hello again

It's been a while my friends.
I have had no words.

More precisely, I have had no words that I can share.

You can forgive a soul for stealing away poems in the night,
or hoarding the occasional beautiful thought.
For fear,
(it is too tender for the world to fawn and paw,)
overtakes me.

But do not worry about the river running dry
or contemplate that the creek has stopped up it's watering hole.

For I have been at work.
Secretly,
Like the shoemaker's pixie.
Sewing and tapping a soul that you can fit perfectly.

And every once in a while you will remember me.
You will take these words in your hands and try them on for size,
finding that they fit you perfectly, like they were made especially with you in mind.

Remember today that there are always delicate secrets afoot.
For the magic is in the revealing.

The Book Of Praise

I found a small book of praise discarded in a box of give aways.
It fit neatly in my palm as if it were meant to.
Its spine bereft and exposed.
I opened it carefully and spilling from its stale pages the sweetest of music poured, as if the poets of old, vaguely kindred to me, sang their heart songs this dry morning with the same conviction they did the first moment inspired.
And closing its brittle pages, I smiled at my treasure and looked forward to its opening another morning.

The Pronouncement

I see her every morning
Sitting by the window
The light washing her as a Polaroid still in my memory
I have the feeling she needs to talk
But instead she blends into the whitewash
Avoiding, I walk by her consumed with my own thoughts
Did I turn off the coffee maker?
Where will I go for lunch?
I hope I can slip into my desk unnoticed
But deep down I am avoiding myself

She drives past them Monday to Friday
Huddled like an exotic panic of geese
Their long necks and brown skin
Their dark hair and glassy eyes
They look alone
Cloistered in a cultural prison
Tolerating the uniformity but longing for an escape
She wishes she could sit among them
A beige princess
And offer them a bauble from her kingdom

Every day he joins them
He does it because he should
They laugh and share news worthy clippings of their lives
For him it’s a ritual toe testing of the water
A casual stroll amidst the kiddie pool of social exchanges
Like every day before, he feels an intruder to their party

The dichotomy of us and they is a tiresome thing
For I am always standing just outside the ring
It is a construct of the mind
Embraced by all mankind
Move the boundary stone
I , you, he, she, we, them are just flesh and bone
Longing to be known

the poet awakes

i cannot but speak the words that form deep within me
they are cloistered for a season
in my innermost being
but without warning they spring forth
like the hardy crocus
reaching out of the cold earth
towards the sun that warms its very core
and if you are one that anticipates the beauty of this wellspring season
and dares to wander among the dead and frozen
you may hear the amarathine voice call out
and surprise you with its vigor and delicacy

Purple Trees

I was surprised by the purple trees,

But more so by the swell of pride that apprehended,

As the academic pomps and vanities proceeded before me

Among them was but a little child.

In my eyes,

So tender a shoot,

Curly haired of fair skin I remembered.

He smiled in his black cloak of wisdom and stood among the hopefuls.

I saw him dream with his unfurled wings

And I an outsider to this world

Was for a few short hours allowed in to taste the sweet of accomplishment,

Like a stolen kiss.

As I witnessed the spectacle,

My eyes became a fountainhead of the soul

And spilled upon the ground warm droplets of pure joy.

All present heard his name called forth

And struggling for decorum

Joined the assemblage in this corporate mirth.

And how he walked across the stage a man,

It is a mystery to me.

Yet all this beauty and spirit

Beneath the magic of purple trees.

brother hawk

i saw a great territorial bird
swoop over my head
it was banefully grey against the powdery blue sky
it reminded me of the first time I met
my wheedling brother hawk face to face
i was with my father
we had ventured out to a place we called the top of the world
my petite feet struggling to follow in his oversized steps
i clumsily tripped and scurried like a scared mouse trying to keep up and out of danger
when finally he stopped
i saw the fecundity of prairie woodland open up to the wide expanse of a glacier carved valley
a gentle river snaked it way through the green
it was dusk and a hush had fallen over creation
we stood looking out
each imagining his realm
when above my head I felt the quiet brush of wings
and the whir of feathers
Directly above us as though suspended in midair
the fierce hawk hovered
and as quick as I gasped a breath of air to bring life back to my paralyzed frame
he soared away
with his keen eye looking into my soul
crying,

“Your Face is so Beautiful, and the Sound of Your Words imparts intuitive wisdom. It is so long since this sparrow-hawk has had even a glimpse of water.”

my lion heart swelled in his accolade
and I straightened with a sudden courage and knowledge
my father smiled and said,
he mistook you for a mouse

hedge row

i worked among the ancient hedge row,
stoic and wild,
some limbs vigerous and strong,
others dead men standing in the resolute positions they expired in,
i cut and pulled,
most gave way with no struggle,
others fought back and even sctatched at my face,
slapping and gouging in a reactive endevour to remain,
i felt like God,
as i wrestled a particularly hardy barbarian,
i named him Jacob
and he would not go easily,
i cut him,
even though he was fresh and green,
knowing it was not a mortal wound,
but a sympathetic bruise,
that would help him grow
in another direction,
tis such a cruel job of death to see the green bud come,
and though the tools be simple,
they are sharp enough
to cut to the quick of the human condition

daylily

i worked among the lilies,
freeing them from winters rot and decay,
rolling back the tangle of dead tendrils,
with every brutal cut,
exposing the tender shoots to the cool of spring air
and the promise of sunshine,
i felt like God,
caring for the most insignificance of life,
preparing them for the moment they were meant for,
to bloom but for one day,
not lamenting the brevity of their fourishing,
but delighting in the mere existance of such a beauty