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

 

A Double Whirl – With Esther


girls didn’t leave home until the wedding in those days,
still,  Esther was bound for the city
watching the darkness gather outside the window,
her body relaxing as the train sped along,
the droning of the wheels lulling her,
she grasped the last bit of light ringing the horizon,
plucking an invisible flow of memories
streaming across her awareness, one by one,
she made a list – a gutsy plan,
not at all her usual routine.
 she saw it as her only way out,
 wondering, would her father see it her way ?

****

 when she entered the hospital
walking under the old fashioned door frame,
Esther felt safe,
  courting bravery until it became second nature,
her only wages were the tricks she gleaned
and the support she sought while she learned her art,
never mind failure, she threw all-night parties cramming
chemistry, anatomy, physiology, biology, psychology
and all those other ‘ologies into her mind
and her heart,
 bitten by this  virus,
and smitten by a
 strange desire to comfort.
much later, she wrapped herself in white
and fell in with a band of Nightingales.

****

©Wabi Sabi 2014

More Esther poems here and here

Sunday Whirl – # 147, #148

Poets United – Pantry

In The Time Before Dawn

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****

In the time before dawn
the sky is another  country,
all purple and windy, 
with a strand of pink haze
 wrapped around the horizon,
embracing the morning star,
 snuffing out her beauty
like a candle tilting in the bruised wind;

the gulls write their story
across the snow clouds,
their crying captures a word- juggler
in time’s lonely aspect
sustaining her in the warp and weft of the storm.

The poet planned an epic tale,
woven out of the fugue state of winter
sent by the devils of the night,
but her meager notes mention
only that the sky is still another country,
all  purple and windy,
even after dawn.

****

©2014 Wabi Sabi

For Sunday Whirl -# 145

For Poets United – pantry

Winter Question

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****

How is it possible that,
 on a morning when the clouds,
curling back upon themselves,
and  giving 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, I ask again,
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 january nap
prodding and poking me out of  my
january 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 dispirited soul
from the depths of winter silence?

****

©2014 Wabi Sabi

Wren at the Feeder ©2014 WS
Wren at the Feeder ©2014 WS
Carolina Wren ©2014 WS
Carolina Wren ©2014 WS

Inspired by Alice Keys ‘ Morning Song

For Sunday Whirl -#144
For Recuerda Mi Corazon – postcards from paradise
For Poets United – poetry pantry

Her Whispering

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Her whispering,
meant to poison,  

will find a way to be heard,
with her infinite capacity to distort
the precise moment of my weakness,
pounding it with her fists full of words
and innuendos
 into an altogether new creation
emitting a pulse of lies
with a sly rhythm I cannot bear
to witness again.

The invisible reality
 is buried in the woods
some distance from her childhood home
and I must kneel in the soft loam
 digging with my bare hands
until I hit the hard
edges of my own truth.

****

©2013 Wabi Sabi

For Sunday Whirl # 133

For Poets United ‘poetry pantry’

A Yearning

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~~~~~

still roaming the inky darkness
of an immeasurable,unknowable landscape,

a soul sheeted in ice, searches cobbled sidewalks,
rock-strewn country roads and remote pebbled shores
for a safe passageway

like a moth bending closer, closer
body, soul, essence lured to the fire
that warms and melts frozen heart sounds
these flames consume the remnants
of the restless child,
massaging the clay of resistance
softening and molding it
eroding a foolish need to escape the stillness

it seems a simple task
and yet……..
when is the heart ever ready
to embrace the kiln of eternity,
that wild yearning to awaken
to the holy breath of god?

~~~~~

©2013 Wabi Sabi

For  The Sunday Whirl – # 132

For Poets United  -Poets Pantry

 

Haiku Whirl

124

****

oil painting –

the seated man pauses

for the ages

~~~~

wet sidewalk-

reflecting  city lights

inky sky

~~~~

planting a tree- the hole too close to the house

 ~~~~

fire pit-

feathery sparks

chasing mosquitos

~~~~

sucking

scarlet bee balm –

summer drink

~~~~ 

bamboo shoots sway

keeping time

with the shadows

~~~~

an old woman

doubting every step

lost in the woods

****

Seated Man by Picasso

(The Seated Man  – inspiration for the first poem, this was painted by Picasso late in his life, when he was confined to a wheelchair)

For Sunday Whirl #124

For Carpe Diem ” Imagination #6 Picasso’s ‘The Seated Man’ “

If Only She Had Stayed

122

****

Esther dreams of a period filled
with gauzy comings and goings,
she has a vision of two little girls,
 how many years ago?
pajama clad ,nestled on the floor
the tv tuned to jackie gleason,
some kind of tribute show.
one sister has to leave
going by subtle degrees,
creeping away like a hermit crab
crashing into another world
leaving behind an empty shell,
and her only sister.
 no one had the power
to persuade her to stay,
not Esther, not anyone,
 and before she leaves,
she carefully opens up
a hungry space in Esther’s heart.

****

 

For The Sunday Whirl ‘#122’

For Poets United ‘ Pantry’