Day Moon

The reeds make music
In their own greening voices,
They touch one another, like lovers caressing,
And the rustling rises like an anthem.
Sea oats don’t ask for second chances,
They just quiver with life,
And when the breeze passes by
They stand in ecstasy.

A falcon rides an updraft,
Above a sun-beaten shore
Not questioning but soaring,
Wings swooshing as it dives to find
An unsuspecting field mouse,
Whose time has run out,
The final screech unheard, except by the wind.

I walk for miles and miles,
My mind wandering and pondering
The evidence all around,
My eyes sting with the yellow of goldenrod
Born of sand and salt,
My ears ring with the humming of bees
Sucking the last bit of summer.

Late afternoon shadows pull me back
From thoughts that wandered farther than I
Along the beach,
I gather myself up, reluctantly,
Leaving the restless ocean behind.
The wind drums in my ears
This is your one and only chance.
I sense my breath keeping time with the wind,
Shivering……
I melt into the day moon.

The Bards Annual Anthology

                    2019

 

Seize the Poem – Someone Once Said

****

someone once said
the way forward
is to fill up
your garages
your closets
your stomach
your bank accounts
your houses
your days
and your nights
with “stuff.


I wonder if
joy
can only
seep in
when you
divest yourself
of stuff
and stand
naked
and empty,
leaving room
in your soul
for whatever
comes along….
bird song,
rain on the roof,
a lover’s touch?
at least
there would be room.

****

Published in

seize the poem: an anthology

2015

Bard’s Annual – My Head is Beating with Wishes

My head is beating with wishes
says the great King Ginevra,
they are straight out of the costume dispenser,
where the clouds are made of Paris,
and the day is made of swirling capes
to wear on the cusp of morning,
the air is peppermint basil to go with a bite of sunlight,
blue mangoes and frozen kiwis
he sails around in the Caribbean,
filled with smiling fish,
we’ll bring the fat owl
who ate too many toads
and now is made of ribbits.
the owl smells like a knock- knock joke
and sings with the rubberized cow.
King Ginevra goes looking
for a painted mermaid hanging in the sky,
and he roams the nighttime ocean,
cawing birds follow him down the drowsy hole
and together they float to the  Eiffel Tower
without a single band-aid emergency.
He returns early in the morning,
drinking banana tea with honey,
and eating a bacon muffin too.
Soon after breakfast,
the great King Ginevra decides
that the theme for today is jungle.
and he rides the Q train
all the way to the popcorn zoo
or maybe to the fingernail moon,
his head still beating with wishes.

Bards Annual July 2015

Bard’s Annual – Listen

 

Listen,
to the silence in the winter woods,
a certain mystical vibration humming over the water,
making it hard to breathe without  catching,
hard to sing without dancing.

Submit,
to its shuddering, juddering pulse,
walk into that stillness where only dead leaves breathe
and winter berries surrender to a hungry bird
and a red-tailed hawk lazes on an updraft circling eights.

Follow,
the path  of light and deep shadows
comfortably wrapped around an empty wood,
embrace the gentle wind, nipping at bare cheeks,
nod to the cerulean sky, color for the blind eyes of winter.

Hail,
dead branches soon to surrender to the snowing, blowing gale
jewels of compassion hiding dormant buds that wait
for the light of  spring, to jump the threshold
when they hear the gentle call to unfurl.

So listen,
companion of the reckless road
tune in to the pulsing beat of darkness
as winter drums its drum,
time to rest before the blooming work of spring,
time to rest before the blooming work of spring.

****

Bards Annual 2015

July 2015

 

How Is It Possible – Hedgerow # 17

How Is It Possible

on a morning when the clouds
curl back upon themselves,
and give up only momentary corridors of bare sky,
on a morning when those maddeningly small tokens of blue
taunt and tease a rain-weary, fog-weary heart,
how is it that the sighing wind,
bending toward the naked oak tree,
can carry a burst of bird song
through the myriad layers
of a morose winter morning,
piercing the frozen edges of a february nap
prodding and poking me out of my february nest?

By what miracle does a Carolina wren,
the tiniest of wintering birds,
on the gloomiest of winter days,
sing in the only voice
the universe gave it,
an April voice,
conjuring up a stunning moment of spring,
and bestowing a blessing
on the rain besotted morning,
anointing my eyes and ears
with the chrism of its winter anthem,
just in time to save my despairing soul
from the depths of this winter silence?

hedgerow – a journal of small poems #17

February 20, 2015