Scorched

Love

has not eluded me—

rather,

it has pursued me.

It has stalked and surveilled me.

Love has hunted me down

and assailed me.

Suddenly,

I have turned, back to the wall,

eyes wide with surprise.

I have seen love, bones and all,

bared of its dull disguise.

And now I know

how it will go.

Love does not sidle up,

pink posies in hand,

but ruptures the fabric of life

with a firing brand—

searing forever its singular name

upon the unsuspecting

heart,

by flame.

For the Love of Trees

I'm waiting for the stately beech,

the giant elm, the maple, each

asleep and dreaming of the dawn

of gentle spring to rain upon

their bony branches, reaching, bare,

to catch the warming sunshine there.

I'm hoping for the graceful larch,

the spreading ash to form an arch

of shaded green where I may rest

from summer's heat, in coolness blessed—

for cherry blossoms, drifting down,

to dress my head with petaled crown.

I know the oak and birch will soon

spread soothing leaf o'er heat of noon,

where in my hammock I shall swing

beneath their boughs, and wren shall sing

a lullaby to comfort me—

I wait for each beloved tree.

Enigma

A mind that can conceive a thing of intense beauty. . .

a painting on a ceiling that speaks the language of God,

the majesty of a cathedral, its spires of leaden lace,

a symphony that seems plucked from the harps of angels. . .

is singularly inept

when reaching for one elusive concept,

a place devoid of sight and sound—

the utter emptiness,

the hollow murk of a vacuous shadowed hall

that lives on the edges of one's vision, 

never quite able to be seen

nor described

nor even conjured for a single moment

in the imagination.

Even in death,

when dust returns to dust,

the wind that sighs and scatters

denies the soul what cannot be grasped.

Perhaps the non-existent does not exist...

and nothing is simply

not there 

at all.

Some Dance

The first time Daddy let go of my two-wheeler,

sending me careening down the street, 

hair flying like a victory banner—

that's how it was, 

this hatching of a dream.

Stage lights

make the audience impossible to see,

but I could hear them,

softly clucking

like a flock of chickens settling on their nests

for the night—

a sound of anticipation,

of waiting,

for me.

 Some dream of dancing.

Others make lavish plans,

like building skyscrapers

or becoming an astronaut.

My dreams were all on the stage,

my wishes typed out in scripts.

The backdrop was

the setting of all my hopes,

the curtain separating

the scenes of my future.

So, did I become a famous actress?

 No.

Somehow the script got lost,

and the curtain closed on that scene.

The backdrop of my life 

became something

I could not then have imagined.

 But now—

now I find that scripts

are not so difficult to alter,

if a plot needs changing—

and the final curtain

need not drop 

on the dream of a fifteen-year-old girl.

Perhaps I will be, once again,

breathless, back stage,

listening to the rustling

of the audience.

Perhaps this, here and now,

is only 

my

intermission.

A Lover's Rose

(English Sonnet)

How sweet the sound of my own lover's voice!

He speaks to me of honeyed blossoms where,

in tangled gardens, vine and rose rejoice,

entwining both the spires and petals there.

How soft the dew of my own lover's kiss!—

anointing neck and trailing over breast.

His lips of velvet speak to me of bliss,

without a sound, as tongue to flesh is pressed.

How gently glides his touch where hands are laid!—

a feather first and then a firm caress;

my body, in his hands, a goddess made,

each swell and curve, my lover's to possess.

At last my love and I, a twisting vine,

wrap 'round where thorn and blooming rose combine.

Starry Night

The village lies in silken sleep

as darkness folds around it, deep

and rippling like a mill pond's veil

reflecting moonlight, cold and pale.

The dreamers stir and turn in bed

as vivid tales are wound like thread

against a dark and empty scene

where swirling mists roll in between.

The village slumbers, safe within,

oblivious to stars that spin

above, where for a billion years

they've soared along majestic spheres;

and moonlight spills through spangled space,

anointing earth upon its face

while dreamers drift behind their eyes

and spurn the grandeur of the skies.

Concurring With Millay

Spring hangs

like a dripping woolen coat

from the pewter frame 

of a glowering sky.

Why is it that poets write of spring

as if it were made 

of rose petals and birdsong?—

and insist that spring is when 'true love' blooms?

There are no flowers, no birds, no eager lovers

with this horrid impostor, this con of a season.

Here by me, 

on my windswept, narrow land,

I know well how it goes—

spring holds winter's slushy hand,

and the two of them laugh heartily at us,

flinging their icy spittle

in our faces.

The Visitor

(English Sonnet)

The Store

(painting by Mary O.Smith)

I stand now, waiting,

shafts of sunlit haze ease over into evening.

 Ragged curtains flutter from vacant window frames

like tattered flags of surrender.

But, oh! I have seen better days!—

back when the old main road ran by here, 

before the highway went in.

Lot of business in those days—

when folks would come by to get two pounds of sugar 

and an earful of gossip.

Those tall tales whisper through my hollow rooms,

tittering along the empty shelves.

No more scandals— all who lived them are gone, 

their once colorful escapades

having faded to grays and browns and peeling white paint.

 I hear someone's bought the land,

gonna pave it over, build a health club.

Instead of farmer jeans and housewives in aprons—

sleek-clad bodies, bronzed and toned,

the bonk-bonk of tennis balls,

the smell of sweat

displacing the blended scent of cinnamon and shoe leather.

Yes, I will surrender—

when tomorrow's hazy sunlight seeps over my sagging roof.

I stand now,

waiting.

How Is This Love?

How is this love

that flushes the skin

and dissolves the bones,

setting in behind the brow and

along the delicate temples,

spreading through blue veins?

What force is this,

that calls to attention

like a dog whistle,

like the clang of the cow bell 

that mothers ring to call children in for dinner?

Do not suppose that to run toward it

means finding the comfort of home

with a steaming plate of dinner.

No, love is not like that.

Escape is unthinkable, 

as it will hunt and stalk

until it lashes its tentacles around the ankles,

pulling its prey to the ground

and dragging it until the mouth chokes with dirt.

And yet,

somewhere,

in a cool and scented place,

where the world is slowly rocked

in the hands of a gentle giant,

love courses

through a buttery beam of the moon, 

lucent and lush.

Its glow tickles the ear,

whispering what is already known,

but long forgotten.

And its tender tug

compels us to reach out to another

and bravely bare

what is perilous

and frail.