Saturday, October 11, 2014

Coming Red, Pear is Now (from the journal)

Coming red, pear is now,
firelight reflecting
her inner thoughts.  9-20-14


Just below the green leaves,
yellow vibrates at the same cycle 
as the late summer crickets.  9-22-14 

The world moves in shadow
and light, our breath
threaded through it.  9-22-14

Coming into being now,
streamers of earthly stars
looking over my shoulder 
at the lighter place,
mist-shrouded this morning
and one cricket speaks.  10-7-14

Sunday, August 3, 2014

In the long-traveled light (from the journal)

Sharons' rosy smiles
are all new this morning,
tender new
in the ancient air,
in the long-traveled light.  7-23-14

Friday, July 18, 2014

Sunday, July 13, 2014

Musical Breath (from the journal)

The light in my eyes came through sassafras, wood poppy, aster.
Left the red and blue parts of itself behind.
What does it leave behind in me, besides breath, musical breath,
Waterfalls of musical breath? 7-13-14

Friday, March 28, 2014

Just released from Librado Press!

A profound, intense, and vivacious collection of poetry 
from the South African Liberation Struggle by poet and actor Mphela Makgoba.

Born in South Africa in 1935, acclaimed actor and poet, Mphela Makgoba lived in exile from the Apartheid regime from 1964-1995. Makgoba was highly active in Washington, D.C. theatre and received a nomination for the Helen Hayes award for his performance in Athol Fugard’s The Island. After his return to South Africa, Makgoba starred in the 1997 13-episode SABC television drama series Masakeng. He currently resides in Kanana, Gauteng Province, South Africa.

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Sunday, February 9, 2014

Under the Weighted Light (from the journal)

Hidden at the rest stop
gingko’s leaves appear on the ground
yellow in the cold yellow sun.  11-20-13

Soft from the frost,
bleached by the night air,
gingko’s little wrinkled persimmons,
soft between my fingers.  11-20-13

The sun.
It didn’t forget me all these months—
maple’s shadows on my face, my hands, my eyes.  11-20-13

Lemon with the last bit of color,
honeysuckles under the blue sky.
All the red berries.  11-23-13

Flowing down from the sun,
the cloud river with wisps
teased up by the moving light.  11-23-13

When I was gone
hickory lost all her golden leaves.
Greenbrier holds on to one,
her own, round as the sun.   11-23-13

Watery sun
over the gray wood.
It’s enough for all.  11-25-13

One more leaf
floating down on light.
I memorize how it’s done.  11-25-13

Is life enough?
In the sun it is.  11-25-13

Sitting here in love,
                      in sun,
                      your breath
                      filling me
                      with warmth.  11-25-13

In winter warm oak leaf light,
honeysuckles leaves ret,
curl by curl.  11-26-13

like hickory in the rain
arms outstretched,
waiting for breath.  11-26-13

I opened the window
and the light poured in—
thin, dry, sticking to everything.  11-27-13

Hey sky, call me harder.
It’s dark in this room.
I can’t smell your heart.
There’s a cloud in the way.  12-3-13

It’s me, front and center.
Sun’s pupil waiting for moments,
illuminated moments.  12-4-13

A Sun Poem

Moving across seas of thought,
the holy one, one.  12-4-13

Breath, mind,
sunlight on my eyelashes.
Mind breathing light,
the other breath.  12-4-13

The light of first snow changes everything—
everywhere lightfall,
everywhere the quiet sound of light falling.  12-8-13

You walked backwards to meet me,
changed hands, stole my pen,
littered my heart with your laughter,
the sea blue eyes that listened.
And then I took it back,
my pen, to write the letters,
all the letters from my hand to yours,
one heart between.  12-8-13

The tinkling ice one day.
The quiet snow the next.
Beauty filling up the spaces between my thoughts
as vertical as the unmoving trees.  12-10-13

The only warm light this cold morning
is the yellow light passing through
honeysuckle’s last leaves.  12-11-13

under the black stripe of sky.
Above, the bright stripe filled with sun.
Here, below
dwelling in love,
a place of my choosing,
Here, just here.  12-11-13

Will it be repaired?
Will the sun melt a new skin
on the broken snowflakes?
Will the sigh be heard? 
Will the blue sky reach the heart again?  12-12-13

At Dawn   (for George Garvin)

It came again,
red and its own reflection.
Burned away thought
and left the cold air on fire 
and me breathing the light.  12-13-13

Under the blue spruce
in a dry spot,
snow falling,
two deer resting on the needles,
chewing their cud, ears forward.  12-14-13

The sun is skipping light
across the snow to my eyes this morning,
the concentric ripples of touch felt
but not seen on the crusty snow.  12-15-13

In the bright sun, me on one side of the window,
warm, yellow honeysuckle leaves on the other side,
all of us in a light which is never irrelevant,
warm or cold.  12-15-13

you caught the door.
Our eyes meet. 
You haven’t quite forgotten me yet.  12-15-13

The red one in the holly calls,
“Do you remember me?  I miss your thoughts,
the sound of your pen on paper,
your long glances, your sighs.  I miss you.
The light is still here on my feathers, on my eyes.
Your light, too.  Come.”   12-16-13

Pushing its way in,
the sun has left no space for me to move.
I sit in the swirl.  12-28-13

The coldest morning of the year.
After the coldest night of the year.
Quiet, save for the furnace.  1-7-14

Between the horizontal tree shadows,
The sun finds me in warmth, your warmth.  1-8-14

The arctic air withdrawn,
robin comes in its wake,
holly berries to be eaten.  1-9-14

Will you come then?
Will you sit by me?
Will you let me walk into your sea blue eyes
on a warm sunny day when I need to float free?  1-9-14

The dark and the rain
cannot overcome last summer’s glow
coming off the bed of orange oak leaves
swelling with memories and scent.  1-11-14

waving up, waving down.
The light, the rain, the rising air,
rising.  1-11-14

January fell slowly without words,
colorless snowflakes through colorless light
moved only by my breath
warm with anticipation.  1-21-14

Hoping for words.
They could come up like trees,
one cell at a time under the weighted light,
with enough breath.  Mine, yours.  2-8-14

What would there be then if not for peace—
hickory’s graceful cascading curves,
the milk gray sky that comes down to the eye,
love that rises like bubbles after the sheeting rain,
the last of last year’s leaves pointing down to
a future not embraced,
just yet.  2-9-14