The long bridge of dawn
Mends the space of summer
With the syrup of October.
When days turn to mornings
Author: SamF
Chinook Rain
Finally…
The hissss of light rain on river,
A day of this,
After the wind,
Settles summer’s score.
Now salmon stir
In the new, sweet water.
—- OR —-
DRAFT 2:
Act 1: Summer’s score,
Patiently settled by the wind.
Act 2: Soft skies,
And the long hiss of light rain,
On a late afternoon river.
Act 3: In the new, sweet water,
Salmon stir.
October 19th from the eyes of a 19-year old.
This is what I wanted to say
Before I fell muttering over sour coffee:
.
On october 19, at sunset,
A bright glow traces the place where summer ends
And the promise of winter begins.
.
Never quite seen then.
Sure, we’ll get the hope, But
Only see how summer has gone woefully stale,
Even wrong.
.
After a few more years,
The rhythm plays loud,
Then, the time will come,
And catch us muttering,
As we look far across the field,
Into the bright October sky.
.
19
In the book of rhythm, October came first
Sprawled across the evening sky,
tracing a frail line between grace and hope.
.
Then I would come into the cafe,
Mid-morning,
Confident and tall,
This was my time, again.
Only to fall muttering over another coffee
I never needed.
.
I think you were waiting to hear the stories,
Tales on sparkling wings,
And In my rehearsals, they stretched far,
oh so far.
Following the line above,
Far away from the endless taunts,
Tossed around by the sophisticates of diligence
Lying in wait around the next corner.
.
In the time before rhythm,
there were only secrets,
Scattered across far fields,
Where no one has yet wandered.
.
Come again October,
So I might be your guest
In the grand palace of of your light,
Where your shadows tall,
Guide us into your soft arms.
April’s March
A child’s echo across the field,
Wafting on sun and warmth,
Hovering for a moment, lingering.
Like a long time ago,
That one laugh,
Wild, excited discovery,
Stirs an afternoon nap, however brief.
When new light finds the old window again,
And traces the hard line of rain across the sky,
Marking the place where even the restless wake
From a sleep they so patiently waited for.
Re-Discovering winter
In the old days, I imagined fish and moving water all silver and loud. Now, things are maybe more rehearsed, but the fish and water seem to be much softer than before. Now I imagine them in the silky green water, connected to a damp landscape cradling rivers. These fish would crawl into the forest if the rain kept up just a wee bit longer, and in the early morning mist they could be found in the trickling little holes that dot the mossy floodplain forest.
In the broad, cobbled waters they become part of a enthralling choreography of movement, shadow and soft sounds. Stare long enough, and the sound goes away and there is just the movement of shadows. Now there is only slightly more unknown than known in this water. Just enough to let me crawl back into the water if the rain would let up for just a wee bit.
The Way You Are in Paintings (Part II)
Tell me the day,
Your voice: echoed calls
To draw the fetch of sickled fields
And the time of old, warm winds
Cast in cobbled cicada song.
.
Tell me the story,
Your fingers: places on point,
Gesturing along hot, dry contours
Deft as a shining leaf.
.
Tell me the place,
Window to a long passed storm,
Etching the ways of things,
On cracked pane and smooth brow.
.
Oh, tell me the summer,
Long eyes, saddened tinge,
Or softened childhood mirror,
I never remembered
Quite like this.
The Way You are in Paintings
Voice of old wind,
Waves of grass, glistening hills,
languishing before trailing off:
One last breath of afternoon,
Exhaling into evening stillness.
.
In my mind, alliterations of delusion,
Delighting in devouring dreamy days,
Silken splines standing steadfast
In riffled rivers of reverence,
Rain risen,
Held hoping.
Monday’s Light Through the Window (final)
Old glass, drooping with the passage of years,
Where cobwebs hold fast in corners, collecting dust,
Passing slanted light across a worn table,
Holding the kitchen in a spell.
.
Barely Spring, and the light, now past seven,
Tells of long, nappy afternoons, old summers.
And life-gone-easy moments.
A steady glow reviving old bowls to colorful pasts,
Meals cook perfect here, timed to the clink of fork on plate,
Savory previews where shadows suddenly fell away.
.
This is light that shines through times,
Only possibly happened then, or yet to come,
Illusory memories perhaps, or vague hopes.
Regardless of how these things wrap into one,
This is the luminous clutch of that familiar patience,
We all longed for through chilled and terse days.
.
This is when the old apron, hanging from a hook,
Illumed stains of tomato, crumb and berry pies,
Rendezvous of life and light,
Reflects stories of people,
Moving,
Living.
.
Latest afternoon now,
A creaky floor plank hosting swirled grain,
Where old men gather, smoke and revel in stories,
Lies, really, but laughed around,
Told a hundred times, and still,
Smoothed along springtime’s gentle contours
Waiting to be explored anew.
Monday’s Light Through the Window
An afternoon sun casts through the window:
Old cobwebs held fast in corners, gathering dust,
Slanted light cast across the worn table,
Holding the kitchen in a spell.
.
Barely Spring, and the light, now past seven,
Tells of long, nappy afternoons and old summers.
This is a life-gone-easy moment.
A steady glow reviving old bowls to colorful pasts,
Meals cook perfect here, timed to the clink of fork on plate,
Savory previews where shadows fell away.
.
This is light that shines through time,
Stretches far across it, into places, thoughts or moods,
That maybe never happened, or have yet to come,
Illusory memories then, or vague hopes.
Regardless of how these things wrap into one,
This is the luminous clutch of that familiar patience,
We all longed for through chilled and terse days.
.
This is when the old apron, hanging from a hook,
Illumed now in constellations of dust,
Stained in pie, tomato and crumb, a rendezvous of life and light,
Reflecting stories of people,
Moving,
Living.
.
Latest afternoon, a creaky plank hosting swirled grain,
Where old men gather , smoke and revel in stories,
Lies, really, but laughed around,
Told a hundred times, and still,
Contours of a day waiting to be explored anew.
Shaken Rain 