Feathers were strong and heaven sent
The sun, its golden luster lent
Perhaps, a bit too high I went
Perhaps, those words not what I meant,
The wax grows soft and slightly bent.
Now Icarus prays for a soft descent
Tag Archives: poetry
Commute with Clouds
As I drove toward the work I do
I came upon a stunning view
The valley’s clouds cast morning light,
On rows of dragons taking flight
From darkness just around the hill,
Where waves of magic horses spill.
They flowed and bent with thermals, stormed.
Until a new tableau was formed.
And mythic creatures gathered there,
All dancing in the solar glare.
The Sun, which lit this universe,
Then bade that vap’rous crowd disperse
And as I drove into that field,
the last of misty phantoms yield.
I’ll pass this way each day, and then,
The scene will charm my heart, again.
The weathered tree
The weathered tree has seen the light of half a century’s Springs.
With warming breeze, or icy winds its wide canopy sings.
Summer brought a blessed growth of branch and leaf and core.
The trunk forged strong, the roots bore deep, the branches grew to soar.
And after many seasons, plain, the hopeful sylvan flowered.
And on the forest’s to needled bed the fragrant petals showered
Many thought the flowers brash, the fragrance overbloomed
Perhaps, it seemed, the tree had not been well and truly pruned.
The joy those days bequeathed to it, a height it had not known,
Was drawn into and scattered round with seed that it had sown.
But seasons change and Autumn’s cold reality intruded,
And every branch of its bright cloak, summarily denuded.
Then, with Winter’s sharp descent, the mirthless dark takes hold.
This taller mast, once bathed in light, is battered by the cold.
But even then, in bitter snow, when branches bend and hew,
The hope still holds a sacred place, that Summer springs anew.
Wooded walk
Barefoot on the wooded trail, two almost strangers ambled.
The thoughts escaped their daily rail, the conversation rambled.
The dappled sun on forest floor alit the gentle pair.
Each unforced topic begging more, new ideas yet to share.
A bed of moss as soft as air
They sat upon the ground
And circumnavigating there,
A joyous, barking hound.
And as is true of all grand days
there had to come an end
The strangers long had parted ways,
They said goodbye as friends.
Art vs Suburbs – Peter Bruegel the Elder
On the way back from the art museum, from a day of vivid artistic expression in oil and ceramic and gold and ink and celluloid and marble and acrylic, I dream of a world of bright colored canvas scenes in Italian and Flemish and French.
As we drive, the streets tick by, with exquisite regularity. We could be going east or south or some direction just invented to allow identically trained developers to create neighborhoods named for trees, shopping centers named for woodland geography, and cul de sacs named after their children.
The lawns are manicured with micrometer precision and the pin oaks are aligned with an accuracy that would have made those who were first living on this continent retreat in fear from the dark magic of its symmetry.
There are two shades of each of the 4 primary colors of the houses. Taupe, flint, moss, and clay, each in light or dark and the yews and junipers in every yard flash by, like suburban camo, dotted by the occasional basketball hoop or bird feeder.
Rarely, there is a bright blue or pink house, that the neighborhood association is drawing up plans to protest. Other, less ambitious, neighbors discuss it, instead, over a gas grill barbecue On the wooden deck, while a ball game plays on the tv in the living room, and the kids are downstairs playing wii, except the two mismatched teenagers, trying to pick a Playstation game they can both agree on, and wondering if the other one is secretly gay, too.
Every six blocks, there is a church of no particular denomination, but with some redemptive description, and the name of a saint or Jesus, Himself, on the sign. Children are always welcome, and there is a family social on the calendar. Services are at 9.
Seven restaurant chains have alternating outlets in the shopping center lots, near the street, with plenty of parking, and weekday lunch specials. Gluten free options are available and there is a small fee for sharing plates, except with children under 3.
Long stretches of strip malls advertise fresh and savings-oriented franchise grocers, clip-snip-shears salons, painless, new-smile dental offices and happy, lucky and golden Chinese take outs, who use no msg, but ask that you report any allergies to the server, before ordering. Every third store front is “coming soon.”
Small clusters of single story executive/professional offices spill out around the major mile intersections with easy access, and well maintained hedges, and have names like Executive and Professional, and deliveries use the 109th street entrance, please.
Along the interstate, cubic mirrored buildings in bold, cubic geometric designs, with cryptic, modern logos stand side by side with chain hotels of similar design, distinguishable by the faint scent of chlorine from the properly treated, family friendly pool, with no lifeguard on duty, use at your own risk.
Next week, according to signs stuck into the ground at shopping mall entrances, there is a cultural festival that will highlight a well regarded minority of the community, were there actually one. Crafts will be sold, dances will be performed, children’s activities will be available and prizes will be awarded. Tickets are for sale at all Price Smasher discount food and liquor stores, 8 dollars in advance, 10 at the gate, no refunds, but tickets are transferrable. If you buy 5 tickets, you get a free family sized box of their very best chocolate chip cookies, made fresh, daily.
Just in case I need to get back to that bright and colorful place, I try to make sure I can retrace my steps, like rows and columns in a crossword, without a clue. Fifteenth century Flemish painter. Seventeen letters. Ends with ‘r’.
Rain in the tent
We spent some time together going camping on a hill
The birdsong sweet, the daytime warm, and evening crickets shrill.
We talked all day and walked the fields and drank wine from a box.
We shared our thoughts about the world and gathered flowers and rocks.
The sun was hot, that afternoon, and hazy clouds had formed.
The evening air grew chilly, then, the sky blustered and stormed.
At first we thought the rain would stay outside the tent all night.
But well before the break of day, something wasn’t right.
The sound of rain, when gently falls, is steady, smooth and sweet.
Instead, a heavy dripping calls, with a slower threatening beat.
And soon, the drops upon my face, no longer just cool breeze.
The fall of tears from icy space, has caused my heart to freeze.
The rivulets of trespassed rain went into bed and clothes.
The dams of towels could not restrain the multitudinous flows.
Finally we were conquered there, and sought some refuge fit.
So underneath the mattress where the raindrops could not hit.
Sadly, though the shallow flood and the deluge did not stop.
The standing water chilled our blood, and made our beds a sop.
And there across the misty house, my fellow drowned soul
Was looking like a woodland mouse, just peeking from his hole.
His mood had never lost its cheer, not handsome face its smile.
And this is why I’ll keep this guy, my friend, for quite a while.
Super Moon
“Turn it down,” I shouted as I banged upon the sky.
“Can’t you see, I can not sleep, but really need to try?”
The moon’s enchanting laughter rained on downy forest bed.
I felt the weight of morning’s chores, an ice floe in my head.
She said, “tonight’s my special night, you can’t deny me this.
It’s many years before His plan returns me to such bliss.”
I peeked through curtained window pane, and out into the yard,
I figured just a little glance, it wouldn’t be that hard.
And then she called, “it’s early yet, I want to dance with you.”
The summer meadow whispered back in ivory, silver dew.
I looked upon the fairy field and could not stay my course.
I had to breathe the evening light and court its graceful source.
The night went long, we drank the scent of blossoms and of earth.
The gentle breeze made music sweet and we sang with joy and mirth.
The final dance with that sweet court, light feet upon the moss.
I felt the call of garish day, this magic, soon, my loss.
For with the waking to the sun, to ordinary day,
I barely, still, could hear her song, “tonight, come out and play.”
—-
Tonight she calls to dance again, but now I must say “no”.
The late night kept my day off keel and the hours ticked by slow.
So now, tonight, I climb to bed and wish that wraith adieu.
The moment passed, the glitter lost, the ghost of one I knew.
A grammar, interrupted
He kissed me in the linguistics section of the local used book store. The irony was not lost on me, because the gentle tapping of his tongue on my lips was a language, itself, full of meaning and intention, meant to make me lose, at least, my train of thought, and at most, my self control, which had been tugging at the leash all day, and trying to abandon me for easier work.
I was reading about an analysis of the Baltic languages through the lens of artificial semantics models, when he surprised me with that gift. The wave of feeling was immediate and overwhelming. The page went blank, and the room grew so hot I almost fainted.
The first tear started in my left eye, and it was the kind of tear you get when you see something precious rescued from a fire, or a predator mothering what would normally be prey. A glimpse of something bigger and more beautiful. The power of kindness and the stab of hope.
The other tear came with sadness. The loss of the moment only just begun. The realization that what I know this to be
is not what I feel it to be,
and not what I want it to be. Too soon to grieve, but too late to fix the course.
The wave hit me, and quickly passed, but those two feelings, side-by-side, still lingered. I stood there in my moment of drama, shaking inside, and probably outside, to anyone who was closely watching.
He was closely watching..
I think it took him by surprise, because it was partly done in play, seeing what he could do in mischief, and fun. But a little bit, he was testing his power, seeing what he could get away with, seeing how far he could push me.
“What’s wrong,” he said?
“Give me a moment. I’m gonna finish looking at this section.” But 100 book spines all spoke the same thing. Communication is hard. Words are insufficient. Understanding is incomplete. We can try, but it still doesn’t make sense.
I’ve been here before: the closeness, the drawing back, the flirting, the wait, the kiss, the wondering, the surrender, the fear, the sex, then the silence. I am not ready to do it again, and it seems both hopeless and inevitable.
As we stepped from the darkness of the store into the brilliance of the day, I led him out to a wall where we could sit and watch the traffic.
“You used powerful magic, in there,” I said, in words I hoped would understand. “It has a big impact on me.” I thought it would be a smile, but instead a look of concern crossed his face. I needed to ask, “Do you know what you’re doing?”
He stopped to ponder the question, which seemed to be a good sign. Then, he looked at me, the way he does. That way that makes me lose my words, and fall deeper into his mischief.
“Yes,” he replied gently, but some part of me was not sure that he truly did, for his end game is different to mine. He is playing for sex, and I, foolishly, am falling in love.
As we started to walk again, two of the voices in my head spoke simultaneously.
“Yes, let him play.”
“Please. Don’t fuck me up.”
But neither one offered me words that would give me any real clarity. Meaning would have to wait.
For love and staus updates
So here I am, in a bar near a tourist section of Boston. The upstairs is crowded, and people are dancing to the music some guy is playing in his Mac, over big speakers. There is a boy-girl couple on one side of the dance floor. A young attractive pair, jerking and twisting to the music that is blasting until my teeth hurt. Her body is swinging frenetically, swinging her hair and arching her back, her butt pressed against her partner’s front as she tosses her head back in an expression of disco ecstasy. Her boyfriend sways his body, more or less in the rhythm of the music, his face casting off an almost blue shine. Just out of her visual range, he is texting.
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