The Voices in the Night

Chihuly's Garden and Glass in Seattle 2014

 I stepped out into the deck

                                 at night

                            the stars were sprinkled

across that black sheet
        above my head                                            

      in familiar patterns,

                                  small lights bright,

       friendly faces beaming down. . .

so close                                                  

                                 I felt I could rearrange them

with a flick of my fingers . . . 

 The crickets were singing                            

      each voice a member of the choir

                      one in particular, an alto,

crying out over and over. . . . "poor Pete,
poor Pete. . . "

          their cheeky voices

                           thick with hope

some little ones          

                    pausing for the cause

like bits of percussion weaving in and out

                                                              with an occasional fanfare. . . 

A breeze raked her cool fingers

                         through the branches of the

trees -                  
                         bright at their tips

                     where they caught the rays

of the moon - 
                                                                   or the streetlamps . . .

       In the distances all around

                                                          were multitudes of voices,

               people laughing,

talking,

              music playing on some

                                                       odd radios,

like memories . . .

                                                              my yard echoes

                        the night

with the sounds of the city                        

          like a basin

catching raindrops

                        . . . . . . . or tears

and reminding me

                                                         with a whisper

that I am not

                                         alone. . .

                                                    . . . . no

                       . . . not ever!             

***********************************
(Written last night)

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

(I found this little poem tucked away . . . without knowing its history

. . . I can only vaguely remember the feeling . . . the stars have always

amazed me . .. they give me wings, strength and a strange sense of being

one of them . .  immense . .  yet small - )

 

I gazed with open mouth
at the night sky
the stars are thick and bright . .
there is an endlessness
an eternal peace
in looking though time
trying to find the middle . ..

they told me that being alone in the night
not sleeping
not flying into the dreams of the restful places

will make me tired in the day
and I will fall
down the mountain . ..

but instead I floated away . .  

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

Woe!

Be not afraid to fight
that old demon Woe
for though he chases
the birds on wing
he can easily be laid low . . 
           his wounds are deep,
reflecting faintly
of lost stars, 
             liquid 
                    and languid in
muddy waters . . 
               where dreams expire
as drowning swimmers' 
leaden arms refuse
               to fly . . 
yet longing to follow the butterflies of Summer,
watching eyes stung by their
             brilliant dress
    tattered
       by Autumn storms
thin wings
                  fluttering wearily
though bright colors 
                displaced by the harsh drops 
     of rain
          or tears,
remain
as battle scars. . . .
                                . . ..  your rainbow is too exhausted
                             to climb those busy roads
so you live in the grey,
             . . . dusky world where
                                    your long dark shadows
                      embrace you
and ancient dusty spider webs
                entrap you, wrap you greedily . . 
your beloved
grief rebukes 
                 and paralyses your heart . . .
yet the gate closed to
             your reprieve
                          remains unlocked
and on the side where shadows seem to grow
                          the sun rejoices
                                         waiting for you . . 
turn around .  . 
          and open your eyes . ..  let your heart inhale
step forward and touch the frame of strength . . .
walk
fly

the stolen breezes
kiss my face
with the scent
of new baked bread . . . 
and the small bright flowers
cuddled in the glowing green grass
kiss my toes
with honeyed dew . . .

HeartBeat . . . Three Poems . . .

Three poems, unrefined . . . yet here they are in their boney state . .  stark and shadowy without the flesh to clothe their skeletons in bright colors . ..  I am uninspired and worn from life . . . but words lie deep in my breast, waiting to explode into flame . . . soon, very soon . . .
**************************************

a murmuration of birds
a bonding of the seen;
whereas the unseen
lost in oblivion
dance on the mighty tides . . .
the book of Earth
written so long ago . . .where
time is lost behind the veil;
and the echoes of a song
distant in the wild
once heard . . . familiar,
the melody of life
a mark, a score across the vivid nothing . . . yet
a scarlet leaf tumbles to the ground,
an impression of disaster,
the sound of sighing
and regrowth . . .

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

I would have loved you
if I ever knew you . . .
but you were the petal
in the wind . .
a moment's brush
against my cheek
a pink aroma drifting
into the sunset. . .
like a forlorn ash;
If I had but known
I
would have reached out my hand
to catch your bitter sting
of foam . . . trembling at the edge
of the tide . . .
the last wave receding
and leaving you behind . . .
to melt away
a mere shadow in the sand . .
I may
have cooled your fevered brow . .
or set a broken bone . ..
or knit together shredded flesh . . .
If only I had known
I would have gathered up your tears . . .
and planted them;
seeds of the tomorrows grown
and grow again . ..
all errors forgiven
all dreams evaporate. . .
midnight terrors . . .
wild horses cannot stand . .
the spot you see against that shapeless cloud
is but a bird
of mystery . . . I will forever ponder
why she could fly so free . . .
when I never knew her . . .
or ever heard her song . ..

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

My life is like the song of the drum
my heart is a pulse
from the time I swam in those salty seas
and where I became
and I still become
I walk through life
to the beat of that drum
My march is matched
by the thrum of my dreams
the color red
and the shush of the seas
water rushes
and leaves rustle
the wind sighs
and the moon lights
and bodies unite
to an inner cadence . . .
I am not alone in that solid beat . .
as I grow older
and that tempo slows down
I see an end
coming ever so near
and I know that my life
extended somewhere
with the beat of that drum
my spirit I hear
in my heart

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

Anxiety

A chain of events
like plastic rings
fragile and explosive
they break
under pressure . . .
a small wayward movement
a drift of the vehicle . . .
inattention
waiting for angels . . .
the mind sleeps
as the eyes glaze over 

Chaos

anxiety lives in the heart

where the churning

of dynamics

shreds the wing

of the butterfly

and caves of solitude

beneath the crumbling

mountain

remain unmoved

but what is cherished

in the face of change

is the power of

control

and who am I

to stand against the tide

to break the wave

to stanch the bleeding of the wind

to drop a fragile egg

    and watch it explode

There is death in

    the flower

as the beserker

      goes astray

black flies on her face

like tears

at the end of the race

no smiles

of joy . . . .

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

Must of been bleak that day I wrote this . . . sad mood !

Thinking . . .

The moon graces

      the ripples of the water                            

with new white lace,

              crisp yet dynamic,

brilliant, and reflective

                                     of the depths of creation . . .

a song floats up                                       

            from the bottom of that

well - - -

    to quench the thirst

                               of my raw cells . . .

I drink deeply of

          cool spring waters              . . .                   

my face feels happy

        while doors

                     are

help open

and I 

        can find a way to fly

to the empty house 

            on the hill . . .                

                   shadows filter

through the trees                                          

         like moths fluttering

against the darkness . . .

                               I am the star walker and

                                                              I touch these glints of light

             as if they were stepping stones

guiding me to the places where

                                 beauty

and love

           wash the souls of the damned

and the song of eternity

reverberates 

                                                             through the throbbing heart

                     of that which is;

             and that which was

                                                        gleams like a frozen dream 

       in the empty house

              on the hill .. . .

where memories, like dusty furniture,

                              populate the stillness

   and the stars glisten

                             with laughing eyes 

through un-curtained windows . .. .