Swallows soar low as the raindrops fall
mere inches above ripple and sight
Escape with their tails skimming the dew
the cuts left never abandon their flight.
Fatigued after walking rocky trails steep
We return to the sand patch ‘round the fire
Noisy laughter quiets, and I hear no longer—
naught but the crackling of sparks as they rise,
lifting into the sky where they are replaced by
the constellations that play our unending Lullaby
Expands our horizon minute to minute, hour by hour
Follow the sky’s countdown to our moment of departure
Underneath the same stretch of black, yet we each see
the patterns above us from such different starting points
and their Ends; A moment stands— the evening long advances
Exist there a close to any song? Perhaps the clouds shall
shroud our guiding lanterns, or the wind extinguish our sight;
but although the stars may hide— dawn’s coming restores merriment
To some it be alas, to others a-hoorah,
But the Time is now, and our paths pause,
hiccup,
breathe--
where the birdies sing.
Thus we strap on pristine boots for our next destinations
And I leave, pack on back, trodding the after road
With our stars still in my eyes.
Now Greyscale
Now greyscale is the shade of clouds o’er light obscuring the colors of horizon in sight the rays once spread focused on solely a spot from whence no wrong can be differed from right. Whilst sodden down minds and beaten hearts lay they sway in the light wind of day no psalms, no thoughts, no exchanges to pay Yet a sorrowful cry that whittles so slow that flakes of gold and white bud have no-say and leave body and heart with nary a way to bring back their laurels and chorus for the grey tied in-side hath naught more-- And dreams are filled with memories so few Paintings of gold that have lost their hue Feathers ruffle and wave, ride low under leaf Black wings and dry nest bring arms take siege but scattered reflections do not shelter make. The wind blows; but there is naught left to take cry they who mimic hath all still to do. Nary are the words, passionate in meaning A heightened gale, an open sail; free?-- no, but knotted and thus the white and the black are cloaked from seeing. They that have become nothing but wisps of dull smoke slip silent through our yearning fingers and memories of cold and dark are all the mind doth bespoke. The details fade away one by one left an empty frame for life itself is grey until the right comes along and gives it a brand-new hue, never the past same; But that day is rare, whilst the usual: It is only an illusion, a self-constructed delusion Created by hope; they deny, but Hope is forever greyscale and her companion, Regret, is just-- there-- wavering steam until the day passes and her eyes gleam from behind offering a deep sigh with a gaze lost yet focused a lonely figure among the wildflowers; she cries a Visit to a place with genesis long before the heavens’ seam burned cold and blue hands brush away the mist to kiss the early dew Ears turned to the twittering of the cloak’d paroquets They muse of a tired existence in a language no longer decipherable to the mind as twisted as the vines of penance wrapped around your hands The water sings--oh!-- everything is singing but his voice is hoarse and the melody a little-- just the slightest- bitter The faintest fragrance, so light that it ought not have been smelled remains.
Attempting Chinese Calligraphy with one of my own poems!
Underwing
Even on the whitest of creatures
the shadows underwing are tinted
with the vibrancy of the sky above
and the colors below their flight.
Even within the defined geometry of pillars and panes
the wings of that creature are curved
along the limitless lines of the sky above
and the webbing of all that below.
Green Leaves Are Autumn’s Child
Green leaves are Autumn’s child
All voices speak false in description
for fall is made not of a simple change of shade
but the stripping of the identity of spring
the thinning of their hollow veins
the draining of their defining blush;
Yet the praise falls upon the leftovers-
the remaining reds,
and oranges, and
yellows
And says they are finally beautiful.
A little brown chicken
A little brown chicken picks up some feathers
in her beak, left behind by peacock grand
and arranges them, so carefully, among her own
So now may she glisten with the greens,
and blues, and violets
of the bird known for his beauty and regality and ambition
She struts and totes her new coat a-round
Have you walked the imprints of a peacock? For there is
something about the height of your beak, and the
volume of your song, and the pace of your steps--
and she does know the footsteps.
Yet when alone, in dark and unseen, she undoes her -do
and is still a chicken.
Tonight we’ll dine beside the light
Tonight we'll dine beside the light and divvy up our plates
Together with glee set life aside locked deep in weekday's case
We'll eat our mains, and salads too, perhaps some fruit and drink
We'll talk a bit, and chat some more, leave none alone to think
And music plays and sings hello to the laughs we use for crutch
And when it turns to eve of day unlock our heavy box
Clean up our things, and go to bed, then wake with Monday thoughts
But savior be the plans we make to meet in one week's time
So now we'll keep ourselves afloat in wait of cycled prime.
Empty Desk
A desk decorated bare but for a sea-green glass vase
filled with the two shiny stems of immortal flowers
and, sitting near, a small bottle of flower scented perfume.
Thus the flowers may live a day more
whilst the room remains.
On Some Roads
In the junction connecting the city with the meadows grows a grove of thin silver birches of average heights And in the gaps between three sister trunks the cynosure lie unsullied a fork and two paths reaching out of sights One brimmed with rosy birdsong and amber flicker And the other bathed in frosty mist and lulling whisper Thus either ought be gracious in choice of selection, and I Will choose that path for now, my moiety sole On some roads the ground is flat and bare on others only boulders and soaked mud are found But behind me the trails are closing; the trees cloaking Verdict own between the blooms dotted among tall verdure And the umbrage of lofted branches and their skylit foliage At some points of divergence is a stone bench at others only the voices of forest beasts are heard But behind me the green has turned to lonely merse Drown with refreshing abundance through crashing swells or in thirst wither along with the rising curtains of hot air Feathers of aurora seem to conflate to a lit beacon as the draft settles and loses its defining moisture At last, do I descry the end? From this post I turn, regard— There lies not the path whence I arrived, or perhaps it lingers amongst the hundreds of paths all leading to where I stand; trifled the passing choices— they would merge into one.
I Know Not the Owner of this Lantern
I know not the owner of this lantern,
nor the destination of the flame a-flicker
I know not why I follow it; be it warmth or light
if my pursuit is abandoned I possess neither
a crutch to guide against the tangled roots at my feet
nor a hand to brush away the dangling moss a-head
Let the lamp abandon me here and bid farewell
Shall I be found red-lettered, in the crossing
of an Archimedal globe mundane as
dashed lines flash on surface flesh
Thus I hang. An arched heel, toe, and I
touch the ground below no further,
my tips of hair brushing only air.
RGS Journal 