How kindly does the oak embrace
her tender features sitting still,
held by iron wrought in place
as if so formed by true love’s will.
Her oak, her iron, manifest
a perch of sweet repose.
Beneath the elm she gently rests
to welcome hearts, to welcome those
so drawn in need of peace,
so called by shaded park side walk,
so pulled to cheat a moment’s tease
or sit in quiet day and talk.
She holds her stance through season’s sway
by summer’s shade or winter’s snow,
‘neath blooming skies or storming gray,
all pleasures of this park she knows.
How honest does this gentle bench
share the hearts who quietly come
to speak of love or hold a hand,
or simply draw the world in sum.
Each day I pass her quietly,
stroke her weathered wood in care,
nod to her politely
and recall the hands I once held there,
the eyes I fell in deeply,
the cooing of the ring neck doves,
the moments spent completely
in the whispered words of love.
She smiles upon me knowing
all the memories I so dearly hold,
that I with mine in showing
give our thanks to growing old…
Balanced o’er the snow white glade
a crescent moon defines the shade
where shadow’s silhouetted stretch
is cast from naked woods that fetch
the sharpest contrast on the white
in shades of blue by winter’s night,
so holds a truth in frost full air
as I in nipped nosed wonder stare
from edge of frozen rill and lea.
How oddly large this moons descends
as slightest arc of gold, transcends
the bitter bite of frost and cold,
denies the naked edge that holds
every living thing in pause
with steely frozen grip, so cause
to take a body back to home,
back to hearth and fire alone,
or back to nest in loving’s keep
where calm to peace and drift to sleep,
but in this slivered warmth I find
no want to leave this scene behind
so on the bank I stay to see.
Such stillness holds the wood in quiet,
that lowly heard, in subtle riot,
the speaking stream below my feet
decries its dreams in babbling sweet,
yet muffled ‘neath the winter’s ice,
still finds the heart to whisper twice
when ask again to please explain,
she hushes out the quiet same
and leaves me dreaming of the spring
where free to jump the banks and sing
beneath the warming sun,
yet frozen here her dreams do run
and here I’ve captured mine.
This lea, this meadow, this honest seam
stretched out across this night’s sweet dream
of frozen rill and diamond dust
of snowflake’s secret love, and trust
to give to crescent moon its spark
in pledge to color bright this dark
and frozen edge of winter’s night,
where from my perch I hold in sight
the elms in shadowed contrast still
that slow the moments by their will,
so stretch the night in lover’s swoon
retreating with the golden moon
behind horizon’s line.
This moment captured, this heart instilled
and with this winter night so filled
with every moment granted true
by silver moon and snow so blue.
Quiet here the moments furl
about my simple chair, reposed,
here where evening’s fire curls
blend hearth in liquid care, enclosed
by subtle hints of winter’s scent,
cookies baked, a few to take,
sweat wisp of smoke from fire stoked,
on mountaintop so juxtaposed.
Winter’s love in deepest mirth
beneath a snow white blanket swoons,
delivers sweet the season’s birth
bathed in blues of silver moon,
as snowflakes drift in subtle gift
and sparkle rare in moonlight’s care,
lend this peace a warm release
while midnight calls too soon.
Silent now the dying ember
stretches long this winter’s day,
lonely cabin, here deep in timber
where all my better angels play,
now dims the night in candle light,
cures the scent in tallow spent,
so draws a sigh from dog and I,
toward sleep we soon will stray.
In hesitation’s calm collection
I gather long my senses here,
of silhouetted woods reflection
‘cross the sparkled snow drifts near,
of ember’s glow and shadows low,
in flickered fight of candlelight,
of warmth that brings the kindest wings
to sleep and dreams so dear.
Amidst these tolling temporal bells
I pause to point’s reflection,
stir my ether’s constant frame
and search at length through recollection
of moments past the marker’s knot,
for pleasures granted and instilled,
for smiles brought of challenges
and what the strength of spirit willed.
Echoes gently flutter by,
stolen ‘neath a sacred tending
that holds each fixed to point in time
as if there stayed for mending.
But slowly in procession,
in recounting all the rights and wrongs,
entreat I each as specter’d witness,
relive I every moment gone.
What points of purpose rent here,
twixt ignorance and learning’s way?
What broken ties of prejudice
softened in compassion’s play?
What fits of anger cast to air
that quickly time did mend?
What tender moments loving shared
that through this life did sweetly blend?
By symphony’s silent sweeping roll
imbibe these portents of the year,
as sharing all their luscious steps
in bowed and curtseyed waltzing near.
Their smiles kindly greet me
as they pass in memories golden glow,
enrobed in holly season’s mirth
with winter’s rosy cheeks to show.
So I in temporal witness,
last station ‘tween the poles of years,
regard no hesitation in
tomorrow’s subtle unknown fears.
But at this point’s enlightenment
I gather wholly what I’ve known,
count each memory sacred,
blessed by what their dance has shown,
and what of me I’ve come to own
amidst the bells in tolling here.
Drawn across the Christmas sky,
balanced twixt the dusk and night,
pulled by day’s escaping west
and pushed by eve’s persistent might.
There, Oh Venus! Suspended grand,
single point to bathe the land
in subtle silver kisses set
atop the mountain’s silhouette.
Sinking o’er the village thatch
amidst the rose and blackness held,
draws the faces out to drown
in subtle sweetened lover’s spell.
Above her sits the slivered moon,
drunken shade of winter’s swoon
that bends his arc in lover’s hint,
so graces true the kindness lent.
Tis just for but a moment’s fade
that holds the winter’s fabric still,
etches memory and hopes across
the lifted eyes at every sill.
Venus, Oh my Venus dear!
Brilliant love so real, so near!
In you my heart and soul entwine
this winter’s beauty, this night divine.
Where do the angels’ shadows fall
when caught in heaven’s burgeoned call,
refrained from what their souls have lent
to those of us whose teardrops spent?
When does the crack of dawn deride
the hope of morning’s living tide
by lain expression of midnight’s scorn
that from beginning’s cry is torn?
Tis framed in moments left in night
where drifting souls denied what’s right,
tis bound to fragile hoping thus
that in the dawn new life is thrust
and therein bound forgiveness.
For held in such eternal hands
is love of life and love of man
that grants us each day’s start anew
regardless of the pain imbued.
Therein the stain of what we’ve left,
the edges softened and loss bereft,
that bends the ether’s loving sound
and drives us home to birthing ground.
Tis here amidst the flight and gain,
tis here the loving heart remains,
tis here deep in the desert’s well
we know the space twixt heaven’s hell,
and there we know what’s in us.
“Some other time”, hung tenderly,
as evening claimed the dusky lea,
yet sweet, her gentle voice did rend
a promise, emptied to defend
a hope that years might lose the key.
Yet stolen hope drifts sparingly
to dreams where time has set her free
or grant her lonely years to tend
some other time.
She walked along the ebbing sea
whose moonlit waves, in subtle plea
softly whispered in the blend,
‘neath silent stars whose embers mend
the hearts of those who flee
some other time.
Inspired by the musical composition “Some Other Time” by Michael Hoppe / Martin Tillman
I rise form lengthened moments’ bindings
where duty’s penance scolds me.
I rise to grapple pleasure’s windings
and pay with peace of mind for thee…
for thee, my pen, who counts as friend
my blotter’s adept taming,
who from your harshest scrawling rends
the truth without a shaming
pool of India’s shade.
Our subtle struggle finds it mark
between the rush of blood and haste,
that bends the quill to matters dark
imbibing in the frozen taste
that surety tinged with pallor,
that turned the wine from blood,
that wrote to claim heroic valor
of the throngs of dead left in the flood,
and there we acquiesce in trade.
O! Angels come to save this heart!
O! Come to turn this page!
Kindly cast a blessing’s start
that steals the sweetness from the rage
that slaves between the pen and pulp
suspended twixt my mind and hand!
O! Push the pride of pen to gulp
the essence of this dream so grand!
Please guide the wounded hidden proof!
At last the peace resounds in song.
At last the echo finds its mates.
Cut across the injured page
in long and sweetest strokes it states,
“Herein my soul in truth belongs
to what a moment’s freedom gains,
that passion for the perfect song
is sealed in treaty’s loving stains
and partnership of truth,
that from the wetted pen stems youth
and from the blotter age!”
A note beyond the alto’s range,
a secret passed but not the same
as what was so intended.
A thermal carrying eagles high
but falters short to bring them nigh
of what their souls expected.
A river flowing though the thaw
beneath the ice that holds its call
from ever being heard.
A sparrow dreaming of the flight
that brings his spirit to such heights,
yet such denied the bird.
These are the dreams I dream within
my captive spot and holding den,
and in such tease me more –
And so I watch from eyes that plead
to go beyond just what I need
before I reach that fateful shore –
A daisy on a mountain grown
amidst the granite so in sewn
and denied the earth to flourish there.
A salmon on her way to home
upon a rock by fate so strewn
and so denied her purposed care.
A full moon glimpsed behind the cloud,
so to the night is left in shroud,
so fails a night of love.
A heavy cloud without the rain
denies the summer’s parched hot plain
so presses heavy from above.
A hope, a glimpse beyond the now
that shines a light upon the “how”
a life anew might rise again.
A truth, that when it’s laid to rest
releases what is second best,
yet denies the strength to win.
It is these things I see in life
that paint the hope within the strife,
that hold the hands just out of reach,
that paint the colours through a bleach
of what is wanted most.
A hope, a dream, maybe a ghost –
or just what’s meant to be –
I pray to live enough to see…
Strained across November’s sky,
unbroken lines that haunt the sigh
of coursers’ wings in gentle hush
that to this barren day give rush
of blood to see them there.
Silver hints amongst the trees
where forest kneels to open lea
to hear the prattling golden grass,
hear each whispered breath sneak past
defined in winter’s care.
Tho’ burgeoning from November’s mood,
the cold and hollow bend the wood,
hold the stoic silence keen
where few a passerby are seen
and fewer yet remain.
That tho’ denied, the autumn’s musk
enchants the air from twig to husk,
mends the turn in hope decayed,
holds to season’s last breath played,
that by the winter gain
a promise for sweet spring’s reprise,
by still endurance and patient eye
may push a sprig through warmer duff,
mix the autumn’s scent with stuff
to bless life’s cycle spent…
fragrant blossom, fragrant scent…
Yet here today hold fast in hope
amidst this season’s depth, must cope
and through this pause remain.