A Year of Poems – Day 73

If I escape the surly bonds of earth
to soar, to fly, to brush at heaven’s hair
to gaze in unreflecting quiet joy
into the starry vastness of her eyes
If I leaving all earth’s wooded problems –
the tangled web of thorns and knotted weeds,
the seas of water rolling overhead,
the stone walls which divide as they protect –
ascend to see the colors of the spheres,
to dance to the harmonics of the stars,
and live in perfect stillness as I dance
If I could take a rocket to the void
to get to truth by getting far away
then all my perfect truth would have no sway
and when I gained an audience with her eyes,
I would have no choice but to drop my gaze.

A Year of Poems – Day 72

Bursting blue, red, orange, and purple
A garden tuned to a symphonic palate,
sour-sweet warmth in winter’s mouth,
taste of flowers grown in warm months
before being pressed of all moisture,
sealed in a cask of plastic packed in pantries
before blooming now with the rich ripeness
of a summer botanical bouquet aged to fruitfulness.
Now the taste buds buzz where once the bees held court
as the dried produce blooms again under winter’s tongue.

A Year of Poems – Day 71

There has been a wind blowing off the Atlantic,
whipping through the sidewalks of the east,
driving all with relentless force towards their homes.
It bursts into the bars on Friday night
hitting the back corner where four sit in a warm corner.
The wind joins the conversation,
knitting and purling with the human heart
a chord of friendship laced with laughter.

There’s a breeze coming off the Pacific
pulling at the white lace of a coastal wedding
gracing the ceremony with a gentle dance.
It pushes the backs of volunteers
girding up their arms to pull victims from the mud.
It even comes to the gridlocked highways
passing through the stagnant exhaust
to meld its song with the car stereo.

There is a breath out and about
roaming the planet disguised as wind
It is related to the common human spirit,
but it is something more
which broods over human hearts
whispering in their ears
with the harsh strength of a blizzard’s gust,
the fierce mighty power of a hurricane,
and the quiet warm voice of a summer breeze.

If you listen and wait with expectation
it will rattle down the asphalt of the cul-de-sac
even in the still dead air of January.

A Year of Poems – Day 70

The triangle points south
floating in the magnet soup
sucking me toward something.
The hound sniffing by my side’s
tail points to the northeast.
He pushes me slowly to the left
in a silent argument with my floating triangle.
Is there something he smells in the cold wet air
that I can’t smell even though
the dew presses against my nose?
Cold metal cannot lie.
It will take me due South
which is where I want to go.
But the dog with the warm
prodding of his mass
urges me somewhere else.
Perhaps he smells the warm smoke
of a friendly hearth
or has some private rendezvous to keep.
Now he pushes harder to the left
nose pointing towards the west
and a sheltered grove of pines.
I turn my face west, resigned
My guide will be warm blooded,
my direction undefined.

A Year of Poems – Day 69

I was ambushed on the front step
only two short days ago,
and before that I was shot at
through the window of a train.
A week ago it struck me
and I drove home struck with pain,
before my sharp impression
of the world begins to fade.
But when I’m ready for the hitman,
with my weapons all arrayed
he keeps me waiting by my desk
till it’s late and I’m afraid.

A Year of Poems – Day 67

People’s rooms reflect their brain.
The bed, the clothes and how they lie
are mirrored in their mental roads
which twist and curve like dirty clothes
or run in straight and ordered grids.
To venture in another’s room
is to travel to a foreign land
and drive reversed, without a map,
while learning how a country thinks.
To share a room, to share a life
is to integrate infrastructure
in an engineering design endeavor
grander than all the walls, gardens,
or capitals built in a nation’s life.

A Year of Poems – Day 66

The Gardener took me out to his field
“What do you see? he said, his voice quiet.
But all I could see was the overpass
and figures walking across the glass bridge.
So I said, seeing only road and glass,
“I see a black snake and men in cages.”
But the voice repeated, “What do you see?”
“I see land unworked, people far from soil.”
My car passed beneath the bridge, but he asked
as I drove down the highway, what I had seen.
So I, knowing that many images
are tired and worn with tire tracks, slept.
In sleep I pondered new ways to answer
and so extract the message from the scene.
How could I fit the sun, bridge, and figures
together in a new beautiful way.
But when he asked what I had seen I just
said, “an overpass crossing the road.”

A Year of Poems – Day 65

Wreaths in January,
red berries on bushes
the only hope for birds.
The robin pauses poised
to spring at green grass,
red feathers against leaves
darkened by the rain drops.
The cat slinks through the door,
fur matted to plump sides,
red against his grey eyes.
Wreaths in January,
mourning the dead berries
and birds lost to the spring.