Keeping company with shade.

 

With­out eyes to strain, or a heart to break,

we grow lazy in our cells.

We bur­row –

becom­ing ever more root­ed in the dark.

 

With no breath in sight,

we for­get that once we took air in rough gasps.

Once.

Before we gave that up;

choos­ing rather to trade secrets with the moist earth.

 

Dim­ly we recall that some­where above us the strug­gle con­tin­ues.

Air is won and lost every day.

 

In the end, though, we for­get.

All is well so long as we remain in slum­ber.

Sleep­ing in secret. Keep­ing com­pa­ny with shade.

Short subjects. 

Poets tend to talk too much,
would-be poets more.
Seems they've just forgotten
what their ears are for. 

****

There are times when giving all
one needs more yet to give,
and if the search prove fruitless,
it seems absurd to live. 

Yet oftentimes absurdity
may be the price we pay,
for finding joy in springtime
and watching children play.

****

My Spirit used to answer me
when I was filled with questions.
Now it only watches me
and listens to suggestions.

****

Driving through insanity
was never more than fleeting
Until I paused to say hello;
responding to its greeting.

What a pair…

What a pair we are,

you and I –

You, amazed you’ve lived this long,

and me afraid to die.

 

Both of us require con­trol

and seek to take com­mand,

but nei­ther one enough con­fi­dence

to take the upper hand.

 

Insta­bil­i­ty is the chain

that links our souls.

We embrace secu­ri­ty

to con­sum­mate our goals.

 

Cer­tain of our natures

and sure we’ve found romance.

We nev­er bow to winds of change,

nor leave our days to chance.

 

More than prov­i­dence

seals our fate –

we secure our des­tiny

despite the Bigot’s hate.

 

Undis­cov­ered pas­sions

ensure our last­ing bond,

And look­ing past our own despair

we hope for life beyond.

 

poetic urges…

It has always been,
and con­tin­ues now to be –
the out­let best suit­ed;
most appro­pri­ate to me.

It was nev­er doubt­ful,
or hid­den from my sight –
Not sub­tle in its pres­ence;
nor sub­ject to my sight.

It is both quick and urgent,
no prac­tice time required –
t’is best when it comes eas­i­ly;
there by the muse inspired.

Fame. 

         Should I break forth in glittered verse
                  and weave myself a home,
              Or turn away from vain attempts
                     to fade away unknown. 

             And if the choice is mine to make;
                  not something to abide.
                Then why does it elude me so
                 no matter how I've tried.

To God… 

            Are we so different then from Thee 
                 in our tragic earthy way? 
            Are all our thoughtless cruel deeds 
                 more brutal than Thy clay?

Mother Songs. 

                        I.

              Might we regain the Mother now?
             . . . forsake our blind ambition.
           Bring back the Druid, spurned so long?
              . . . unmake our proud sedition. 

              Can we reclaim the sacred grove?
            . . . where first She made us sing.
               Relearn her ways of innocence?
              . . . and ponder simpler things. 

               For surely Nature's not undone
              . . . despite our mad endeavor.
           The oak still grows, the deer still run
             . . . the fox is still as clever.

                            II.
 
                Let me regain the Mother now. 
                I'm done with pride and folly. 
             I long to see Her spread her skirts 
              `neath Oak and Birch and Holly. 

              Too long have I enjoyed my reign 
                 now tired of my ambition. 
             My lofty dreams are all but spent 
                since first I made sedition.

                            III.

            Bring forth the Mother spurned so long 
                  for time is coming full. 
             The Wheel has turned now overlong 
                and slows its forward pull.

Rapture. 

                I do not seek the rapture 
               when all our souls will soar. 
                 I hesitate to meet that fate 
               for fear I'll yearn for more.

Who Must Pluck This Beauty Home? 

             Who must pluck this beauty home 
                  and abdicate the spring? 
                Who must make the Maple red 
                 and drain away the green? 
              Who shall tire of budding blooms 
                 and make them go to seed? 
               Who shall call my spirit home 
                 when life cannot proceed?

Strength 

         Could I but draw some strength from thee 
            (tho' guilt would bind my heartwood) 
             I might grow out this tediousness 
                and bloom despite my tears. 

             Let me but grasp thy branches once 
               and from the sap I gain there 
           my trunk will take on bolder growth -- 
                escape this gnarl of fears. 

             If I may touch thy heights awhile 
               (tho' fearing to descend them) 
          New buds will sprout and leaves spring out 
                released from dormant years. 

          And when these things are gained from thee 
                 and I am all accomplished 
             My roots will gather depth in thee 
                as joint fulfillment nears.

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