Thursday, August 16, 2018

On Gravity's Whisper

Moving northeast—
sky feather
fanning out.  7-17-18

Last night’s rain
drops from
myrtle blossoms.  7-17-18

First sun
is broken by honeysuckle into
yellow pieces.  7-17-18

My resolute, stalwart friend is sick now.
He writes, “I look forward to meeting Maya one day.”
An anchor thrown into the future.  7-17-18

After the rain—
puccoon, wood poppy—tall,
floating on the cool morning air.  7-17-18

Three vultures
circle overhead.
One is small.  7-18-18

The numbers at the end
of the poems have gotten out
in front of me,
me still writing back in
the olden days.  7-18-18

Morning wren and mourning dove
sing counterpoint. 
Catbird and I enjoy the music.  7-18-18

Where does it go, the light
coming through honeysuckles leaves
after it comes into my eyes?
A dance of moments as we turn on gravity’s whisper.  7-19-18

Leaving the madness
inside with the news.
Outside the world
moves as it should—
sharp bird calls
in the soft breeze.  7-19-18

All new this morning,
rosy sharons in a ring
touched by bees.  7-19-18

Catbird on the hammock
looks at me, also gray and black.
The feathered shawl.  7-19-18

Cortright asked for shadows.
I gave them to Kent,
the second attempt.  7-19-18

Above thought
bubbles rise
open with colors,
words.  7-19-18

“Who are you?” catbird asks from the myrtle.
Who am I?
A fellow breather of air, threading moments, tiny beads
on the long necklace of memory.  7-20-18

Fortunate Garden

Washington flowers,
Hannah’s flowers
dance on the screen, perfect
compositions of joy. 

The old one, new and loose as a summer gale,
blown from a Renaissance artist here
to waiting hands ready to paint
with breath.  7-24-18

Maya’s dark day recedes.
The rain stays,
but sadness lifts with the promise
of a wrap and liquid watermelon.  7-24-18

After days of rain,
the earth breathes.
In the morning sun—
dust and decay heavy
on morning air.  7-26-18

From the other side of morning,
waves of cicadas dry out
one at a time.  7-26-18

The honeysuckle volunteer
in a plastic pot reaches for the table.
A rain response.  7-26-18

Three kids
happy to see each other
bounce up the stairs.  7-26-18

Moved by the air,
creepers shed their dried bits,
whole again in intent if not in form.  7-26-1-8

Morning conversation with catbird. 
He speaks.
I listen.  7-26-18

Tim Rice

My old classmate put away in a home.
A year ago he posted to a photo of my cat
resting on my arm, “Aww.”  7-26-18

Pink spiral leans this way.
No sun yet to pull her gaze away.  7-27-18

The perfect morning
down Soapstone
yellow light
through green trees.  7-27-18

The thick air
belongs to cicadas—
their summer world
rising and falling
in waves.   7-27-18

Three kids.
Three screens.
One is on the bed.  7-27-18

Speaking up over
cicadas, the long
winded redbird.  7-27-18

Grape ivy moves across crab apple,
dead now,
assaults the maple.  7-27-18

The last of buttermilk cloud
moves east
in a blue sky.  7-27-18

Moving air,
moving catbird,
a streak of chipmunks.  7-27-18

Who is awake?
Wood poppies, yellow,
but still standing tall.  7-28-18

Does the light learn anything
moving through honeysuckle leaves?
Shared giggles?  7-28-18

The moment of sideways sun
is gone.  Catbird speaks,
sun on his head.  7-29-18

Skipper on the sharon,
carpenter bee
moves on.  7-29-18

Unknown winged insect in the plant bottle.
I lean the bottle over under the hammock and he
follows the water out the opening.
There’s a story here.  7-29-18

Moving like the wind
on the beach, cicada calls
surf the trees.  7-29-18

Heavy with color,
red bird rides
a red wind into
the green tree.  7-19-18

On the speaker phone,
happy voices playing
Animal Jam.  7-29-18

Red bird’s voice
is as sweet as
the warm blue sky.  7-29-18

Carolina wren is repeating red bird’s
two note statement.
Counterpoint in two dialects.  7-29-18

Tufted titmice
preen under grape ivy
mountain.  7-29-18

A long snake on the maple branch rests
after his jump down from the roof.
He tastes the air with his tongue.  7-29-18

Sweet morning moist
with night’s perfume.
A bird pips and then
a long wait.  7-30-18

The sky has come
all the way down this morning.
We breathe moisture,
soft and gray.  7-30-18

Who needs the news?
Outside wood poppies’
last leaves yellow.  7-30-18

Mid summer
hibiscus’ first leaves
yellow.  7-30-18

On the orange flagstones,
closed sharons,
rolled tight as cigars,
lavender now.  7-30-18

Sunday, July 22, 2018

Speaking the Old Language

Out of the soft morning,
mourning dove calls
sounding lost.  6-17-18

Chipmunk with grass in his mouth 
stops at my foot.
Kitty watches from the window. 7-17-18

Summer flows over the sitting poet,
the creeper-caught sun
rests below.  7-1-18

All my forever poems
echo catbird, redbird
speaking the old language.  7-2-18

Below the river,
far beyond the Glade,
mourning dove touches
the morning softness
with her own softness.  7-2-18

Summer moves across
planes of columbine—
leaf miners tunneling.  7-4-18

The long winter wait is for this—
straight morning sun pausing,
coming through pinwheels,
pausing long enough to notice,
to receive.  7-4-18

The first moment outside—
redbird is chirping.
And from the west, a response.  7-6-18

In the gray light
waiting to be pink,
today’s rose-of-sharon.  7-6-18

The teenage raccoon on the patio
is bigger than Stella. Between growls,
Stella puffs herself up.  7-6-18

Preening in the old crab apple,
fledgling cat bird
in the sun.  7-8-18

Mourning dove,
morning sun,
honeysuckle’s curved leaves.  7-8-18

In another month
the ringing in my ears will be gone,
replaced with crickets.  7-8-18

Sunday, July 8, 2018

Red Beacons at the Edge of Hearing

Two letters.
Two poems.
Eight pages of journal.
Sixty-one years of comfort—
Louella’s handwriting.  6-12-18


Here’s a morning that
holds true—creeper’s
pinwheels stirring the sun.  6-14-18

Under the river of thin clouds,
swift pivots left then right.  6-14-18

Longley said to write it
even if it was the only thing—
red birds talk to each other this soft morning,
red beacons at the edge of hearing.  6-15-18

The morning sweetness,
a round table,
the chair that fits my back.  6-15-18

The firefly lands on my hand,
a tiny weight to carry a big light.  6-15-18

three crows overhead.
Two land on the white pine.  6-15-18

Chipmunk with grass in her mouth
stops at my foot.  Kitty watches
from the window.  6-17-18

the light that travels,
the light that rests within.  6-15-18