ass of your employer,
and he allows you to step further
form this common labor toilet,
that you should listen closely
for a thunder from below,
for it’s the laughter of this little man
who works down here, you know.

You wonder why I’m laughing?
All you climbing doesn’t matter.
I’m laughing ‘cause I’m watching you,
and it’s I that hold your ladder!

posted for
Don Arterburn
(aka D. A-Bone)
somewhere in the 1970s

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Filed under Family, Perspective, Poetry