You offer a drop of yourself
as if bitter medicine for swallowing.
Gazers pondering galaxies of galaxies
Are not sick, just awestruck.
We sometimes wonder about you.
Truly, once one learns the word “bird”
They never see a bird again.
It is folly to name the stars,
record size, color and coordinates
as birdwatchers do sightings in Spring.
May a flock of unnamed flying spirits
spiral around your awesome core,
remove the blinders from your eyes,
and unstop your sweet healing pour.
The strengthening sunlight surrounded the mist-dampened patio furniture squeezing steam into the morning atmosphere hoping to see the dying fog revived. One brave thrush danced the two-foot hop on the wet lawn eyeing fat orange grubs willing to give up a future as a beetle for one as orange pigment on a beautiful bird flying high into the dawn. The black water pot now red refracted hot water for coffee from Canada, left-over from a visiting friend, a memory extracted by coarse ground conical pour-over. Morning. It’s another day on planet Earth Recycling the eternal atoms of Universal birth.
I wrote these for the October meeting of my local poetry society. I set a goal to write four sonnets. Two short poems showed up along the way. I hope to read these aloud at the library on October 2nd.
John Keats had fears that he might cease to be Before his pen emptied his teeming brain. Ebony, Ivory, Night, Day, Death, Life remain In Dante’s poetic eternity. Bobby Burns’ rhymes sung. Simple sonnets forth-see Old horses, hen’s eggs. Trumpeters refrain Circe’s mantle, Calypso’s tearful pain. Shakespeare set his sweetheart summer-day free. A hunting bird grabbed Hopkins’ hiding heart; And wrung gold-vermillion embers from it. Coleridge preferred to sail death’s Win’try bark. His wide world view would scarce fourteen lines fit. Romantics used apostrophetic abbrev’ation Sharing nature’s awesome celebration.
Bright Souls Awake
The bright souls, they say, are coming coming The correction come is their big anew That sees the future in the past’s review; Presented in tissue. The thinest wrapping, Mitered corners, smooth, no tape showing; Is monofilament time’s one-way rule Cradling crystal present’s priceless jewel. The apocalypse is now. No waiting. Eleven string dimensions vibrating. Elementary chron-puscles exploding! Do not wait for knights in armor shining Come beautiful bright souls waiting. With timeless light bathe this reality Shine now! Now is not soon enough for me!
Someone abandoned their red Jeep Cherokee on Myrtle Beach. As Dorian’s surge drove the sea, they chose to walk away from danger’s reach. Isn’t it bizarre how many people anthropomorphize a car as if left to die yet objectify people who were? I wonder why. I may write a poem about this mystery. First, I’ll walk Now’s thundering beach ‘Tween sandy Past when I conceived my poem and the foamy Future when it says its done. Poem 1. Recall the 0th Law of Poem Dynamics; Eschew pedantic semantics. The Red Jeep might be Poem 3, we’ll see; maybe if the powerful waves don’t float it out to sea as if it had a notion to sail the Atlantic Ocean.
Poem 1 Merritt Island, August 1966
Something grunted in the palmetto mound Bull frog or ‘gator? neither threatening The Banana River’s rhythmic lapping Music made from the buzzing background sound. White cattle egret aimed it’s spear-face down Wing shadows deglared its noon-time fishing For Gambusia minnows larvae-feeding. Horseshoe crabs like Trilobites abound. Moist fragrant air’s a quilt of warmth surround Insectivores, pescavores, herbivores Sunlight-powered molecules recycling, Eaters are eaten around each go-round. Threading the liminal shoreline I walked Safe now, but by an unknown future stalked.
the once solid manly man broke
into a million bits at the edge of
consciousness filling his disembodied
aura over-full with unfocused images
fashioning a feeling that he’s floating
somewhere or more freely nowhere
Siri’s simple stand
Kale, squash, carrots, beets, cabbage
Honor Local Roots
Seven years ago I was road-tripping with my dog, Rocky. We were following the Monarch Butterfly migration in my Jeep. Sometimes man-made roads take the same route the Monarchs take in the multi-generational migration. Sometimes the migranting beauty follows waterways and routes with only trails. Driving one of their routes took us through places we’d never seen and would never have seen. We met people we’d never met and would have never met.
The Monarchs were dense in the air around us and on the plants we passed, more than you can imagine. It was a fantasy world of movement and color. But there was no one to share it with. As wonderful as it sounds… well and was… my life is better now. Next time I want to do something “crazy” like drive a Jeep on one of the migration routes while the butterflies are heading home and get the feeling of that land, those creeks, those flowers, that sky, that air, and all those butterflies… yes. If we can do it, we will. To echo an old adage: shared beauty is doubled, shared boredom is halved.
I chose not to post the picture of my hand and a Monarch seemingly perched on my index finger. It was a lie. I didn’t want to disturb them. But I noticed a dead one on the side of a dirt road. It looked undamaged. So I posed that shot. I did see a live one land on a little girl’s head in Iraan, Texas. But I did not have time to get permission to take a picture, even to get my cell phone to switch into Camera App. So that one, well, the sense of that ugly town and the ugly situation of the people living and growing up there, contrasted to the Monarchs who invade there twice a year… will remain a memory.
Have a beautiful day with beauty fluttering over you and around you and gently landing on you.