Thursday, August 1, 2013

Poetry Yet Again: How Strange . . . in Summer

I said I wouldn't do this often and I meant it when I said it. I didn't lie. Summer isn't the season for poetry to me but yet, here I am---posting poetry again. It's an anomaly. It has to be.

Coming into New England

Gliding above the clouds
And there below . . . hills and valleys
Festooned with gray-tipped tree streaks
An ice blue horizon bright with reflected sunlight
But oh, the green hills and mountains
All huddling close to the road
Soft rain falls in tiny clear drops
Air so cool and sweet, inviting intoxication
Along side the road a river meanders
Staining stones and spreading its arms wide

I know this place
                    It seems to know me.
                    Oh, mercy. . . I know this place.
                    Hello. . .hello? Remember me?
                    I think so. Didn’t we meet once?
                    No--- But yet, I cannot deny
I know it and it knows me.
Oh, mercy. . .

Always Coming Home

Windswept grasses
Blue haze in the distance
Sand dunes sculpted in wind
Rainbows crowning mountaintops
Turquoise water lapping at sugared sand
Dark green fir and spruce
Burying their heads in soft gray clouds
A winding wet-black road
Where redbuds peek
Wide, muddy rivers and sparkling streams
My heart always says
I’m home—I’m always coming home.


Falling Rain

There on the tips of my fingers—the tips of my eyelashes
Tiny, clear drops of rain
More than mist—less than showers
Miniature prisms unlocking rainbows
Simple, fresh—glorious.
And for something just a little darker:


Makeshift days and cobbled nights
Of faded sun and fractured stars
Looking for something
I’m sure isn’t there—a phantom, a whisper
Perhaps only an echo gone now and silent.
And the air holds no memories.


No comments:

Post a Comment

Go ahead--- list your website. I'd love to visit.