.
That long exhale, now,
To unrehearsed mornings
Lasting all day,
Again.
.
Sunday church scattered us,
Like the wind, here, lost in tree leaves,
Drawing the scent of damp ground:
Something bigger and even quieter
than my own god could conjure,
Right under my feet.
.
I could barely hear the sounds
Of water toiling through rocks,
Unwavering mentor of time,
Sliding across great skies
Painted in pastel reveries:
November’s gauze, now,
So easy and gentle.
Behind the stone wall,
They dreamed in the luxuries
Of dried grass.
Here, the miseries were far away.
Woven into the symmetries of thistle,
Shaded by specks of leaves
Restless on the afternoon,
Now suddenly still,
While the sweetness reaches
Almost too far now,
And the last cheating light
Leads them home once again.
One day the song would return
And save me,
Pluck me from the glittering waves,
Under the arc of a great rainbow,
Blind and gone quiet.
.
In rows of two,
Holding hands,
Waiting for the chorus line
Of a great church hall
Echoing the lives of all those
Knelt in the return.
(draft)
The dancing people lay waiting:
Dreaming of the waves,
And diamonds,
Cast across the sand.
.
A curtain call of phantoms,
Ghosts of the full moon,
Leave footprints
For the sun to feast on.
.
The bridge is long,
Steady and sure,
Crossing nothing
But the arc of blue sky,
Where the reach of time
Scatters the ashes of remorse.
Sparkling,
Twinkling,
Across years,
Through shining cool air,
And velveteen heavens
Curled in their fallings,
Quietly, this time.
(Granny’s Porch – Part III)
Chance the big window again:
Steady watcher of lives,
Arbiter of time.
Soon, a new April sun,
Will check the clock,
And beckon the worn out times,
Still hidden in dusty corners.
.
I only remember frail fingers
Wiping down the pane, distorted by years,
Sparkling like piano keys,
Touched by children,
Where the sharpness of notes,
Hovers and holds,
Sprawling across the old wood floor.
.
My grandfather grasped her hand,
To dance that one day,
Then, after a year,
His death was bathed in a soft-smiled comfort.
We were mesmerized,
While our sadness,
Was framed in the hard line of rain,
Faithfully passing.
.
Soon, granny’s gospel hymns fade,
Her soft hums trailing off,
Leaving the creak of the back door,
Where the kids still run in,
And out,
Chasing the first flowers of spring,
Reaching for the sweet nectar in the skies above.
She held two fingers up
For the day when the waves
Crashed hard against the rocks.
.
We ate stale scones.
I almost stole a kiss.
.
But we just ran,
Missing that piece,
In some weird joy,
Soon lost.
.
I’d gladly rewind that one
That one place,
Freed from the baggage of time.
.
Now her glance just festers
In memories
That time paints
So gently.
.
Spare me these years
Gone so far
And different.
Every year, an old friend visits,
Knocking on the morning door,
Before the chickens go out.
Just for a day,
Maybe two.
.
The old rivers of light and heat,
Much alive, cry
In their thirst for night,
With the promises of fading evenings liquored
In the scent of blackberries and stale grass
Hiding in the hot afternoon.
.
This crooked summer:
Like wilting vines on a broken arbor,
Motionless, as they cling fast
To the memories of serpentine edens.
.
That’s when my head turned:
Nothing to silence a breath
Or darkness to stifle horizons.
.
That’s how This summer came.
No Swainson’s spirals,
Just weird birds
Calling from afar,
After some punk rain set it all back
for a few weeks.
And gave me a do over.
.
This: after the clothesline came out
And the sureties of old, stale days
reappeared on the agenda,
For another try.
Our darlings of winter,
Tell us once more,
This passing of water,
That hungry denial of patience,
You so much waited for.
.
Your stories to fill a coming empty:
One last time.
Oh, please.
.
Our darlings of winter,
Give us this one day.
.
How many times,
Have we seen this moon set,
Sharp crescent,
Sliver of time,
Counting years,
To cast once more,
A warm May evening?
.
Our darlings of hope,
Freedom, maybe,
From bondage of self and season.
.
Please.
Shaken Rain 