Threading On

 

Threading On

 

Threading a needle can test the eye

As well as sewing what is torn

As years and years have their worn -

Mending a soul with all its wry

Repairs the mind; calms the heart’s lorn.

 

 

Finding Loss

 

Finding Loss

 

 

When we first know the beginning of loss -

Is it at child’s last grasp at fantasy?

Or perhaps when discipline is a cause

To follow in harrowed lunacy?

 

When is loss the first and last infancy

To still the pained soul into a dark place?

And years and more years of cold dormancy

Become crying eyes of a pained blank face.

 

This then; a heart calloused beyond a trace

And meanings transcend a life’s final truth:

That a day is no more than just one lace

That ties age; loss to a fanciful youth.

 

This then - shall not be taken as uncouth

Nor as discordant notes to a love song

But instead - meditations for kind ruth:

That all is forgiven. Life is not long.

Fleeting

 

Upon an azure sea came the splendored brigantines

Filled with promise and yet, always a chance of loss

From Aurora came Thalassa the ship of Hemera

(As mariners conjured warning or delight of a rubicund sky)

And from the closing horizon

Came the Hespera, the ship of Atlas.

Each galleon escorted by their looming armadas

Through the gales of endless time;

Temporary fleets in their fleeting moment

High above the seemingly indefectible

and stationary annotations 

Placed upon the face of Mother earth.

That there is no gravity finds peaceful

The kissing of these clouds.

Photograph by Donna Hass

Sentiment on Valley View

 

Sentiment on Valley View

 

Across the old woods

The path mimics the old stream flows

That have enticed so many childhoods

And, my soul cannot resist; it goes

Where the lush trees cover the hill

And calls the chants of the whippoorwill

 

To a secret place where unicorns fly

Along the rainbow’s arc

As my voice sings out and my heart sighs

For all that is there is my youthful heart

That keeps safe my imagination’s play

With my special friends to return my way!

Where has my green forest gone?

Instead, now only forms made from their lumber.

As I stand alone on this asphalt path; wishing dawn’s

Magic to re-awaken my familiar from its slumber -

I wonder, when did we become so old -

It cannot be told.

Painting by: Emily Calvillo

Just a Line

 

 

Just a Line

 

A line begins with a touch

And continues upon a plane

That paint storms

On a pastoral scene.

 

Draw me a line

And I will find

The symmetries

In the abstract-

 

Give me a line

And I will write

The histories

That compel and distract-

 

Throw me a line

That I might not drown

In the synergy of reveries

That both repulse and attract.

What is the last line...

 

 

 

 

House of Earl

 

To this place of Sycamore groves and peace 

where the Pottawatomie kept the fires

of the valley’s three brothers

nature owns no measure; keeps no time piece.

To these Great Lakes lands of plenty

where the Illiniwek lived in tribal unities

came the bearded and blued-eyed brothers

with structures and artifacts worth a copper penny.

To these McHenry woods of Pleasant Grove

came the family of Hass to build a home

that keeps the tools of craft and art

and the flute’s notes form from the upstairs’ alcove.

To this, House of Earl, built of wood

rises the ghosts of tribal lore

that laud the native and natural

ways to all that is sacred and good.

Distance of Time

 

Where once the trail and the distance

were of little concern;

whether the sultry summer burned

away at the youth of my day

the long runs never stopped

even when winter’s frigid hands dropped

all life into a silent whitened meadow

my breath never faltered; never wavered.

 

I could out run even time –

This virile elixir was my sublime.

 

Arriving now to an unfamiliar sense

What is to be learned?

That time ultimately won at the turn?

Where now I can barely find my way

to the next valley; to the next mountain top.

The meadow’s place is a vague twilight hop

of old stories with famed ghosts and false shadows;

of conquests and fails that now seem - a bitter flavor.

 

And, when once I could even out run time!

That was never true - however, it does remain my sublime.

Dreamscape

 

Dreamscape

 

From a distant place called life

Painted across a canvass of many years

Filled with days and years of many tones

Some hues are bright while others - so dark.

The range of images are clear and present

While many others are intriguing; indiscernible.

 

Stepping closer to the work - it is a lifetime

In scope and detail however, it is incomplete.

The quadrivium of perspectives, while simple,

Much too intricate to absorb instantly.

The nine enneads formed into a square;

Threes forming a canopy of trees.

 

Reaching out to touch the painting

There is no stillness – it is alive;

Expanding equally and exponentially

It is plain to see many unfilled and unfinished

Aspects of the art where it fades to rawness

Or is pale and faint to its age.

 

Now the old man enters without fanfare

And sits alone in quiet ponder

The painting moans in aches of birth

For the work pulsates in elaboration

The colors are vivid and vibrant

As his eyes close and become blind.

 

And a ship of fools and poetasters

Carry out the last feast to all that is verse

And sail against the adverse winds

To carry the old man’s canvass to its place at sea

Where the deep waters keep the mountains

That he loved so because they hold - the next horizon.

Dedicated to Yvette; who seeks to see and touch her canvass.

Why is Always Never

 

When did yesterday lose grip of always?

The things that were once - have stayed back

Barely visible through the melancholy haze

Of sentimental memories and fleeting glories;

Remaining huddled behind shadows of regret.

 

Why is yesterday never today?

Anymore than it will be a tomorrow,

Where always seems to run and run

Staying at just the distance

So to never become – always.

 

We see the geese at a great distance

And then, they are here

And gone for always

Until another time-

For another one to ask-

Why is always – never?

Vessels

While one contends

the source;

The other appends

It's course -

Always Away

 

 

Always

from ourselves we are drawn; way

Away

and when it is time to be on way

Away

to human frail and fail as gone - way

Always

seek where the sun's dawn is the only way.

Virtual Appearances

 

Why is there a brave little toaster sitting along the way?

Looking quite sad and lying askance upon the snowy curbside;

Was there a burnt misunderstanding that popped into dismay

Between the slices at the Manor Burnside?

 Who can say which side won the buttered fray?

 

A picture frame that might have once held a special place

Now sits alone and deserted upon that odd driveway -

Might the story, left untold, involve a loss of face

Or perhaps, it is simply a mishap left behind on a snowy day

Never making the trip; never to be a gift wrapped in paper and lace?

 

Stranger things have happened this long year

Where humanity isolated and made resolute to be in stasis

And all sense and degree of normalcy is masked behind a fear

That human connections of tenderness could be the basis

Where disembodied friends and family now wait - in a virtual appear.