On the Veranda: serenade


As the evening enters like a dancer from the wings,
and we turn our backs on busy days and other things,
listen as the dull roar of the world begins to fade
in a gentle twilight serenade…

A sliver of a moon begins its shining,
shy behind some wisps of clouds, it’s pining
as a summer breeze begins to blow
out on the veranda, soft and slow

In the fading light your shadow lingers:
there along the edges of your fingers,
touching on your face, it leaves a glow;
like a candle’s flicker, to and fro.

We could dance forever in the moonlight,
you and I together, hand in hand.
Nothing else will matter to us, tonight,
when we meet in our enchanted land.

A symphony of constant, chirping crickets;
we stand in the moonlight, with no tickets,
as a purple cloud crosses the moon.
Don’t let the performance end too soon!

Far from the city’s constant hum and ringing,
up in that tree, a nightingale is singing
as we share this moment in the dark
from our little corner of the park.

25 MAY 2017

Share This:

Sky and Water: sedoka


Why is the sky blue
except from reflected water
stretched between small bits of land?

Why is water blue
except its depths mirror skies
above it, touching everything?

23 MAY 2017

Share This:

The Wild Wonder: chant


I am the soft and silent spring
that well-oiled, whispers while it winds;
I am the scent of somber smoke
that wisps its wild way through the wood;
I am the gentle grasp of green
that in the spring succors the seed;
I am the tacit, tender touch
that germinates the garden grains.

I am the mist that mires the marsh,
the cloud that cloaks the clearing’s clover,
the wistful wind that wets the wheat
with drops of dew at new day’s dawning.

What good a world not filled with wonder?
What need this wandering without ways?
What use a wild that wants no wander?

6 FEB 2017

Share This:

Both Kinds of Good


It should be said (at least one time in jest)
that in the world exist two kinds of good
to separate what matters from the rest,
for use by some discerning soul who could

in keening the true nature of a thing
believe their observations to be fact,
and, damned be the naysay blabbering,
to light the world with simple, subtle tact.

To say the thing could scarce but make it so!
The world believes the magic of such words,
and will, despite what evidence may show,
imagine rocks transformed to cooing birds.

And what are these two parts of goodness named?
The pointing finger, and its share of blame.

14 MAR 2015

Share This:

All That Is: a chant


Breath and body,
word and function,
birth and death
are both redemption;
Light and shadow,
whole and hollow,
clean and dirty,
fair and foul.
All is holy, all is sacred.

Friend and stranger,
love and hatred,
fruit and flower,
meat and mushroom.
Crypt and cradle,
bed and altar,
desk and hammock,
tent and mansion.
If not holy, nothing is.

Lust and anger,
peace and kindness,
male and female,
new and ancient.
Seen and unseen,
poor and wealthy,
cute and ugly,
shown and secret.
If not sacred, neither is.

Form and function,
toil and leisure,
want and lacking,
pain and pleasure.
Past and future,
earth and water,
air and fire,
self and other.
All is sacred, all that is.

17 DEC 2010

Share This:

Natural Blues: a blues sonnet


Every fire begins with just a spark.
Yes, every fire it starts with just a spark;
comes out of nothing, somewhere in the dark.

Every morning starts before the dawn.
Each morning has its start long before dawn;
it stops its sleeping, has to ramble on.

Everybody’s got their cross to bear.
It’s true, each one has got their cross to bear;
no use in crying out, “It just ain’t fair.”

Every flood starts with just one drop of rain.
Every flood starts with just one drop of rain;
wets the rich and poor man just the same.

Every storm begins from a small cloud;
Tornados sure must make their mamas proud.

17 NOV 2010

Share This:

The Sound of Her: an alba or aubade


Below the quiet hum the waking world makes
as earth turns slowly sun-ward each new day,
before the civil bustle starts in earnest
and clutters the ear’s palette with its play,

in those few silent moments, as I lay still
beside her sleeping form, just listening
in awe to the low murmur of her breathing,
I hear the universe begin and end.

Not much, nor of much weight, these precious seconds;
and yet, to me their worth is beyond price:
what mere religion claims to be worth worship,
what lesser dreams enshrine as paradise.

05 NOV 2010

Share This: