Category Archives: poem

Glimpses

I mix about and silhouette
with spices, airs and colors.
It is jumbled, though – my palette-
perhaps wearisome for others.

I may pepper paste with sweetness,
or sing a trill with sadness.
I may paint beyond the lines in bluish green
with tawny shadows of unrest.

The smooth appearance of the grain
slightly roughens under touch,
the textured shelter between petals
holds me in, a friction clutch.

The seasoning of salt and lure
with sounds that twinge with grace
is who I was, and am to be
in glimpses I embrace.

Advertisements

Gathered

The grey blue sky sits somber
till the sun arrives, pink glint and shine
off buildings -faces in the darkened
canopy revealed as blossoms in bouquets.

The stack of bricks sit solid
till the men decide, with sweat and mortar
placing them in preset order – line
structures built to demarcate.

The words I hear ring silent
till the light resides, with spur and purpose
on their ebbing rule and tide – a dawn
A gath’ring of brush come late.

Prima(l)

From 2015…..

^#^#^#^#^#^#^#^

They wander, and yonder they go in the dark
with glow sticks, beyond
them the moonlight, and barks
the taffeta, heavy-set makeup and screams-
the night of the beggar, of horrors and dreams.

The rustle of paper, the rattle of chains-
Billy and Molly fight over the brains.
The princess and pirate, too shy to speak up
the conjuring words while Dad just drinks up.

A drop in the bucket-a thump in the night
the blood of the ghoulish departed from sight.
The clown with the paste face, the witch all in black
the ogres and goblins all stomp and attack.

The flapping of ravens, the quiet of stares
at once-a-year play acting- acute and with scares.
Then beating the pavement and swarming the lawns
the tidal rush crushes, and then they are gone.
All manner of monsters and bold super-kids
Just listen for drumbeats, like Gene Krupa did.

*************
Soundtrack prior to writing/reading this poem: Sing, Sing, Sing.

Eulogy in a Far Away Place

From so far away, your voice – though faint-
gave us canvas and light and dimensions.
We painted the universe with your eyes.
The perspective of an otherworldly
sea and sky. Horizons that you crossed,
plummeting into an eternity of single things
and ingredients of worlds.

And even though you were created
for grandness,
you were destined for sacrifice
just as the universe designs.

How a star flickers its light, then disappears
and the silence in the darkness
leaves us cold, longing for a reemergence
of belief.

How a wave ends its course
at crest, then breaks ashore
to ebb and rest for just moment
before falling away.

How the autumn gold rushes
into view, then descends –
leaving a matte of color and
texture that reminds us
of the beginning.

Crux

As hills become mountains and the lakes lead to streams,
then writing this poem is more like a scheme
to capture them both-though it seems in excess-
The climb and the ascent to narrowed obsess.
Shunning all reason of what comes to rest
on cliffs or near jetties in scenes I know best.
A beauty there waiting in sunlit repose,
her eyes slightly dimmed,as she dreams – I suppose.
And there at each waypost she lingers ahead
culling the scenery I’ve conquered and bred.
And where I go next is of no end, this I know.
She’ll be in the heights or the river below.

Glow

When I’ve lit a warming fire,
the blooming flames go licking higher
engulfing piled up timbers-
In oak and cherry cinder
new sparks,a hope engendered.

The crackling bite from fibres bound
now torn, fragmented in a sound-
pulled apart from stable lengths
betraying links and bonds and strength
new sparks,a hope engendered.

And after time, the flames reside
awaiting what I can provide,
More lumber on the bed of coals
feeding hungry, lonely souls-
new sparks, a hope engendered.

And after flickers fade to glows
and darkness settles, fills and stows
it’s bundles in the cloaking night
ever silent, there alight
new sparks, a hope engendered.

Swept up (Cento)

Negation, all fulfilled desire
gold with a heart of cinder.

Everything suggests something else.

When the weeds sprawl
it is not what you think.

The dust motes float
and swerve in the sunbeam
because I say we rather than they;

They change the color of your dream:
We is whiplash
and backhanded ways of settling grief.

Very present like a dark poem,
far and unreadable just out
at the edge of this poem floating.

And it is this rocking back and forth

to take in to sate the mouths

of humid heavy air and the wing music
of bees and flies.
Only, of course, they can’t sustain the part.
Tomorrow waits with a big broom.

**************

This Cento contains lines from the following poets:

Shirley Geok-Lin Lim, Robert Frost, AF Moritz, Muna Lee, Carl Sandburg, Karen Volkman, Lee Herrick, WS Graham, Susan Donnelly, Alison C Rollins, Ha Jin, Jean Garrigue, Jacob Saenz