A Single Tear

A single tear is a tender moment;

A serene sentiment sitting alone upon a cheek.

A single tear is the rhapsody of the heart to beauty;

An emotional connection to art; to music

To a long memory.

A single tear is joy given freely from the soul in relief;

In thankfulness for the breath of child; a loved one;

A soldier who is back home again.

Tears can come from bountiful laughter spilled in happiness;

Shared in ecstasy; or unleashed in uncontrolled cachinnation.

And then too, when spilling out in more than a single tear;

Shed in unremitting pain, falling like autumn leaves

Upon the old garden beds-

Those tears of burning pain

Flowing in countless ways and upon endless nights.

Those scorching tears that sear scars on the heart;

Those unquenchable bitter tears

are the tears of loss.

And when time finally reminds the heart

That life continues and that those tears

May become a cherish moment; or the precious memory

That will keep one company until the tears are done.

All Things Lost Are Found

What place is this that has no valleys,

no mountains, no space

No land,

No rivers, no oceans, no sky…

And never a need to ask why!

And yet, a place of peace with shores of crystal sands –

It has all these things

and much, much more.

There are no more days and the night never falls - yet, stars!

Stars, stars everywhere and so much more-

A place where all things lost are found

and we are here too!

No longer gone,

Nor longer lost,

No longer is there suffering; there is no pain.

And though it is bright and sunny, there is a refreshing rain

That glistens upon the yellow rose petals - like a child’s tear

Everyone is young, and everyone is old and yet,

everyone is the same-

No crippling hurts, no punishing weight to bear –

No anger, no regret, nothing more to beget.

All the birds sing in beautiful song and there can be no more wrong!

I am found in a place where all things once lost – are found.

Stand next to me now and hold my hand

And we will dine on life as we drink the wind.

Mourning Doves

Mourning Doves

Listen children, the mourning dove is cooing how love fears

That day has nearly lost the sun’s light behind the old trees

And, Mother is still out in the garden gathering yellow roses

As the hydrangeas have lost their blooms and winter nears.

She still looks for Father in the dimming twilight of the leas.

Listen, the white wolf calls out for the moon’s light

To show us the path back home before the griping cold

Sets a chill upon those old hands and stills the tender heart.

Hurry children – find Mother and bring her home before it is told

That the two lovers are together at last - for the long night.

December Marriage

While love can flitter around easily in April’s rain

Or in July - become hot and sizzle in longing pain

October’s passionate colors become flames of splendor

Yet, it is December’s marriage that grows most tender.

Winds

Winds

Outside the window there was fury

The trees torturing at their roots;

Flailing branches painted across the sky

Into a cauldron of grays, blacks, yellows and reds.

The wind's murmurs interrupted by the thunderous drum rolls;

Flashes of white light illuminating the fear that blinds

The virtuous and the sinful alike -

Red earth and pouring rain.

Inside the window there is all to see

And yet, the blind brute

Stumbles around groping at the why

Naked in a sense; coveting cloth of dreads,

He understands not the audience of souls

Witnessing the eternal internal winds

Twisting, torquing in shattering strikes -

Red blood and smoldering pain.

Lost for Words

Words scattering about in disarray

No form nor sensical points

Unconnected they spill out and lay

In confused betray

Thoughts rattling about in discordant rounds

Raysar trayingbe; a gibbering expression

Broken stilted murmuring sounds

In sense of proffered crowns

Sentiments and times of glory sit in wonder

Or pace about in pursuit of the empty days

Place and time have been torn asunder

And dread, fear and anxiety brood in plunder

The sitting rooms host emptiness

And invite silence to swallow random words

Catapulted into the air of madness

As satisfaction and want are both meaningless

Lost words and faltering meanings

Thoughts escape into jigsaw fractures

As the eyes glow then fade in flickering feelings;

Like shadows moving across the wall’s photograph gleanings.

Dawn’s light wakes the day

Without a name as they are all the same

Kindness and care are a visit of gentle stay

So to hold a hand and kiss the fears away.

Finding Joy in a Garden

Finding Joy in a Garden

The woman in the garden grows her flowers –

with care

Tending the array of blooms so to nurture for her family’s safe keeping

someday

A lifetime of planting and gathering so together

they grow love

The many seasons come one by one; folding and opening

into blooms of nostalgia

Until imperceptibly - the garden grows dim where familiar things become strangely

unfamiliar

Where are her things; her garden wears; are they carefully put away -

In a closet somewhere?

Are the garden tools, with wooden handles, stored and separated –

neatly aligned;

Or perhaps they were laid down casually; or misplaced in some forgotten drawer -

someplace?

Maybe stored in an imaginary shed, where keep the seeds and other secrets –

behind dissolving walls?

The glean of the rich emerald summers is a fade of seaweed-green

hues

And, Mother draws back her generous warmth as the day’s light

wanes

Leaving the cold onerous night to touch at the edges

where there are old pains

Yellow rose and red hydrangea flower petals strewn across the garden paths

like quilted blankets

While she sits in her garden, with unattached memories, her fears holding

her alone together and alone

And gathers her hands in close with her blanket of flowers that she weaved

as a master florist

Her unspoken thoughts are hidden and masked by the layers of a long life

lived  

Dwelling at each of the fifty October's that came and went

in wedded celebration

As she plays with each flower petal so to find the girl who is the woman

in the garden

For Fall was never about falling – it was and will always be about the joy of finding

her loving Nibs.

Redemption is Fleeting

Fearless, until everything becomes a song’s reveal;

the flaws and the scars are all real;

 fine cloth and heavy perfumes once concealed

the naked persistence of a numbing existence –

Romancing with mirrors -

for a zygote’s continuation

must be seduced by the imagination;

and as for the sinner’s redemption?

 it is a fleeting thought - passing by on the nines

stopping only for solemn funeral processions

or for the columns of white crosses aligned into military progressions

neither, is defined by absolute evil

nor offered in abstract communions with goodness;

the space between devils and angels has no barriers;

no break in the waters between the deep black bottoms

and the shimmering lights dancing upon the surface

Standing outside the halls of hell

the doors are kept unlocked

except for the one where the earthly water is made holy

and where the air is dense with judgements;

walk - walk away from the dens of innocence-

Nay! Run as if all peril rains down from the blessed skies

as the song plays:

“seems like heaven and all is well

With the enchanting seven deadly sins of hell”

The old man, full of grit,

trudges through woods where the paths do split

remembering the young boy,

with a broken toy,

who drowned there -

weighed down by his thoughts, in midair-

the jump was a perfect fit;

one final touch of his wicked wit

he chose the long way home

while writing his poem;

doomed to wander

and wail in maunder

for grace hints at temptation

and then, temptation begs grace

Truth is black

and white

when scribed in a bold typeface

however, verity becomes nuanced

when parsed within a neuro interface;

infused and then defused

by degrees of convenient integrity

to be properly read into the epistles of intended ethics

Probity and mendacity have interchangeable parts

explained by the tones and the shades of light;

based on the angle and the aperture

then, at once, at the blink of an eye

a picture is taken that shows all

yet, explains nothing

The enchanter walks in with anonymous flair

wishing to be known by its jaunty air

admiring the distorted reflection

upon the glass of bourbon and ice;

and her name?

It is different now

however, the name is also always

the same - shame

Betrayal has innocent eyes -

I will always believe your lies

rather than survive what dies

when pain glows in all the dark spaces

while remedy barely flickers in fantasy places

Looking to heal

has lost all appeal

that is the deal

Ideals fly away

who is to say?

who is left to pray?

It is easier not to stay

The vigil is eternal

the geese fly away

thoughts stay

like stains made upon life’s journal;

the interconnections are meaningless -

unless, they are the pointillism’s of a grander

more elegant presence;

an integral part of all nothingness

and too, the ending period; the final brush stroke of life’s work

for redemption is - fleeting.

Word Monkey

I am a word monkey

And I rhyme off key-

You wouldn’t know it

I am a poet.

Couplets buzz from me

Like a bumble bee

Swirling round a hive

Making haiku – jive.

Roses are flowers

Could go on for hours

Verse; lyrical rhyme

Oh! look at the time.

The honey is sweet

With iambic beat

This work is complete

And now - take a seat.

A Work of Solitude

A Work of Solitude

Connected; Unconnected; disconnected; reconnected

The four standings of straddling questions?

The philosopher explains views of empty spaces

On blue and green – encompassing everythingness

And without context – nothingness.

The warriors stand sentry with deep rooted trunks

Lined four breasted across creating an ellipse; a demarcation

Between present foreground and the future horizon.

The traders dressed in covers of seasonal colors

And woven to create shade and shadow

Of dapple flora, enjoined by the flittering leaves.

A network of servants striving for purpose and intention

With overlapping branches across the tree line barriers

And structured to balance the weight and the carry of the frame.

The painter’s brushes compose the painting to meditate - solitude.

Mending a Mended Heart

Upon a clearing there came a day

That stepped out and away from the morning fog

Very early and yet, somehow it was also very late.

When sense awoke to find that chance skipped away with time

And created a different horizon; a strange view

Where the scene’s edges came so close to peril.

And now, an understanding that death had shadowed

Closely along – stalking after each beat; pacing each pulse; waiting

To strike at the heart’s vessels and flows; the inevitable not far away.

The merit of pain is to serve in blinding the mind

From trivial pursuits and to dismiss most minor discomforts -

Lest anesthesia’s muddy swirls no longer sway away

The reality; lest amnesia’s power to cover; to fold away memory

Stored and sealed; to be kept in a puzzle of black mystery.

An urgent moment of evasion by sharp surgical blades;

Then the careful repairs by hands of surgeons and nurses minding

The diseased coronaries with grafted borrowed ones -

So, to mend the broken heart.

A lost day leads to a found morning

As dawn’s face has the look of good fortune -

No, not a promised one! Only a chance to hold on to waiting hands

And wish with quiet prayers and deep love

That one lives only in the moment for the moment

And with hope that the corridor ahead has more distance;

Has more birds that sing; has more flowers in Emily’s garden;

Has a simple purpose with many challenging reasons

And forgives to forget so to breathe and live deeply - Amend.

There is a line; a scar that serves as an ellipse

between the assumed next breath

And going forth, the consuming thoughts of death.

The way seems as uncertain as the winds next sway.

The immensity of the seas and the skies are less about their crossing

and more their existential presence in a wisp of this moment.

Why we got here has lost most of its incessant questionings

And tomorrow? Well, it is only as real as the fresco of heaven and hell

Perhaps, a triptych of three tenses when a heart stops beating.

Wisdom in a Rubbing Stone

Clickity-clack, clickity-clack, clickity-clack…

The zeitgeist taps out its code in passing against the railed track

Movements and moments contained in sealed life-cars – headed to some - uncertain place

While the stilled perspective is reflected in the old eyes of a mesmerized face

Today, is moving away; frame by frame; wave –  for it won’t be back.

Beams of moonlight stream across a cold barren field

As the Northwind sweeps and caresses the land’s contours with a burnishing feel -

Smoothing off the edges of expectation and polishing the burrs of loss; the spirit must be reconciled.

And, in the far distance, the train’s whistle fades away to an unknown exile -

So begin the crying prayer - as this moment is about to self-conceal.

This face; this space; this place – arranged for common grace

Respects must be given in folded memories left inside a bronze vase

From first bath to the last primrose path;

From school yard’s skins to the scars of war – no more wrath

No room for fears, no tears to fear; one last toast; three last cheers!

Spring is late in arriving this year, as winter’s cold breath chills the garden’s temerity

Nevertheless, a brave little purple crocus breaks with the calendar’s insincerity;

The Sun’s powers engage with the deep coldness and the burgeoning ground relents severity,

While robins and nuthatches are found busily rhyming the surfaces for a real meal

And, the long walk back begins, the passing train’s whistle consoles that time and distance – will heal

Once each arrives to the same point; to the same moment; to the same letting go release

Whether promises were held, or failures crashed all around without pity nor surcease

Peace must be made without consternation; without ramification – so to enter the unknown;

What is black will be light and all secrets will be inscribed onto a rubbing stone

To emanate and join the universal mind and so at once,         everything will be shown. 

   

Fields of Contrast

Beams of moon light stream across the barren field

Caressing, windswept lines and contours, with a feel

Of expectation and for loss - grazing spirits to be reconciled

By a crying prayer for the sunlight’s final exile.

Dark empty fields will again – someday, prosper and flourish

As young lovers walk across the green abundance to nourish,

As the promising sunrise calls prosperity to an early affair -

For misfortune and fortune are the same words; in prayer.