Tag Archives: Pondering

November 11, 2013 · 6:27 am

Bend the Ether

Bend the ether, twill the steam and stitch your heart in every seam. Knot the nets that catch the death of those you’ve loved and now have left.

What is this temporal lashing’s crack that splits the air and heaven’s back? What is this frozen moment’s tome that steals your once last hope for home?

Frozen ropes and clinging ice do not your selfish heart disguise. Tho’ penance may you claim for pride, your lacking truth will ne’er deride the hatred that you held in fist, that killed him cold when called her, his.

Tears of brother’s death are not what grant you hope through what you’ve wrought. But only by your soul’s disdain shall ever spare the one you’ve slain! Your brother’s sword, his lover’s scent, through jealous hatred, hell you’ve rent upon the last one standing! You! That in this moment’s penance true will bury all your fledgling hope and leave you with just pain to cope with memories of the love you’ve wronged, of death no poem or sorrowed song could ever quite endure. So this your love and penance pure.

Wield the casting’s iron black, stoke the fire’s ashen slack that so restores the burning hell where lost your dreams now scream and wail! Pray to God through thick remorse that tears so streamed will open doors and grant you one last chance to claim forgiveness from those souls so slain.

Written in reflection of the story of Rodrigo Mendoza, who murdered his brother, Felipe, out of pure rage when he was found with Rodrigo’s fiancée.

Fickle love and fickle fate in paying such a penance.

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October 29, 2013 · 4:01 am

Autumn’s Fleeting

At winter’s window sash stand I,
freezing drizzle stones the sky
and I in part can’t conjure why the snow won’t fall to ground.

The field beyond the fence holds fast,
betrayed by dew drop’s silver cast
to shimmer hard and still like glass with no imagined sound.

The muddied lane sparks tire ruts
to frosted edge that hides the cuts
where deep the season’s rain still guts the whole of mud’s warm keeping.

But if the night freeze find them there,
will draw them closed as if to spare
there fallowed hearts from crisping air and keep for daylight’s seeping.

At window’s ledge and winter’s stand
I pause to gaze across the land,
tender warm my cup in hand and witness autumn’s fleeting…

… another winter’s start, repeating.

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October 23, 2013 · 2:56 pm

The Arc

Spun between two points in time,
vectors balanced to purposed end,
hold truth to chords of life once struck,
and reach to ancient hands does lend.

Therein lies the arc of present
stretched in frozen moment’s flux,
whereby decisions roll the view
to what we witness, what we trust.

Amidst the ether, frozen there,
the works of man and nature framed
in temporal need and thoughts of God,
summed in living’s passioned flame.

The arcs of all free willed in living
do stitch a common temporal fabric,
that pulls, as gravity, twixt motioned arcs,
to influence “now” to peace, or tragic.
There are no failings of interaction
for influence is a duty, thus
enhance those close to see the truth,
share the witness, share the trust.

Peace, compassion in calmness lay
where flux amidst the ether stands
to give a grip to hopeful point,
to shape tomorrow by merit’s hands.

In every moment’s fractioned fraction,
points of choice give rise to lend
every soul a chance to change
the path to future’s arc, and bend
the fabric to a peaceful state,
smooth the wrinkles, soften lines,
there change the world to what we choose,
stretch the hope beyond our time…

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September 15, 2013 · 10:27 pm

Crossroads

Bound to crossroads tie where soul stands strong to go awry,
I find my missing person.
Lifted to one glimpse of you, I duck to hide the view,
deny this moment’s bought incursion.

I look beyond the epitaph that’s carved upon my head.
I see the scrolling dust entreat the road’s long line of thread.

Held to witless smile, wherein my peace remains a while,
I hope forgiveness granted.
Stoked from leeward ways of hell, I hear the knolling bell
foretell of all the pain there planted.

I squint against the razor’d sun that beads the sweat in dread.
I curse below my breath a prayer, entrust to Gabriel’s stead.

Drifted here alone, resulting from the life I’ve known,
I count out what is due.
Pained to bargain past the hack, I turn to see the black
regress through all the lies there true.

I count the locusts’ humming thrums that beckon summer’s dead.
I squeeze my aching heart’s parlay of lying back in bed.

Bought, the coursers fly! Amidst an ebb of dust stormed high,
I cast the prayer free.
Stilled to crossroads tying grit, I scold this honest bit
that brought this moment back to me.

I memorize the epitaph that’s carved from what I’ve said.
I hear my footsteps toil against the first push back to red.

So mark the sun, the road, the dust.
So count the hell in all of us.
So paid the price of what was mine.
So freed to follow this life’s line.

So my soul here granted.

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September 10, 2013 · 10:35 pm

September Rain

September rain in tepid dance
blessed to light on summer’s earth,
beckons season’s darkened green to
whisper death or call to birth.

Impassioned tender notes in falling
stroke “sensuous” in every chord,
as gently sings the rain in chorus
speaking love without a word.

This cooling dance, so much to gain,
granted autumn’s shy first blush,
relieved in subtle drops of rain
draws summer’s quiet sweetest hush.

In transit, life at season’s edge
is shaped in green and golden hues,
colored deep in heavy sky,
claimed in silent greys and blues.

Amber rays peak long and low
across the tender countryside,
held to rails in shimmered glow,
graced through gentle hills I ride

Silvered low and rolling mists
fold the raindrop’s dew to run
across my perfect pictured view,
there bring the scene to perfect sum.

Too soon to station platform left
alone in autumn’s gentle letting,
holds me fast in shelter’s lea
that if I leave might grant regretting
September’s rain and summer’s grief
in show before my eyes.
So a simple seat I find
to wait for some reprise…

Soon I’ll start the path to home,
soon I’ll turn away,
with season’s grateful heart my own,
September’s rain this summer’s day.

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September 9, 2013 · 12:06 am

Embroidered Soul

Every moment’s living
pull’s a thin red thread of time,
unraveling temporal precepts,
stitching worldly mind.

Embroidered concepts fall away,
their threads drop to the floor,
imaged history just remains
in stains once stitched before.

Collective soul is fabric stretched
across the living span,
tensioned smart by good hearts there
and held by loving hands.

The tapestry, taut, is ours to fill,
ours to so design,
to color by our soul’s sweet purpose
and stitch in finest lines.

Yet blunder we, in stab or two,
tie a knot where none was due,
prick a spirit’s finger there
hope forgiveness grants repair.

But loving souls in holding taut
the fabric of our lives,
do guide the pattern’s tender care
if we, with open eyes
move on toward dreams with love,
move on beyond the fear –
trust in truth the needle’s dance
will grant good stitching here.

On walls in heaven’s quarters hang
the fabrics of our lives,
meant to show our purposed soul
embroidered by the dreams we try.

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September 6, 2013 · 4:00 pm

Book and Tree

Golden_Pond

Beneath this giant’s green relief
the best adventure shown,
between the covers of books untold
are truths of life so few have known.

With aroma of a warm elixir
mixed throughout the pages,
here spin the spirit fat
and mix such with the stuff of sages.

Breezes top the canopy
above this place in time beholding,
treasures of the grandest sort,
stories read and poems here spoken.

No time holds fast the element
by which this purposed moment’s dealt,
so in reveals eternity,
in timelessness and color felt
between the musty pages
wherein so many hearts have thrilled,
or swooned in love to spoken words
and thereupon such goose bumps chilled.

So deep within a moment’s honey
run sweet the blessings of book and tree,
beneath a giant, green yet sunny,
wherein my stories’ told for me…

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August 28, 2013 · 3:43 am

Elena

Heart between the keys expressed
as elegant hands and fingers rest
among the ebon and ivory stays.
Soul released and softly dressed,
that through the music all’s confessed
and to the ether Elena plays.

The sheet before her longs her eye,
yields to her in black and white
yet dreams adagio dreams of bliss.
So folds a chord across the time,
fermata graced beyond the rhyme,
each note a sensual kiss.

The keys in pensive motions bend
to catch the passion her fingers lend
to every subtle stroke of heart.
Each note in reverberation rolls
and carries captive with her soul
the tender love in every part.

She knows no hesitation,
her elegance dressed in no disguise.
She plays her inspiration
and shares her heart through sweet reprise –
and so Elena plays.

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August 28, 2013 · 2:12 am

This Silent Brook

Sit beside this silent brook
where time has claimed
two lovers’ flame.

Listen to the hush of trees
whose whispers calm
the past long gone.

Feel the passion’d moment stir
a silence in the air for her.
Hear two hearts in pounding quake
this very spot, this true love’s stake!

Scant the whispered grey rolls on
between the then and now.
Faint the temporal echoes ring
and to this present bow.

Sit and draw it in
till thin your question grows.
Trust your heart, have courage,
until it’s yours whose true love shows.

Hold this moment felt here,
keep it close to mind and heart.
Grasp this time, this present,
and to the temporal so impart
your love…

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August 13, 2013 · 3:47 am

A Poet’s Ride (aka the Penny Horse)

What sets the place of commas
as from this fluent pen does fall?
What strokes the pause in thinking?
What dries the ink past question’s call?

Who pokes the sudden image
into the static matter, grey?
Who sets the syllables in line there,
before the truth, as hand paints lay?

Who feeds the silent horses
in wait to craft an image dear?
What stands the milk to crème
that brings the poet’s thoughts to clear?

When is that time for writing
where eyes watch hand take pen to task?
What time is it when landing ink
colorfully paints a recalled past?

How can it be these diverse things
call summing into moment’s hold,
that in one fractioned second spin
scant letters into gold?

Who is the muse of ethos
that keeps the meter bound to clay,
so guides the subtle shaping of
the image felt and cast to lay?

Here are my moments stolen
when from my day my pen takes hand.
Here is the wild ride, in crafting
what I know not comes to band
the ether’d thoughts in floating,
the melding of what’s known, unknown,
the growing of a story
from the clips of life my past has shown.

I ride without a payment,
no penny here have I,
but cast my journey sacred
and never think to wonder why.

This is my blessing, this is my curse,
and tho’ I ride with empty purse
I feel the gift is gold!
… and selfishly I’ll return to ride
until I’m just too old.

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