Espial

I find that beauty walks along
the pathway paved with grit and stone
hovering with each stride.
Moved with light, so to prevail
above the fragments, dirt and shale-
a footfall in each instance, hails
her balance undenied.

And as I watch her sunlight glow,
her poise and pace, from head to toe,
where she walks and ploys-
I am drawn with nothing said,
no words to compensate ahead
and on the pathway, I am lead
in muses lame and coy.

So watching beauty, as she spies
her lover in the western skies
fade just out of sight,
I wander in the settling dun,
scuffling, as I ramble on
and wonder then, without the sun
if beauty rules the night.

A new song

I’m sorry, I don’t have a poem today
the fairy-dust magic will not have it’s way.
The dawning is fell
and I don’t take it well
when barbarized don’t cultivate.

I’m sorry, I can’t have a poem today,
the trampled impatiens are flattened and splayed
from steps that were cold-
no words take ahold
to mend it, describe or portray.

I’m sorry, I won’t have a poem today,
the world is too quiet, and I’m led astray
to ponder the pain
of our powerless reign,
while the children go outside and play.

I’m sorry, I shan’t have a poem today
it’s broken and crying, I can’t make it sway.
Perhaps on the morrow
a finch or a sparrow
will sing a new song and allay.

purpose

I stood among you all,
at the edge of the wood,

a place of curiosity, felled
by absentminded fates.

So meant for heartier work
to weep away the runoff – dissent,

the wet and grime that infiltrates
the ground, I’m to abet

and keep your floor unfettered
from labor, a hollow sweep.

Explored and secreted with man’s lust
and beauty, pages turned and creased by hand.

Housing your scoundrel kin,
a respite from the elements, secure

yet open to view the sun
and neighboring vines, their vow unspoken.

And now, the years have culled me in
and I’ve become a part, somehow,

of green and life, of hope and fate
a place of refuge, I have been.

**********
#summerofprompts

I wrote this in response to poet Mary Biddinger’s recent prompt on Twitter, to write a nature poem from a non-human point of view… This is a combination of a nature poem with a childhood memory of a place in a nearby woods from my home.

answer

there is no answer
only trees with spindled branches
that vanish in the beauty of the green

and trails that wander off
behind the distant hillsides, pastoral scenes.

no remedy – with wind between
the spruce’s fingerlings
since moved along to coastal shores and things.

no antiphon in plummeting
in ocean depths – it’s just serene
and emptied of all guff
and echo that there’s ever been.

no pleas as silent offerings proceed
to culminating crests, and heights convened.

and this, the peace of things
that is to be –
the answers all in all, are unforeseen.

chalk

I use chalk to smudge the lines a bit
and shade the parts where I don’t feel I fit.

Fermatas placed to hold the chords in time
while I dance around cadenzas dipped in rhyme.

I’d rather stare and watch the sun in parallax,
circumventing pain and disappointment – that’s the fact.

Beauty walks, and moves, and sings in form
and transits over paths that I have worn,

shows indifference to my charm- my soul in kind
and I have nothing left save yearning in my mind.

And these, the words of someone sacrificed
to life and how I bleed on paper, less precise.

To stand and sing of resignation, it is mine,
and using chalk can smudge and blur the line.

lagniappe

Because mornings emerge from misty bayous
and moss that hangs and touches the sky-
a reflection in glass.
Because the thickness in the air wraps
the sunlight and holds it close.
The moments are a drawl, and a legacy of
stillness waits-
it waits between each drawing breath,
lingers between each morning glory
and rain lily-
a sweet kiss from a drowsy boo
and its momentary entanglements.
Even before the first note sounds
the blues, there is beauty conjured in the
slim to none spell-
and it is some kind of wonderful,too.

a foothold in the daisies

The clouds are just now learning how to speak.
There’s a foothold in the daisies,
and a slow descent of water from the creek
The sun is rising amber, slow and weak.

The melody of morning turns
it’s ear upon the repeat cooing dove
and smells of honeysuckle
wafted in from somewhere down the grove.

A single tuft of flowers out among
the complete scene of hurried traffic,
other places here and in-between-
a foothold in the daisies –
a shared embrace,
devotion to a yellow speck in space.

And safe return to where began this whole mystique,
and I am learning -just now- how to speak.