March wind stalls,
within a broken azure sky,
bends beneath the will of spring,
grey and white,
scents bluster by.
winter’s air regained,
season’s linens hanging fresh,
warming flesh in hopeful mirth,
chilled cheek and nose and breath.
Subtle hints in whispers low,
stir the thrushes,
stretching daylight’s feathered wings,
hopes grown long.
Winter’s echoed calling,
softly coaxing soil to spring,
stretches length across the day,
life in suit,
draws taut the string.
Granted love within the soil,
life and death,
reform in birth,
burgeoned blessings build again,
the core of life,
Category Archives: Universal Soul
March wind stalls,
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
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
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…
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.
Still the silent quiet of age steeps rich this moment, reflecting,
echoes just what hopes deny in truth’s cold introspecting.
No fear, here, within the pause caught and loosely locked.
Just awe respecting shadow’s keep amongst the greying, flocked.
Peace gathers warm in knowing,
treasured paths and journeys made,
rest in sweetened summer fields beside the rill and glade.
Ripened in the setting sun,
kisses’ pure, seduction brings
the whispered scent of lilac twixt my golden locks, in rings.
Oh! my heart weeps openly,
for home and love’s sweet hand,
yet aging now, my courting call,
returns my lust to dust and sand.
Shed not a tear for me, for I am ne’er gone away.
But find me in this whispered breeze upon a low and setting ray,
for I’ll see you there.
I’ll touch your young and flowing hair.
I’ll dance about you in delight!
I’ll raise the thrush to song and flight,
that you may sense me here…
my pipe and whiskers smiling, dear.
Paused before the frozen lea,
in subtle murmured rhythm,
a hidden rill in whisper sings
a quiet song of heaven.
Alpine giants upon their knees,
stretch low to earth to listen,
their sacred prayer hushed in woods
whose sun kissed boughs of emerald glisten.
No single soul disturbs the peace
within this supplication,
gently blessing winter’s love
across the drifting white’s elation.
In witness stands a wolf in grey,
transfixed upon a slope and seam,
lone with head in reverent bow,
eyes closed in silent dream.
His crystal breath moves round him,
in echo to the rill’s sweet song,
drawn in single dawning ray
suspended ‘cross the meadow long.
Upon the morning field of white
a sea of diamonds stretch in fire,
blending blue and gold to bathe
this single prayer’s pyre.
Hidden at the forest’s edge
my heart and soul hold hallowed praise,
in awe of God’s sweet secret here,
enrapt by dawning’s brilliant rays.
What gentle hands that grant such peace,
what blessed soul entreats us,
what love blends balance in this day
with life and hope to keep us.
Ragged edge of road, framed in fray and grasses gold. Held in drunken course by bits of broken stays from fences split. Gathered there, around each post, lays lagging wind and moonlight’s ghost.
She wanders o’er the silent lea disturbed to find her way, where once she knew an arrowed path between the barn and forest’s lath, now stumbles towards the wood, in sway.
A silvered grey and fallen barn counts her steps in jest, laughs in hollow whispered grins then slowly slips back off to rest. Ravens perch upon a plow whose earth has frozen still its lust, captured in an eon’s tuft of grasses tall and tawny rust. They bob in exultation, guffaw in crow-ish song, as crossing o’er the rock filled stream she lifts her skirts and tip-toes on. She stumbles through the slope of hill where years before she scarred her spine, exposing what was laid beneath, now blushing from another time.
Before her stands the vacant wood where once she loved to play, wherein she loved the lack of sound, echoed in old memory found, and subtle longing just to stay.
She trips across the ashen timber, fallen fast asleep, brushes back her silver hair and enters to the cold wood’s keep. She scarcely knows her destination among the ruins thick and grey, but being more than child here, starts and stops and weaves her way toward what she knows is waiting, toward where the day so calmly ends, yet caught in hesitation, denies her fear and wanders thin. Upon the wooded knoll she finds the memory of much kinder times, where snow once graced her lengthened dress and teased her with its hushing rhymes.
Pausing there in sad recall, she hears the river’s gentle hush, dreams an ancient dream of youth when eagerly she gladly rush toward the gallant sparkles cast upon the water’s play, come to meet the boats there, and wade in just a way.
She staggers o’er the broken stones, between reposing trees, lifts her skirts at water’s edge and steps in to her knees. All the diamonds in the world are cast upon the aged stream, conjured by the sun and wind, lay sparkling in a dream. She calmly lets her aging go, reaching toward the distant shore, wanders in, gently laughing, until she is no more.
Upon the ragged edge of road, kept to course by ancient posts, a gently whispered dirge is sung by lagging winds and moonlight’s ghosts.
Bend the moment upon me.
Steer my heart to mend my soul.
Force the truth to boldly stand that I may feel its hold.
What of this hate enflamed in cause that steals the youth from ancient lives?
What merciless torture waits beyond the face of hatred’s eyes?
I stand in solidarity, but frozen to this day remain.
Can I not move to change the fabric of what this hatred’s lain?
Are words in rage and anger torn upon this page enough?
Is something deep within this well rising ‘gainst the rough
and calloused turn of man that through his selfish rage is born?
Is there nothing here to stem this growth of ancient hatred sworn?
My God! My God! What is this hell that from this heaven’s shore is breached?
Can love return upon the soil where blood was spilled, by God beseeched?
No faith I’ve lost, believe me, but how I can stand still
when through the acts of cowardice we’re forced another bitter pill?
Love, I cry, it’s love say I, that stems the hatred left in wake,
but seems to drift to hollow halls that such these shadows make.
So I pray… for peace,
for some greater understanding,
for hope of resurrection born from all our souls, demanding.
It calls me…
Finely focused mid-day autumn sonnet pulling deep from in my stuttered silence. Haunting me in summer’s wake, diffused, yet burnished real, to form the present in the musk of its decay.
It calls me…
The road beckons, “Follow”. Weary bones seduced, surrender to the calling of horizon’s haze. I feel Georgia. Georgia in June! A far cry from the wintered edge of this Rocky Mountain aspen glen.
What purpose does this longing hold? What ravels ‘tween the whispers sold? That from this alpine meadow’s gape I press the long thin lines, escape?
It calls me…
Leaves me sore in wanton’s trust, leaves me drunk in wanderlust but aye, alas have neither means nor hope. November holds me now, above the nearly frozen rill that spills my dreams across this day, this anxious blue of day.
It calls me…
In slowing hands I raise surrender unto the rush of changing time, where every moment’s broken half defies me what is left of mine. I struggle twixt the foreign marks where chance to write seems barely there, for as they pass me by in space, accelerate with little care till suddenly months have passed…
The ink has dried the nib to stone, the well seems cold and deathly deep, no sudden burst of energy stems from any thought I grant or keep. The echoes haunt my stifled breath with whispers of my own design. The reaping of the torn page left to rot in dreams enflamed, benign.
Familiarly unfamiliar, the chill of distance culls my bone, to chance, to once remember the promise that is mine alone. My knuckles strain in horror through the pain that bends the pen to might, dowses deep the nib to blood of depths through fleeting wells of night. The page relents unwarily of the tragedy arcs of ink inscribe until the exclamation point drags fabric’s last resistant cry to rend the mad derision whole, flood the ebbing’s wild tide, release these pent up anxious lines through coursers dream and fleshy pride!
Yet so the distance broken, the stuttered thoughts unfold to gain a simple course, a token of the moments lost and dreams once slain, that now the pen in fervor may break its arc in strengthened tone, now the ink regained in trust will follow what’s inscribed in stone, and here my muse ignites its lust, here my dreams breathe new, here I stand one fleeting spot of time in portrait new.
As I stand above the mess of ink, above the fragile thought, I turn to hope tomorrow’s break, will land me in this moment caught, and not deny to fleeting time, not relent to days succumbed, but find the gentle prose of spirit and with it bring my dreams in sum.
There is a gap between the hours where precious hopes drift off to die. There is a moment’s silenced breath that stands to guard each question why that utters from the lips of time, when stalled its children slip there, so stays the pennant shield to chance and beckons home each thought in care.