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30 Poems in 30 Days (Redux)

2-4 A Haiku Request

Mid-western springtime,
Under big skies, flowers bloom.
Please my love, just sleep.
 
4-17

Fresh Air Fund

"Those trailers are a blight on the landscape."
Florie waves and the passing day wavers
on Troxlorville rolling toward Lewisberg

hills twisting up and down on the black
road. A privileged ride, red leather
white Caddy a smooth room on wheels.

I am an intermittent rider an intermittent
recipient, the poor brother's daughter,
half of some kind of orphan (we don't talk

about that). We head for the ivy Sun
green overflowing an emerald carpet
a sweet, charming safe little town tennis

tulips lilacs, a Simon and Garfunkel sound
track Scarborough Fair or Mrs. Robinson
deep roots, the earth redolent, the smell

of money and doors that seem open.
 
1-2 Springing time

Sandcastles and paper planes, happy ice-cream smiles; sunshine days a joy.
 
1-3 Timepiece

Ochre grains tumbling down, a waterfall in the grit of time
the silent erosion cascading, encased by one curved
window into diminishing moments: forgotten
treasure chunks that we surrendered.
But then was our haste
turning time right over
to catch the downfall of our indulgences,
whipping over to replenish and let us gorge again on
being full, it slid down and crashed right over with sharpened
shards scattered. The glinting jags spilled broken, splintered, done.
 
2-6 Crisis of Confidence

Green light
Early morning
Cue imagination
Good advice from a dear, true friend
My brain's running twenty to the dozen
Angel: "Just wait, there's a reason"
Devil: "Push the button"
Silly mistake
Forgive?
 
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1-4 Slow dance

Bodies
waking slow with
warm murmurs into skin
whilst under ruffled covers
legs dance a softened tango
 
4-19

Perfume and Rain

There is a bower of trees in the perfume and rain
drips like a droopy blossom song in the bloom and rain

spills into my worried heart when the chords go minor
I don't want to cry anymore in the gloom and rain

runs over the windows and spreads oily in the streets
pitter patter kitty feet I don't fear doom or rain

waits sulking gray and bitterly frowning till the clouds
burst and wither in the sky the glint of moon the rain

that passes by for Artemis aims shoots down a star
seen only by deer and trees through a cocoon of rain.


Reference
 
4-20

Short Story

On Saturdays it's cloud gray afternoons, the white nurse's uniform and the purple hibiscus lotion: everyone has a happy ending and goes home all dozy.
 
2-6 Another Saturday.

Miles played, Concierto d'Aranjuez,
On Sketches of Spain,
And I teleported south,
One thousand miles.

Some scrabble words,
Swam onto the board,
And the gap increased, significantly,
Hopefully a rematch soon.

Let me go shopping,
For that games console, with you,
And you will set free,
My inner eight year old.

A shortish walk,
To the beach, and back,
But my Achilles' tendon,
Is now screaming, BASTARD!

And the meal later,
That will be very 'interesting',
In the Chinese curse,
Sense of the word.
 
1-5 Remission

Shine blue eyes with toothless smiles
sticky trails on glass.
Prints of giggles smeared with glee
painting all her reasons why.
No wiping clean as scarred lungs tire
they can stay for now she sighs.
Heartful of hands encased by hers
one more -- each day -- one more.
 
2-7 The Spark That We Shared.

In the stormy winds of time,
That spark that was lost, maybe difficult to regain.
Cold hands shiver, when trying to birth the embryonic flame.
Dexterity does not return easily, to those long parted.
But let's try,

Let's fight for that spark of light,
Amid the gloom and infinite darkness;
Let's try to nurture the elemental spirit,
within that fragile sprite.
So that in time, together,
That transient flame may become,
A source of warmth for us.

Let's work together,
like we used to,
yet differently by adaptation,
With maturity, purpose and determination.
Let's dedicate ourselves,
To this most noble task.
Please, as a Welsh poet once pleaded;
Let's rage, rage, rage, against the dying of that light.
 
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1-6 Haiku Binky

Ears twitch at the door:
leaping, turning, sprung back feet.
Bunny welcome home.
 
4-21

Innisfree

Solitude is a gift: I pray in stillness and find the space to grow.
 
2-8 Perfect Afternoon

Early evening half light
Creeps through the gap
In the hastily drawn curtains.
Motes of dust dance
As if held in the beam's flatness,
Before darting free, into oblivion.

I sit and watch that beam
As it crawls over the counter pane,
Which was once perfectly made
But is now rucked and tussled.
Over the sheets that greeted us
Like new meadow snow,
that now depict an alpine winter.

The sunlight shaft continues onwards
in a swath of warmth,
until it glazes your porcelain skin with weightless gold.

I admire the way it draws your feminine curves,
Your full hips and rounded belly,
The essence of a pre-Raphaelite beauty.
I envy it's touch as it strokes your full bosom
in time with your breathing.

Applying a warm radiant kiss
To your slightly smiling lips,
The beam seals your closed, sleeping eyes,
Before finally breaking into iridescent beads
On the silken bonds that earlier,
Sensuously, and consensually,
Held your wrists fast.

Soon the Sun will move west,
The beam will travel east,
And you will wake.
We will dress for dinner.
And thence dine, and drink,
We will provoke in each other,
Smiles and gasps and thoughts.

After though,
Once the sun has departed
And daylight is replaced by night,
We will return to that rugged landscape,
And lit through that same gap,
In those hastily drawn curtains,
I will once again admire you,
Cast this time, by the light of moonbeams.
 
1-7 In Rememory

Seventy years since skeletons marched
Through jungle swamp and river
Seventy years since Reveille chums
Would call Last Post by tiffin

Barefoot shuffles, each sleeper laid
Miles marked with bamboo crosses
Speedo shifts, twelve hours or more
A spoon of rice for supper

The starved burned days that haunted futures
Brought horrors home by ship
The bugle call still rings in place
Of words they never spoke

Lay down a wreath
As they did arms
But surrender
Nevermore

Seventy years since spoons dug in
To the rotten skin of ulcers
Keep them clean, scrape the flesh
The maggots do the rest

Seventy years since this was war
We learned so very little
Neckerchiefs worn, a band of brothers
One falls, the bugle mourns
 
1-8 Biding time

Phoenix has to burn so as to make the ashes of its resurgence.
Watching new ones form strong wings, bathed in shimmering heat before they fly.
 
4-23

Meditation

As rock becomes gem as seed becomes flower so thought can be presence.
 
2-10

Dappled sunlight drips from verdant leaves,
As I sit on what was once a wall,
But is now barely a rock.
Eagerly, I tap your picture behind the sensitive glass,
Then, with it's usual magic and familiar incantations,
Of clicks, beeps, and chirps,
I hear a sound that sets my world right,
"Hello!"
 
4-24

Meditation 2

___The waves roll in and roll back out again,
flowers shake on the breeze, slender boughs bend
low to the ground and brush a greening glen
that the waves at the rock don't comprehend.

___Silence is golden silver many-hued,
absent and present, a fulcrum in space
pivoting was and will: it can't be viewed
or touched and overflows without a place.

___The secret sits in the center and knows
nothing that isn't now fully complete
in the dying darkness where light first glows,
breathe in breathe out, experience. Repeat.

The dancer, the dance, the wing and the flight
the shimmering air, the breadth of the light.
 
1-9 Six-pounder

The swell of a muzzle tended,
such assiduity
for moments of quiet.

A short shot, fuse spent.

Whilst sturdy on its carriage,
the little artillery barely recoils as
light erupts with its voice.
 
2-11 The Thief

The passage of time is a thief of life.
First, when we are young, frivolity it brings us.
But then as we age, time imposes duty,
Duty, upon responsibility, upon sense.
Slowly, that lightness gifted in youth,
Becomes occluded, then extinguished.
Stolen by the ticking clock, and discarded diary.

It is the gift of offspring that catches us most unaware;
Becoming Instantly beholden to another, we derogate ourselves.
Believing that the day before, purloined, will never return.
For years, we dedicate ourselves to this task.
Each day like the last, apparently endless.

Yet, as the watcher of seedlings never spots growth,
We miss the minuscule daily changes,
Individually small, accumulating over years.
Until, one day, many years after the thief departed,
We find what was taken, returned.
And then, in act of selfish rebirth,
We may learn to carve wood.
 
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