Monday, March 25, 2013

Golden


Two steps down to enter,
20 degrees cooler in this maple-tree'd bower
. . . not allowed in very often
the scent hits you first of youth's promise and compromise . . .
Circling golden
Twin blonde beds draped in chenille white & pillow quilt-tufted
Beige on beige on beige on
Golden coolness
Maybelline abandoned alongside silvered brushes, mirrors turning
Ghosts pressing in . . .
Lark cigarette smoke
Reflecting the light from windows of a kodachromed spring
Vanity encouraged with tendered ivory elegance
Presence strong as tabu, time & tan lines
Circling golden
Circling
Circling . .
Home

Friday, March 8, 2013

rising ....
















the little Bluestem sways .....
listening as the prairie earth struggles to rise into this warm blue sky morning
violet-grey ribbons of geese weave from horizon to sun
and back again
it is timeless & precious here
coneflowers
indian grass
poppy mallow .....
await in dry tenderness
the fragrance of life cuts it's way into your soul &
each step crackles with the weight of presence & direction
wander into the wild of this
last-of-winter blue morning
understand time & place
fragility & sureness
close your eyes 
and
smell 
the unfolding ....


Étaín


I read the words of poets 
placing their black upon white 
scrapping and clawing into existence awareness honed and winged 
fighting for the shadowed lands and quartered secrets 
truth hanging …
hope carving petals into the tilled soil of this day 
this night where everything strives for a measure of brilliance 
pause 
amongst meteors and moons 
to know with every turn two songs play and a story runs river-wild as the owl takes a left to Venus swallowing this night 
these winged words black upon moon white

Tuesday, March 5, 2013

maybe ....

Maybe we learned it a long time ago
like the art of the curve
or how to love slow 
maybe we traveled to far, distant shores
orient express or carriage with four
enfolding our hands, pledging our lives
as we walked across time
our paths intertwined
...maybe we fought on Cullodens red fields
striving for freedom our bodies to yield
maybe we struggled against wind on the plains
carving out promise regardless of rain
maybe we played countless days on a river
climbing trees, catching fish
you an arrow
i the quiver;
one holding fast
the other to fly
reunited as all else we love blindly dies
then under piercing stars and a full harvest moon
some ancient page was turned 
maybe this time--love is found in the burn
maybe we've always played our parts too well
navigating back to waiting arms somehow
reaching for the other with every circle of the moon
scarred, bruised & bleeding
love waited in the wound
maybe this time, it's not about the bond--
the truth and the strength of what we know
maybe this time
grace
is
in the
letting
go