Category Archives: Poetry

September 24, 2012 · 1:37 am

The Courtyard Ghosts – Part One – The Pen

“The Courtyard Ghosts” is a poem written about the blessing and tragedy of unmanifested true love.
It is written in four parts, each from a unique perspective. Part One “The Pen” is written from the honest perspective of the pen through which such poetry as this makes its way onto paper.

The Courtyard Ghosts
Part One
The Pen

In ancient town unknown to most,
there stands a memory of two, as ghosts –
Their souls and story unknown,
but some recall the truth that runs
across a courtyard there.
This witless pen can tell no tale beyond what fingers imagine,
so forgive this indulgent trial to tell just what might have happened…

She of distant travels had found a home and love there,
blessed by family, friendship, love, and locks of flowing hair.
Her soul of sun warmed everyone,
regardless of their stage in life,
behind it though she held the secrets
of pain and loss and certain strife.

From courtyard’s bedroom window,
she drew each morning in,
by summer’s sweetest nectar,
or winter’s storm and howling din…

then him…

T’was spring amidst the daffodils
and cherry blossom’s blush,
he came on horseback laughing tall,
amidst a wave of friends and thrush.
At courtyard fountain, such horses pause
to drink and force a kind repose,
there allow the man to take it in,
and her, there twixt the shutter throws.

His heart in instant stuttered,
tho’ sun waxed warm upon his face,
the kind wind drew her hair back,
her eyes on his in golden grace…
there time stood still…

Until –
“Come on!”, the lads implored him,
“Your wife and home await!”

As quickly as the moment came,
was gone, yet time remained
affixed upon the two there,
and within each heart, their eyes ingrained.

T’was summer ere he came again
to the courtyard fountain to rest his horse,
his motive tho’ was driven
by her haunting memory, of course….
Yet as he turned to parapet’s window,
fear and desire, side by side,
his heart rejoiced in quite nod,
to her at window’s perch, shutters wide.

Again the moment quickly passed,
each flushed in heart’s sweet current,
afraid to say, afraid to reach,
yet lost to moment purest,
so knowing love may never win the moment…

Yet seasons dropped to weeks, then days,
through which he came to pass there by –
each morning, season’s freezing, burning,
one moment each in manifest light,
then simply nod, “goodbye”…

Years flew by as autumn leaves disperse before first winter’s storm –
until the shutters sealed with age, and he alas could ride no more.

Their secret love, unmanifest,
was secret too for those thereby –
the blacksmith and the mason,
respectfully watched each day – to sigh
a sad lament,
when together at dusk their day’s work spent –
found great regret and such remorse,
and sorely cried when life’s long course
drew curtains on this lover’s play…

So by commission of their trust,
they chose “immortal” plans for such –
The mason’s hands were old and strong,
and so with love and stone and song
cast her there, eternal bust,
with wind raised hair and eye of love
to look upon the courtyard square…
The blacksmith stained in sooty mire,
with forearm, bronze and hammer’s fire
placed him on a prideful steed,
to look up toward the parapet
with smiling eye and heartfelt need,
to nod and then ride on…

Forgiveness, please, I beg of thee,
this pen knows not of love or need –
but sees and feels and so in reels
in all this ink romantic…

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September 17, 2012 · 4:27 am

Family Memory – a Prayer

Family Prayer

How quiet is the lonely wood
where ‘midst these markers lay –
How lonely are the steps between
the graves of those I walk today –
How peaceful is the summer corn
around this church’s graveyard stands.
How steadfast this emotion seems
When pen’d from living hands –

At rest and peace I find thee,
silent ‘neath the clustered trees –
With truth and love I bless thee,
while praying from my knees!

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September 13, 2012 · 3:10 am

Between the Twill

In between the sanctioned colors
of summer’s heat and winter’s chill,
does bound the cast of change embroidered
upon the fabric fall has twilled.
Where greens and yellows, reds and browns’
soft rustling turns to chatter’s drown.
Grasses stand to sway no more,
but rustle stiff at bank and shore.
The sweet remiss of forest floor
draws mustiness to trail head’s door,
that simply pulls a beckoning,
to walk and feel the closing in
of shadows long and cooling wind,
there nature’s change and reckoning.

It’s these in-betweens I love the most,
twixt winter’s stir and summer’s ghost,
where every moment stretches long
to stand and bathe in sun, till gone…
It is these moments where questions cast,
do burden proof, or hope, at last
to find a holding sacred thought,
and there twixt hope and release wrought
the blood of each tomorrow.
It’s here that nothing stands eternal
throughout the sands of time,
yet hope is felt in golden dipping
leaves of trees, like teardrops dripping
a silent teardrop’s line,
or shower in yesterday’s sorrow…

If I could, but stand awhile,
I’d hold myself in forest fast,
to watch and reel the burgeoned future
and cling to tears there, of my past.
Like autumn, my heart, between does break,
for moments gone and memories stake
of hopes from yesterday…
Yet still within this autumn wind,
is kept the strength to rise again,
muster courage for winter’s chore,
and hope to stand on spring’s sweet shore…
and there within my lifetime play,
year in, year out, and day by day…

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September 12, 2012 · 4:26 am

The Pain of Trees

gentle souls of slient will

The following was written in honor of the Sycamore tree that saved St. Paul’s Chapel, during the attack on the World Trade Center Towers, Sept 11, 2001.
The chapel was bult in 1766 and is rich in American history from George Washington and the American Revolution and on…

The Pain of Trees –

Some have said that trees are souls
whose speech is long and laborious,
that if you listen long and still,
you’ll hear conversation glorious.

But too, a warning goes with such,
that if you listen, as is told,
that years around will move quite fast,
but you, as trees, will not grow old,
but remain in time disjointed,
until a greater tragedy,
of humankind’s perception,
draws you back to human time,
there loose your tree’s reception,
from time in parallel, thus as pointed.

Of these trees, such lifetimes spent
that see the world rush by.
Ours, for instance, scurries past, intent
on lifetimes blurring ride.
These trees, in slower gesture, gage
the ether through their day,
yet theirs, in months or years foretold,
draw slow the words they say.
StilI, I believe their hearts are instant
to worldly changes about them,
for a tree will burn or break or fall,
if instant purpose befits him.

As such, their gentler, greater reason
holds purpose to their vision,
yet time’s response chains fast their motion,
a temporally disjointed prison.
Yet their compassion runs so deep,
that for us, their honest hearts do weep.
For humankind’s transgression
is to live this life “at speed”,
focused on our appointed purpose,
and the attached immediate need.
Yet these trees, with love’s compassion,
reach slowly, thus, to show
their kindness, that shapes care for us
in simple strength of limb and bow.
For through their pain they long to reach
with love and service true,
there save our lives by presence,
there share such deeper clues…

…by river’s edge in raging flood
the willow’s arms outreached,
low and touching water’s surface,
these helping hands beseeched
by nature’s darkest moods
when waters rage and storms do brood.
How many different lives have reached
a safety shore from trees that strive
to help a drowning innocent,
keep man and beast alive,
when fortunes opportune?
Who of us in storm or strain
have ,’neath these gentle giants, remained
in warm and drying solitude,
through onslaught of a summer’s rain?

In trees I’ve heard of safety there,
where man and beast alike
were saved, by tree’s with gentle care,
in perches found throughout the night,
‘bove tumult of nature’s raging rivers,
‘beit opportune, or purpose found,
these trees’ compassion is life’s sweet giver,
but what about the souls who’ve drowned?
Souls once lost, whose last path drifted,
beyond the reach of the giant’s stance.
What cost is rendered of the pain of trees
when compassion’s lost the chance
to save a soul?

What of their pain, when all is done,
and their chance, reduced, to gather
the bodies of the lost and drowned,
when God’s called truth such. Rather
catch a soul and save a life,
than reaper’s helper,
blind with strife.

In trees at fall of sadness setting,
I’ve felt their pain, their sad regretting
that their time moves long beyond us.
Their eyes in tragedy can not change,
nor be diverted beyond the range
of where the reaper’s death lust
call’s to the will of God.

These gentle souls of silent will,
despair for us, through our ills
that disjoint us from their distance.
So many lives they share past ours,
when months and years comprise their hours,
upon histories’ repeated insistence.
Such weeping, sorrowful moans they make,
or whisper love’s ‘cantation
upon the breeze, that she might take
the pain from such libation.
And so it is, these gentle souls
hold pain for life’s sweet balance,
that begs them watch, or help, or sum,
where God’s call forms a keeper’s valance.
Such bittersweet task it seems,
for those whose fields and mountain streams
lend beauty to God’s purpose,
yet, more than love
beneath the surface…

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September 10, 2012 · 2:19 am

Aspen Fold

the road that beckons…

When still the summer’s air is held
and road swept dust breathes dry and fair,
when sweet the colored fall’s elixir stands
the musk to focus there
upon the change of season…

‘Tis in the alpine’s aspen folds
where mountain’s heart and nature’s soul
reveal a seam where moments hold
a secret path and reason,
as to “why” your heart is beckoned forth
to lead the path on endless course,
“why” you can’t resist the steps
that pull you toward the shadowed bend,
“why” you thrill in falling leaves
and golden light brought back again.

Drunken steps by autumn’s call
bring childish glee and fear that stalls
the moment for unknowns,
but strikes a chord of going home
when ‘round the bend the lea unfolds
beneath the mountain’s distant stance –
that there on meadow’s edge you dance
without a thought of time…

Yet still the yearning beckons on
as through the field the path lays long
and narrow –
Draws you to the forest edge
where jumping creek and hush are heard,
‘neath rustling gold and kind jay-bird –
to precipice and mountain’s ledge!

… then as you flush in hesitation… it’s there…

across the valley’s whispered song
an honest spark of soul sings on
and thrills you to the marrow!
… and with your soul entwines,
returns the truth you long to find,
graces calm your weary mind
so grants you not a care…

So should it be your soul is called
to September’s drive, and if you find
that sweetest gentle winding road
that exits from the corner’s blind…
There be sure you wander wholly
to where your heart is stirred,
and find your simple nature solely
in autumn’s musk and aspen’s word…

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September 6, 2012 · 5:12 am

Homer

Homer – all soul!

This faithful friend bestows such love
to those who simply pass by.

With pat on head and gentle stroke,
release the daily burden’s yoke
and cast a calm relenting.
Sparkled eyes and dimpled grin,
my dog, companion and truest friend,
echoes truth throughout his values,
no lies and no defending.

He sits in calm and watches life,
beside my constant writing,
and hopes for a child to smile on him,
scratch his ears, thus confiding
the source of a happy grin.

His tales are tall,
he calls them all,
to speak of squirrel hunting.
Yet laughs and jokes until the end,
then lays him down in growl and grunting.
This faithful watcher of my day,
beside me walks and never strays,
he looks to me with fun and tease,
echoes my footsteps to only please
whatever my life is wanting.

He is my friend, companion true,
and I’d be lost without him!

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September 4, 2012 · 4:20 pm

One Stone

Marsh and Lea

Rocky Perch

One stone I plucked from meadow’s rill
of stream in sweetest lea,
while walking near the green foothills
in search of what is me…

This stone so smooth, unique in shape,
so many stories held,
yet found among this peaceful green
betraying where it fell.

Born of massive alpine giant,
cut from freeze and thaw,
jagged, tossed to stone faced foot,
yet free to rest and there it saw
the heart of mountain nature,
meadow bloomed and marmot’s den,
dark foreboding winter clouds,
drifting snow stacked on the wind.

But years reduce to minutes
when from a stone’s perception told,
still jagged, only slightly worn,
no more that toddler old,
when cast from mother mountain’s stead
by harshest winter and strong spring flood,
so tumbled my little traveler,
to aspen glen in water’s blood.

Here beheld to season’s stream
twixt spring’s wet flush and summer’s green,
lichen grown on sunny-side
and mossy beard on leeward lean.
Free perch to fur and feather’s stride,
by kind bear’s paw did start the ride
where after years with aspens passed
and nature’s character so impressed,
our traveler turned to lower climes,
upon a spring in flooded dress.

So fortunate our shaping stone
to find a lodge and grip at edge
of roiling mountain spring in break,
so foothold gained at sweet fall’s ledge.
Such grandeur did our stone behold
for all the open valleys, his!
Where hushing alpine whispers blow
and eagles soar to heights of bliss
against an azure fielded sky,
bright sun through every season true,
befriended by the mountain spring
and all that he could view…

Years passed by in season’s keep
and soft his jagged edges rolled,
as through his witness, knowledge gained
and so demarked his wisdom, told
only by endurance and courage in his honest lay,
that here our stone had earned his shape,
yet here he could not stay –

For strong spring flood released his hold
that years had so affixed,
and down the falls he tumbled slow
so swept by raging current’s tricks,
until he found a place to rest,
in flooded plain and season’s stream,
and there through vernal ebb and tide
did find his final home, it seemed.

Such a place in alpine meadow,
‘neath distant shadow of his massive mother,
witnessed life in slower sorts
by elk and moose, in grazing hover
near his summer stead,
where flooded plain now turned to marsh,
so beheld life’s cycle greened,
and deeper, slower nature’s march.

Our kindest stone in aging,
witnessed by his smoothest sides,
portrays the thoughts of God so shaped
by years of season’s loving tide.

‘Tis here I plucked this single stone
from stream bed’s rill in mountain green,
and so his story told me there
that I might from his history glean
the honesty of time’s passing,
the gift of aging life,
and find me there a peace in knowing
that nature’s way is temporal wife
to all who stop to notice,
to those who pause to listen clear,
‘tis just the kindest motions
of one who loves you dear.

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September 2, 2012 · 4:52 pm

Gettysburg

One-hundred-fifty years ago, April 1861 through May 1865, marked as one of the darkest times of our country: The American Civil War.

Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address, 19-November 1863, stands as one of the most well known speeches in American history. Delivered six months after the actual battle, Lincoln managed to galvanize a divided nation toward a “new birth of freedom” and the prospect of true equality.

The speech, given at the dedication of the Soldiers’ National Cemetery in Gettysburg, PA was delivered by a haggard, mournful and nearly weak president. Reaction to the two minute speech seemed to fall short for many, given the depth of the occasion. Lincoln was subsequently chastised and praised for the eloquent effort in the days and months that followed. Yet the truly succinct content and delivery of eternal tenants of equality, freedom and perseverance left the attending crowd in a dignified silence. No applause was offered when Lincoln stopped speaking, as the crowd was hushed to silence, and then a delayed and weak applause came after.

Nearly eight thousand dead and thirty-nine thousand wounded, captured or missing had resulted from the battle of July first through third 1863, just six months earlier. And as the November dedication ceremonies were taking place, re-interment of bodies from the battlefield graves into the national cemetery was still underway.

The poem below is my attempt to realize the man, and his thoughts and regrets as he prepared to give this speech, on the battlefield of Gettysburg. He assuredly walked the hallowed ground, and certainly struggled with his emotions regarding his responsibility to his office, to the union, and to these men fallen. It must have been a long walk.

This poem attempts to reflect on what I believed I could have felt if I had been there to see the man at this point of difficult challenge for not only himself, but our young nation.

_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/

I’ve seen you there, in sharp relief,
your strength of spirit, iron will
drawn tight into the moment’s point,
silent hope, compassion’s fill,
so contrast the graying battlefield.

I’ve watched you reach for words expressed,
but none could hold your tears in check.
I’ve seen your furrowed brow grow deep,
speechless. Bittersweet this death
that brought the end to souls untold,
now shouting ‘last the fight’s undone,
“These loving arms no more shall hold
the hearts for whom this battle won.”

I’ve felt the pain, impetuous,
draw blooded tears within your soul,
and struggle in one moment’s doubt,
by you, this great and utter toll
one moment’s decision rifted.
For had you seen a sparrow light
before those words, you might have lifted
the pen and lost the thought
that led these young souls here…
Yet granted by the will of God,
your words, a nation sanctified,
that now at bloodied battlefield,
two parts, in union, these lives have tied.

I’ve seen that in your knowledge thus,
no ration found or reason made,
could ease the pain in burden, standing
upon the horrored battle glade.
In dignity you moved between
the fallen throng of man and horse,
your tears in gentle wiping,
your speech suppressed to whisper, hoarse.

I’ve seen your great reflection now,
compassion wrapped humility,
through generations time has wrought
and birthed our freedom, our liberty.

Yet if today your soul still wanes
in what was cast and needed done,
please find enhearten’d confidence,
that greater still the battles run…
for way of life and human rights,
for purposed divined in liberty,
your strength of spirit and compassion real,
has inspired right, has kept us free.
For we are one above the rest
who reach for truth and justice.
Our commitment to the path you took,
thus your soul displayed, before us.

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September 1, 2012 · 5:44 pm

Grateful

Cirque Meadow – Colorado – August

Twixt fold of velvet alpine green,
land locked, this mountain lake serene,
where early morning blue on blue
frees an azure golden hue,
that rolls to edge of earth, it seems,
and so defines this morning’s dream.

Summer sun o’er eastern flank
warms the rising mountain ranks.
Doe, in crossing this resting vale,
turns to ask what tale I tell,
then through the fir and off again,
so witnessed here by ink and pen.

At water’s surface swept wings soar
in acrobatic play and chore,
reflect the thread of life, and more
there held in placid surface.

Stoic granite perching, sums
a grandeur where broad stokes succumb
to sweeps of God’s desire, runs
a point to greater purpose…

Herein my summer morning wakes
to what I witness, to what I take
in forms of image and memory caught,
unto these lines of living wrought –
I, more grateful in return…

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August 31, 2012 · 2:49 am

The Cottage in the Wood

Amidst the quiet wood, where never the sight of soul is seen,
where deep within the shadowed story, it seems,
there no one has been… ever…

Yet through the tangled brambles and vines wrapped to the dome so high,
when as the sun is setting soft, a clear rosed beam can aid the eyes –
and there amidst the quiet wood, it stood… as if a dream…

A cottage built of stone and stick, wholly swallowed in musty air,
entangled in the over growth, held in place with loving care –

Sitting still I gazed awhile until the dusky light let in
just the slightest edge of truth to the history there within.
As if enwrapped in elixir’s mirth, the day grew light before my eyes,
the clinging vines and woods there, resolved in finer lines –

The cottage path and gated wall, before me clearly stood,
an entry arch of river stone with coat of arms lined in green wood –
Walls of stone ran to the corners, set with rose and daffodil,
while lavender and scattered daisies revealed the caring of this fill –

The cottage, down a garden path, was set with stone, great beams of wood.
The porch and gable facings, of dovetail and a mason’s good
detailing at the window’s ledge.

Entranced, I rose, afraid to lose this dream state’s blessed gift,
yet slowly step, did I, toward the gate, silently adrift
in seas of timeless wonder –

The gate before me, of ancient wood, stood ajar inviting
all my senses to freedom’s grin, thus pulled me through with creaked enticing…

A cobbled garden path before me lay, a quiet welcomed girth,
twixt rose, gardenia and foxglove blooms,
fingered sun and fragrant mirth.

It seemed I floated toward the stoop, whose porch was blessed with swing and peace.
So there I sat with creaking chains, suspended in this dream so sweet –

As I sat and gently swayed, a reverent love enrobed me whole,
the sweetness of a “welcome home” bathed my heart and soul.

Eon’s may have passed, I fear, but not a fret was mine,
for from this place where smiled my soul, there was no sense of time –
but kind the loving left there, by whomever tendered this spot –
until the porch-side window fed my senses with a chicken pot
and scent upon the air,
a longing to “return”,
within the makings of this home,
to love and sweetness, I did yearn…

I left my perch to find the door,
hand hewn woods and hammered fittings,
gently knocked and pushed a tad,
to find myself inside, unwitting…

The light was golden and struck the sides of ancient dust suspended,
glittering in its gentle ride, as if for me intended –

The air was sweet with home cooked love, as if I’d find a stew a-brewing –
and through the simple rugs and chairs the shadows gently blue-ing.

A beam of golden sunset light embraced the kitchen’s hearth and stone,
and as I poked my nose there, no soul was found, but I was not alone –

Beside the hearth, a graying threshold stood,
nearly lost within the shadow, unique in hand hewn wood.

The scent of sweet tobacco beckoned my spirit “enter”,
and as my eyes began to see, my heart declared its center
amidst suspended smoke, left from ancient rest,
with bed and bureau quietly still, at bedside laid two shoes, and vest.

Upon the night stand, racked in dust, a dustless tin type photo stood –
a man, a woman, and a dog – at garden’s edge and wood –
As tho’ I were invited, I raised the photo to my eyes,
and from their kindest faces, I swear I heard the greenwoods sigh –

Her hand was wrapped in his, and tho’ they looked out from the frame,
it felt their eyes were locked on each other by the smiles and kindness lain.
Her eyes were deep in darkened hues, yet sparkled with a love
that only could have been for him, by a life blessed from above-
His were stern and determined, yet gentle in the lines there shown,
that I could tell his heart was hers, and he, her love alone.
The dog, a youthful grin portrayed, yet his colours showed him old and grey,
but this was is home by his look given, and no canine paradise could have beat this heaven –

It seemed as if I knew these three, the longer that I eyed the frame,
I felt a longing overcome my soul and knew I would be blessed in same –

A love so deep that time could not erase,
and truth so lived that even the woods, in decay, would embrace –
A soul so satisfied within the living that even long beyond the grave,
would continue and return with giving.

I know not how long I stood, or how I managed time –
but by the moment dusk was done,
again into the woods went I –

Witnessed there a lifetime’s mark,
the love of two and life of giving –
that stumbled upon in deepest wood,
did bless this one’s living –

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