Oh why, dear muse, has this pen been forsaken?
Does verse not slake your ego when you thirst?
Perhaps your taste in wine I have mistaken;
a sour grape for muse? I have rehearsed
the motions of the quill I made before
but little seems to flow. The verses should
be pooling on the paper, not the floor
like blood or urine. If one only could
turn on and off the muse through force of will;
extract the feelings deep within the heart,
I’d wick the fear and love from pot to quill
and scratch them on a page. If I could start
perhaps then, muse, you would restore my knack
and let the magic circle, circle back.
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3/11/2006
1/31/2006
Of Love
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I wrote this about a young friend of mine who was about to become a first time father... he's not exactly a "poetry reading type"... Police Officer, Harley rider, Hunter etc."... but, I knew him when he was a little boy...and the little boy is still in there... He didn't have a clue what this new little girl was gonna do to him. Never did show him the poem...
A feeling of euphoria;
a woman and a rose;
a long, committed partnership;
of love the husband knows.
A tenuous and abstract thing
of love he understands…
or thought he did until they
put a baby in his hands.
A tiny girl in tatted lace
has brought him to his knees;
she grips his heart with fear at
every cough and baby sneeze.
She calls to him in silent nights;
the deepest sleep defeats--
she hold his breath in hostage till
he knows her heart still beats.
Behold, the hulking man of men
of beastly, manly powers--
who’s brought to tears by tiny fists
with gifts of mangled flowers.
A feeling of euphoria;
a little girl, a rose;
a dirty face, a sloppy kiss;
of love the father knows.
I wrote this about a young friend of mine who was about to become a first time father... he's not exactly a "poetry reading type"... Police Officer, Harley rider, Hunter etc."... but, I knew him when he was a little boy...and the little boy is still in there... He didn't have a clue what this new little girl was gonna do to him. Never did show him the poem...
A feeling of euphoria;
a woman and a rose;
a long, committed partnership;
of love the husband knows.
A tenuous and abstract thing
of love he understands…
or thought he did until they
put a baby in his hands.
A tiny girl in tatted lace
has brought him to his knees;
she grips his heart with fear at
every cough and baby sneeze.
She calls to him in silent nights;
the deepest sleep defeats--
she hold his breath in hostage till
he knows her heart still beats.
Behold, the hulking man of men
of beastly, manly powers--
who’s brought to tears by tiny fists
with gifts of mangled flowers.
A feeling of euphoria;
a little girl, a rose;
a dirty face, a sloppy kiss;
of love the father knows.
1/28/2006
In a Hand Basket
| ________________________________________ The bike is coasting down the lane the wheels go round and round, why am I in this basket and where is it that I’m bound? I take my chance, a leap of faith, then quickly to the farm. To jump into her arms, again I’m safe from further harm. Then off to walk the yellow road, adventures are in store. I think it’s safe to say we aren’t in Kansas anymore. This was inspired by a bumper sticker I saw today.... it read, "Why am I in this hand basket, and where am I going?" and it just wouldn't go away until I wrote it. "If happy little bluebirds fly Beyond the rainbow, Why oh why can't I?" |
1/26/2006
It Follows
My eyes roam skyward sailing East
and though each moment seems a moon
when senses on such beauty feast
the night will pass away too soon.
My soul is drawn when sailing west
to more than one can safe absorb.
I am by heaven's grace possessed;
enraptured by an ancient orb.
It follows that a moonlit sky
will call your beauty to my mind.
No matter where my roving eye;
no matter where you are I find
a glow that distance can't eclipse;
I feel your love-- if not your lips.
and though each moment seems a moon
when senses on such beauty feast
the night will pass away too soon.
My soul is drawn when sailing west
to more than one can safe absorb.
I am by heaven's grace possessed;
enraptured by an ancient orb.
It follows that a moonlit sky
will call your beauty to my mind.
No matter where my roving eye;
no matter where you are I find
a glow that distance can't eclipse;
I feel your love-- if not your lips.
1/01/2006
Old Salt
"'O God the sea is so great and my boat is so small.'" ~ John F. Kennedy ~
Man hoists a sail to fly upon the wind,
through spray and storm; to scale the mountain sea.
And though it’s just, it feels as good as sin
and moves us near to heaven; ecstacy
that fires the human spirit. God’s decree
was that our salt should match the sea, and this
has charged the very blood that flows in thee.
A sailor bleeds of nature’s dark abyss
and lives to taste her tears; her deep primeval kiss.
"I really don't know why it is that all of us are so committed to the sea, except I think it's because in addition to the fact that the sea changes, and the light changes, and ships change, it's because we all came from the sea. And it is an interesting biological fact that all of us have, in our veins the exact same percentage of salt in our blood that exists in the ocean, and therefore, we have salt in our blood, in our sweat, in our tears. We are tied to the ocean. And when we go back to the sea--whether it is to sail or to watch it--we are going back from whence we came."
~ John F. Kennedy ~ Remarks in Newport at the Australian Ambassador's Dinner for the America's Cup Crews, September 14, 1962, Public Papers of the Presidents: 1962, p. 684.
Man hoists a sail to fly upon the wind,
through spray and storm; to scale the mountain sea.
And though it’s just, it feels as good as sin
and moves us near to heaven; ecstacy
that fires the human spirit. God’s decree
was that our salt should match the sea, and this
has charged the very blood that flows in thee.
A sailor bleeds of nature’s dark abyss
and lives to taste her tears; her deep primeval kiss.
"I really don't know why it is that all of us are so committed to the sea, except I think it's because in addition to the fact that the sea changes, and the light changes, and ships change, it's because we all came from the sea. And it is an interesting biological fact that all of us have, in our veins the exact same percentage of salt in our blood that exists in the ocean, and therefore, we have salt in our blood, in our sweat, in our tears. We are tied to the ocean. And when we go back to the sea--whether it is to sail or to watch it--we are going back from whence we came."
~ John F. Kennedy ~ Remarks in Newport at the Australian Ambassador's Dinner for the America's Cup Crews, September 14, 1962, Public Papers of the Presidents: 1962, p. 684.
12/31/2005
Spenserian Pie
My first "spenserian" sonnet.
A poet, or a cook of written word,
with Lingonberry lips from Christmas toast
is staring from my mirror. “It’s absurd”
I hear me tell myself, “you are, at most
an imitation cyber bard. You roast
with cuts of wordy morsels pilfered there
and here about the net. You’re but a ghost
of others baking words. You are, I swear,
chefing written nothings-- but no one seems to care.
A poet, or a cook of written word,
with Lingonberry lips from Christmas toast
is staring from my mirror. “It’s absurd”
I hear me tell myself, “you are, at most
an imitation cyber bard. You roast
with cuts of wordy morsels pilfered there
and here about the net. You’re but a ghost
of others baking words. You are, I swear,
chefing written nothings-- but no one seems to care.
A Swelling Tide
Swelling with tide from a heavenly moon
the sailor or soul of a sailor, the sea,
knowing the sun’s at antithesis noon -
lost for the interim - sets his love free;
opening depths that are wonders to see,
mirroring light from the deepest abyss,
fondling beams from his lover to be.
Moon answers sweetly, be certain of this;
she is waning away but she blows him a kiss.
the sailor or soul of a sailor, the sea,
knowing the sun’s at antithesis noon -
lost for the interim - sets his love free;
opening depths that are wonders to see,
mirroring light from the deepest abyss,
fondling beams from his lover to be.
Moon answers sweetly, be certain of this;
she is waning away but she blows him a kiss.
On Leaving
On leaving Christmas presence in the air,
on holiday from work, or maybe not...
the spirit feels, as winter, cold and bare,
the body, now a temple sense forgot.
The reasons for the Christmas presents bought
are gone, like bows and papers, in a bag
somewhere behind a fence. The hearts besot*
with cheerfulness; with milk and honey, sag
from Christmas dark regret; to new years sulk and drag.
on holiday from work, or maybe not...
the spirit feels, as winter, cold and bare,
the body, now a temple sense forgot.
The reasons for the Christmas presents bought
are gone, like bows and papers, in a bag
somewhere behind a fence. The hearts besot*
with cheerfulness; with milk and honey, sag
from Christmas dark regret; to new years sulk and drag.
Reflections (for Marty)
Having spent Christmas with my "rock hound/UFOlogist" brother in law and his family...
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In darkened desert peaks
imagination seeks
to find the ancient faces in the stone…
and “want to see it eyes”
search water-mirrored skies,
in wonder, for reflections never shown.
An object in the lake,
in helpless double take,
escapes from unidentified to known;
the visitors from space,
in alabaster lace,
are beams the moon has spilled for you alone.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In darkened desert peaks
imagination seeks
to find the ancient faces in the stone…
and “want to see it eyes”
search water-mirrored skies,
in wonder, for reflections never shown.
An object in the lake,
in helpless double take,
escapes from unidentified to known;
the visitors from space,
in alabaster lace,
are beams the moon has spilled for you alone.
12/17/2005
Circle Circles
The circle circles roundabout
and finds a way to, neatly, close
without a pause or any doubt.
You’re smiling Mother, I suppose
for, now, it’s mine to hold the hand
to soothe the ego, slightly bruised;
to wipe away the tear drops and
repeat the phrases often used…
“My little one, ignore the pain--
tomorrow brings another dawn.
No rose can grow without the rain.
Until the fear and pain are gone
I’ll hold you thus; encircle you
as circles must”-- as fathers do.
and finds a way to, neatly, close
without a pause or any doubt.
You’re smiling Mother, I suppose
for, now, it’s mine to hold the hand
to soothe the ego, slightly bruised;
to wipe away the tear drops and
repeat the phrases often used…
“My little one, ignore the pain--
tomorrow brings another dawn.
No rose can grow without the rain.
Until the fear and pain are gone
I’ll hold you thus; encircle you
as circles must”-- as fathers do.
12/09/2005
How (v 3.0)
How like a flame in fickle wind;
how fragile love, if old or new,
that with a breath comes to an end;
that with another glows anew.
How turn the cycles of the tides,
in waves, toward a distant shore.
How love erodes as earth abides;
each grain of sand as those before.
How can I live if love will die;
why does love come, if it must go
How bittersweet was your goodbye
and how, my love, was I to know
that you could go and yet remain
the glow of love's eternal flame?
how fragile love, if old or new,
that with a breath comes to an end;
that with another glows anew.
How turn the cycles of the tides,
in waves, toward a distant shore.
How love erodes as earth abides;
each grain of sand as those before.
How can I live if love will die;
why does love come, if it must go
How bittersweet was your goodbye
and how, my love, was I to know
that you could go and yet remain
the glow of love's eternal flame?
11/21/2005
September Rain (From Summer Rain v2)
The patent ambiguity of time,
Sepember rain to January snow;
the meanings hidden deep within a rhyme
for hearts alone, that minds will barely know;
are miracles alive beyond the ken
of common man and woman; out of touch
realities where flesh has never been;
a paradise for dreamers. Out of such
I know a place where wrong is never right,
where all the many miseries of man
are vanishing or vanished out of sight;
like sorrows in the Neverland of Pan;
below the far horizon, yet above—
the world of your extraordinary love.
Sepember rain to January snow;
the meanings hidden deep within a rhyme
for hearts alone, that minds will barely know;
are miracles alive beyond the ken
of common man and woman; out of touch
realities where flesh has never been;
a paradise for dreamers. Out of such
I know a place where wrong is never right,
where all the many miseries of man
are vanishing or vanished out of sight;
like sorrows in the Neverland of Pan;
below the far horizon, yet above—
the world of your extraordinary love.
10/30/2005
Osceola
In eighteen hundred thirty eight
a painter, passing by
before it was too late,
used skill and artists eye
to gauge a noble warrior’s heart
to excavate his soul
to make a warrior, torn apart,
appear, forever, whole.
The eyes of golden amber brown;
the face of mirrored dread
A feathered plume, a crimson crown
A race so nearly dead.
The “trail of tears” with weary feet
did Osceola stride
his Seminoles in sad defeat
bereft of hope and pride.
The warriors garb belied his pain
for life and hope were done
he wouldn’t live to fight again
as death had nearly won.
When Catlin ceased, his eye fulfilled,
his painting graced a hall
to show the world a warrior, killed,
could live to haunt us all.
A link to the George Catlin Portrait of Osceola.
A link to the Story of Osceola and the story behind the painting of the portrait.
a painter, passing by
before it was too late,
used skill and artists eye
to gauge a noble warrior’s heart
to excavate his soul
to make a warrior, torn apart,
appear, forever, whole.
The eyes of golden amber brown;
the face of mirrored dread
A feathered plume, a crimson crown
A race so nearly dead.
The “trail of tears” with weary feet
did Osceola stride
his Seminoles in sad defeat
bereft of hope and pride.
The warriors garb belied his pain
for life and hope were done
he wouldn’t live to fight again
as death had nearly won.
When Catlin ceased, his eye fulfilled,
his painting graced a hall
to show the world a warrior, killed,
could live to haunt us all.
A link to the George Catlin Portrait of Osceola.
A link to the Story of Osceola and the story behind the painting of the portrait.
9/10/2005
A Little Boy
Reflecting on the fields of life I've sown
in proper furrows; ample bales of hay,
I turn my mind to troubles that I've known;
to knowledge lost and found along the way.
The seeds that spawned the crops to feed the years;
in fields of every day; in rows of life--
brought happiness aplenty; bitter tears;
my children and a strong and loving wife.
The years have yielded lyrics, frank and terse.
From meadows of reflection; rows of time
I harvest to a journal bound with verse
this complicated life in simple rhyme--
from fields of thought to rows of scribbled joy--
an aging man, a youth-- a little boy.
in proper furrows; ample bales of hay,
I turn my mind to troubles that I've known;
to knowledge lost and found along the way.
The seeds that spawned the crops to feed the years;
in fields of every day; in rows of life--
brought happiness aplenty; bitter tears;
my children and a strong and loving wife.
The years have yielded lyrics, frank and terse.
From meadows of reflection; rows of time
I harvest to a journal bound with verse
this complicated life in simple rhyme--
from fields of thought to rows of scribbled joy--
an aging man, a youth-- a little boy.
How (v2.0)
How like a flame in fickle wind;
how fragile, love, if old or new
that, with a breath, comes to an end;
that, with another, glows anew.
How turn the cycles of the tides,
in waves, toward a battered shore.
How love erodes, how earth abides;
each grain of sand as those before.
How can we live if love can die;
why does love come, if it must go
How bittersweet was our goodbye
and how, my love, was I to know
that you could go and yet remain
the glow of love's eternal flame?"
how fragile, love, if old or new
that, with a breath, comes to an end;
that, with another, glows anew.
How turn the cycles of the tides,
in waves, toward a battered shore.
How love erodes, how earth abides;
each grain of sand as those before.
How can we live if love can die;
why does love come, if it must go
How bittersweet was our goodbye
and how, my love, was I to know
that you could go and yet remain
the glow of love's eternal flame?"
7/21/2005
El Alma Del Caballo (the soul of the Horse)
The old Vaquero rolled a smoke
and spoke of unseen forces;
the awful toll that wars require
of soldiers and their horses…
how some believe that war cures war;
of lessons known and told;
why men can’t learn a truth their heart
has not the shape to hold.
“Caballo hearts, old soldiers know,
reflect the hearts of men.
This fact was known when Moses fled
and Pharaoh learned to swim.”
“The horse and soldier share a bond”,
the old hand told the young,
“for Horse, like Man, enjoys the taste
of war upon his tongue.”
“None but a man who’s gone to war
and felt its mighty force,
while clinging to a saddle, truly
understands the horse.”
A mount was shot from under me
in battle near the sea
and death revealed the nature of
the horse’s soul to me."
“All horses share a common soul.
I’ve seen this thing, it’s true…
if you know one, a single horse,
then all are known to you."
The old man tossed his cigarette
and filled his coffee cup…
and as he did another there,
a Gringo boy, spoke up.
"If what you say is true, old man,
when Horse and Man are gone,
the soul of Horse will perish too,
what point in staying on?"
The old man laughed, “You are so young
my cowboy friend but try
to open up your heart and mind
and I will tell you why
these words you speak, they make no sense,
I tell you here and now.
No horses in the world? This thing
our God would not allow."
and spoke of unseen forces;
the awful toll that wars require
of soldiers and their horses…
how some believe that war cures war;
of lessons known and told;
why men can’t learn a truth their heart
has not the shape to hold.
“Caballo hearts, old soldiers know,
reflect the hearts of men.
This fact was known when Moses fled
and Pharaoh learned to swim.”
“The horse and soldier share a bond”,
the old hand told the young,
“for Horse, like Man, enjoys the taste
of war upon his tongue.”
“None but a man who’s gone to war
and felt its mighty force,
while clinging to a saddle, truly
understands the horse.”
A mount was shot from under me
in battle near the sea
and death revealed the nature of
the horse’s soul to me."
“All horses share a common soul.
I’ve seen this thing, it’s true…
if you know one, a single horse,
then all are known to you."
The old man tossed his cigarette
and filled his coffee cup…
and as he did another there,
a Gringo boy, spoke up.
"If what you say is true, old man,
when Horse and Man are gone,
the soul of Horse will perish too,
what point in staying on?"
The old man laughed, “You are so young
my cowboy friend but try
to open up your heart and mind
and I will tell you why
these words you speak, they make no sense,
I tell you here and now.
No horses in the world? This thing
our God would not allow."
To Feel
I, light of foot and dark of thought,
give in before the tide
and clutch the pain I, “sigh”, forgot;
the dread I feel inside.
Embracing fear that’s still around
from heartbreaks out of mind,
I bare my chest. Of truth, I’ve found,
I like the naked kind.
Love is a loss I’ll reinvest;
I’ll wager soul and shirt.
To feel the love, I find it best
to reinstall the hurt.
give in before the tide
and clutch the pain I, “sigh”, forgot;
the dread I feel inside.
Embracing fear that’s still around
from heartbreaks out of mind,
I bare my chest. Of truth, I’ve found,
I like the naked kind.
Love is a loss I’ll reinvest;
I’ll wager soul and shirt.
To feel the love, I find it best
to reinstall the hurt.
7/19/2005
Rekindling Glory
By day it was merely a line;
the bottom in ocean, the top in the sky;
a giant appearing benign
when seen through a distant and innocent eye.
The keeper, with cloth and with rod,
on legs made of granite, his weary brow damp;
ascended like Jacob to God;
rekindling glory with labor and lamp.
The mariners, weary and wise,
returning from ports in the Orient found,
when stars had been lost to their eyes,
a magical beacon for those homeward bound;
A sentinel searching the night;
a modern descendent, who honors the name,
of Pharos; the island of light;
antiquity's wonder of welcoming flame.
the bottom in ocean, the top in the sky;
a giant appearing benign
when seen through a distant and innocent eye.
The keeper, with cloth and with rod,
on legs made of granite, his weary brow damp;
ascended like Jacob to God;
rekindling glory with labor and lamp.
The mariners, weary and wise,
returning from ports in the Orient found,
when stars had been lost to their eyes,
a magical beacon for those homeward bound;
A sentinel searching the night;
a modern descendent, who honors the name,
of Pharos; the island of light;
antiquity's wonder of welcoming flame.
Rivers of Time
Dinosaurs waiting for stone to erode,
their skeletons covered, uncovered again;
iron that's forgotten the blood where it flowed
and phosphorous leached from a primitive brain;
Delicate sabers of soft-stepping cats
enshrouded in shimmering oceans of sand;
Strata of relative sediment that's
concealing the bones of the earliest man.
Visible traces of numerous beasts;
the sum of Earth's creatures forever enshrined.
Signs of their passing won't slow in the least
the rivers and runnels of ongoing time.
their skeletons covered, uncovered again;
iron that's forgotten the blood where it flowed
and phosphorous leached from a primitive brain;
Delicate sabers of soft-stepping cats
enshrouded in shimmering oceans of sand;
Strata of relative sediment that's
concealing the bones of the earliest man.
Visible traces of numerous beasts;
the sum of Earth's creatures forever enshrined.
Signs of their passing won't slow in the least
the rivers and runnels of ongoing time.
5/01/2005
Opaque
Opaque, before the light of early dawn,
a window pane; a portal to our youth,
plays visions out of time. My eyes are drawn
to scenes within. An oracle of truth
embraces me, its chilly arms enfolding
my heart and all my dreams. She loves him yet;
she mourns the distant hand she could be holding;
the touch her mind and body can’t forget.
As dark as any moonless night I’ve known,
and darker still; my heart. What muse I’ve had
is black as any crow that’s ever flown
and speaks in the vernacular of sad--
as if the eyes of God were unforgiving;
as if my soul had died and left me living.
~
a window pane; a portal to our youth,
plays visions out of time. My eyes are drawn
to scenes within. An oracle of truth
embraces me, its chilly arms enfolding
my heart and all my dreams. She loves him yet;
she mourns the distant hand she could be holding;
the touch her mind and body can’t forget.
As dark as any moonless night I’ve known,
and darker still; my heart. What muse I’ve had
is black as any crow that’s ever flown
and speaks in the vernacular of sad--
as if the eyes of God were unforgiving;
as if my soul had died and left me living.
~
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