10 minute poem

(For Robert & Juliette)

I must arise and go now
and go beyond the Pale,
and a small forest grow there,
a heart and mind remake.
And I shall have some ease there,
and peace to rest my limbs,
and she will wait upon the seas,
and walk on roots of birch and spruce.
And I shall call her on the wind,
like gull and hawk in sun.

I must clear out this festering way
and take a mountain step
across the lake that’s shaped my view,
and bid my drive farewell.
When oft I rest in thrall of moon,
and bless the hour that’s struck,
you’ll see me stride among the stars
‘mid leaves that paint a life sublime.
I’ll draw my warmth from a fire she’ll set,
and crack a bottle of wine.


Note: This poem was originally composed in 10 minutes – while being recited into my iphone. It took a lot longer than that to knock into this shape.

The thrush has gone away 

The thrush has gone away.

At the very least, the brown wings

have not returned

to weigh down on the branch of the blossom tree.

The rose that rambles over the trellis

is abandoned 

and vulnerable to the vagaries of wind.

At least when the feeding mother lets her weight

bear down on the thorns

there is some stability,

some attention holding the structure.

This may not be a heavy hand, or even a reliable hand,

but it’s like a listening ear, an attentive embrace of the neck,

a something that relieves the waving flowers

of having to stand on their own.

It doesn’t have to be that thrush,

a wagtail caress would be sufficient comfort

to remind my rose

it is never truly alone.

Poetry: “We played hide-and-seek on holidays”

I would close my eyes at evening,
the breeze would slip away
to another appointment.

I would count the lights go down,
cover my head from stars,
let the moon keep watch.

I would draw back shutters at dawn,
go search for the wind

A mosaic of pale stone
ferociously pushing heat into my face,
a frog fixed in the pond with fierce eyeballs.

I would look behind corners of brilliant white
across luscious grass blades, erect, unmoving,
plumbago petals still under cork oaks,

palms hanging arced in the oven.
I would look and look,
until both eyelids would give in,

and call out to the wind:
You have won, Unfound One
You are master of this game.

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