The quiet bud in an unexplored wood
tentatively unfurled, graceful
restrained, but hungry
A button left open, suggestive
A lowered lash, hesitant
Sand between small clasping fingers
in the morning, irritating
Such a soft whisper, festering
barely heard; barely there
But present, as a territorial lord
ever-present, but not seen.
The thought persists, not germinated
Water lacking, perhaps,
alone in a forest of ideas
rooted in moss or anger or dreams
It seethes or gently stirs
as the current in a stream
or gutter
in daylight’s angled light.
Words pour, a catchment of language
impasto and ample
Lips roar from concepts uncontained
Applause dances over three adjoined words
alignment and deviance just threadbare
But sufficient and well-attended
by devotees and challengers of the moment
from swords to flesh strokes
Picnic oil in the air, summer’s music
Winter’s remaining swans, looking for ice fissures
and flying towards the sun, a burnt sienna
A cavernous troposphere of possibilities
Erupt. Flow. Burrow. Synthesize.
Fingers on the keyboard, notes on the bed stand
Incarcerated piles of words
Scrabble pieces and elder stones
reshuffled for correlations and parallels
Reemerge as one thought
One melody, an aria
Spotlighted and en pointe.
Fibonacci, villanelle, Pollocked
phrases and feelings
on paper. on paper. on paper.
A crisp, cold shard of new day
from pride’s indignation
Self-righteousness spilling
A current - Direct Retribution
The pride of grammar tweaking
editing mirrors and pundits
into a language unknown or overdone
Meat for the many, ignored by populations
of cell phoners, iGens, TV viewers
commercials and gimmicks
But - no Mozart
or padded footfalls on mossed rock
or gentle rain.
A razor blade of anger and expression
turn words inverted, translated
by critical liars and then lost…
And oh, the fifties – engendered
by a backwards view and a winter’s wall
Hostile pens and sharpened lines
Dress empty stars in crepe.
Dull scissors cut the cloth of thoughtful contemplation
Crosswords and cross words, irritations too often
blessed by sterile priests or rabbis
Knuckles tire pencils with broken graphite nubs
paint is cracked from airless rooms
Geriatric smells and rustling clothes
shuffling thoughts and feet, careful steps
porphyry deposits, deep, subduction zones
scrutinized for spark, and that fire.
Do poets die? Do words? Or thoughts of words?
A river of incandescent ash
lights the moment
Night and winter come, but an ember is seized
A lone comet splits a dark sky - division of stars
Leaves of wonder fall into a swirling eddy
and shimmer with spring rain or street music
A dance of words is the bicycle
A stormwing rising towards that distant
island, once pronounced independent
of autumn’s early frosts or rain-filled roads
The fire crackles and heat again warms the pages.
Compensation for the soul’s tender ache.
Wanderings and Reflections