Thursday, February 28, 2013

On the Hill

Sunflower and friend . . . in France

the wind blew and
the branches with their clusters
of wet leaves
slapped my face . . .
rubbing their hairy undersides,
wet with fallen rain,
along my cheeks . .
stemming my voice with
dirty green;
I sensed annoyance
in their language . ..
the dripping of the woods . .
was hollow
as rivers melted  into the mosses
and rotten logs . .
every child of the undergrowth
slithered and chirped . .
winged icons fluttered where branches bent
as landing stages . ..
and the shadows so dark and heavy,
like fanged mouths of caves snarling. . .
gnarled roots crawled up through the loam
laying traps through this old avenue . . .
slicked with mud
drooling with the congealing blood of the wilderness  . . .
plastering my soles with wild lava

cold and tempered . .  slippery with birth . .
I flew through these woods . . 
my grief so unavenged,
yet like a greasy arrow
straight through my heart
branding its way through those barrens . . .

a frail vine
lifting boulders
succoring me with its fruits . . .
I dreamed, as I ran,
of voices calling . .. barren trees
and spirits of the ancients . .  
a balm of honey . . . golden in purity,
a shelter in the storm,
a twinkle of laughter;
my steps take me to the top of the hill,
the heights above the forest . . 
a rainbow's end from the city;
the storm having danced away,
finds a home across the mountains
and I find the stars blooming
across a velvety sky . . 

Some music for your enjoyment:

Monday, February 25, 2013

The Watcher

Window in Strasbourg, France

He makes music
in the dark,
his heart beats
to the rhythm of the moon
. . . its expressive face
lighting up his life
as he goes - -
the old farm hand
lost in the winter
with his cart
full of offal
dispensing castoffs . .
his weary frame
bends to retrieve
another treasure,
like gifts gleaming
in the darkness
as he guides his cart
over a crumpled road
. . . the sound
of music rises to
the stars
carrying his lonely tears
in the night
. . . like a wayward sigh. . .
the tinkle of trash
well received
by this who listen . .

In the morning
before the sun arises,
the souls of geese
. . . honking
in the inky stillness;
pools of darkness
bloom around the sliver
of a moon,
and I wish I were
the white moth
rising through the
dewy air
reaching for the apex
of the moon
where fluttery
kisses will wake
his sleepy eye . .
and the cheer-up
morning song
of robins
echo in the sunrise . . . beckon
angels to tread
through wisps of breezes

I see you as you
walk towards me
your silhouette as black
as a hole in existence . .
The steam from your breath
rises to meet
the mist from the melting frost
rising like ghosts
to dance before the low
winter sun .. . .

White wolf
dreams in the shadows
of times long past
before the bite
of metal
and barriers
to her passing . . . 
her golden eyes
to lighten the world
and her breath smokes
through cherry blossom
the sun setting the
mists aglow
the flames touching
the cheeks
of the watcher . ..