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~ SamF ~ Leave a comment

In the book of rhythm, October came first

Sprawled across the evening sky,

tracing a frail line between grace and hope.

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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.

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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.

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In the time before rhythm,

there were only secrets,

Scattered across far fields,

Where no one has yet wandered.

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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

~ SamF ~ Leave a comment

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

~ SamF ~ Leave a comment

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.intruder

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)

~ SamF ~ Leave a comment

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

~ SamF ~ Leave a comment

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)

~ SamF ~ Leave a comment

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.

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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.

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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.

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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

~ SamF ~ Leave a comment

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.

Under Stale Medusa Skies

~ SamF ~ Leave a comment

Old pavement pulls the street through years

Times of sand tossing curly haired kids

In dried grass: the habit of neglected August,

Swallowing all of late winter’s craving

Into dusty, cob-webbed corners,

Missed by heaven, skipped by hell –

Once sharp places, long gone stale.

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Pale skies cast through wrinkled gauze,

Illumed with worried skin,

Pallor of a re-ran TV set,

Where smoke lingers,

Coffee goes warm, then sour

And a chorus of days hangs in the hour.

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Tattered screen, leaning fence –

That hard line parting the space of time

From the washed light in a dusty corner,

Speaking truth, three doors down,

Along a street, at the edge of town.

Late January Water Patterns

~ SamF ~ Leave a comment

Usually, it never starts with a dream

The dream meticulously sculpted into an expectation

So perfect that the cries of ecstasy roar along the river

Erasing any hope of stillness that might have been there

Had nothing ever been imagined in the first place.

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Hmmmph

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Usually it never starts with that first sight

That look into perfection that never was dreamt any better

Better than last time, but only to be washed away

With enthusiasm misplaced and gone awry

In manic flailings trying to capture it all in one fell swoop.

.

Ohhhhh

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Sometimes, admittedly, it might start with a splash of apathy

Because it has to be done and here we are

And along the way it becomes the next dream

And the perfection reveals itself in little debates

Comparing this to that and wondering if this is even better.

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Oooooohhhhh

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Always, though, a script unfolds, eluding time’s wicked arrow

Bathed in a moment eluding any grasp of perfection

Surrounded by silent calls and responses each asking nothing

Together, creating the pulsing song of a mid-winter river.

In the Yard One Day

~ SamF ~ Leave a comment

A long fence, separates angst from hope.

Where luminous spiders,

Fresh from the sea

Lacquer their bodies

In the sticky webs of her gaze.

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Eyes fixed on the rainy places

Hastened under sun,

Mired in the tired longings,

Indifference: the way things

Could have been.

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A sorrowful state now,

Lashing out in laughter,

Swatting at the great green globes,

Floating upwards from time’s unwinding

Through air torn with tight-faced frustration.

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The simple turn of book

Written chapter and verse,

Words of school time practice,

And playground tauntings.

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The single place where a long fence,

Shadowed by impatience,

Is shot full of holes,

Where pieces of home,

Come and go as shiny bits

In the spring time air.