A Year of Poems – Day 355

The moon shone red as the metal crate
hurdled across the sky
and the night hawk asked the swallow,
“Do you know what it is to die?”

The swallow flew quick figure eights
and the cylinder shot right on
“The moon has been struck a glancing blow
and his light will soon be gone.”

The nighthawk flew his spiral
around the figure eight,
“I am Apollo’s evening spear
You share the lunar fate.”

The plane shot out of earshot
but the chuckle carried far,
“The moon will dance in darkest death,
and then outshine the stars.”

A Year of Poems – Day 353

I often start with nonsense
And make my way towards sense
To start off any other way
Is to wander near the cliffs.

I like to take my wandering thought
And bring it home to pen.
But what do we do about the cat
searching beyond its ken?

I like to think my journeys
Will always end at home
Smile cold from ocean mist,
the kettle on for tea.

The cat left home at teatime
I tried to call his name,
But he had never seen the cliffs in fog
And was tired of all this speech.

A Year of Poems – Day 352

The weeping tree was red with loss
Dripping orange in the pale moon
And all the night around was blue
The night the young tree wept.

The young tree lay bare in the cold dawn,
But before the cold day the grief glowed,
Fire flowing from trunk to stem
Golden ichor dripping where leaves once blew.

Metamorphosis will always be a spiritual affair
The via dolorosa comes upon man and tree alike
There is no beauty in the wounds of death,
But the passage through fire will always be a dance.

A Year of Poems – Day 349

Put away the cameras
Hide away the pen
Minimize the digital
The scene will soon begin.

Life is not a drama,
Not in the way you think,
It is the wind that whips your hair
And muffles the words you speak.

Life is in clammy fingers
Which slide against the palm
But you wouldn’t have it differently
Even if your heart was calm.

We do not need their sensors
To show how life should be
The eye takes better pictures
with no intermediary.

For life will fit no medium,
No poem can rock a crib,
It cannot quite be painted
I believe it can just be lived.

A Year of Poems – Day 348

“That lady’s talking and there’s no one there.”
“Don’t stare she’s probably on the phone.”

“…nobody treats me like family.
Family, now that’s the most important thing.”

“Why are her eyes like that Mommy?”
“It’s not polite to stare. Sit down.”

“My brother thought he was important,
Now look where he is, the no good…”

“There’s too much white in her eyes.”
“Why won’t you sit? sit. sit. sit!”

“He stole my present from the tree
Ripped to shreds, paper everywhere.”

“She’s definitely not on the phone Mom.”
“We’re on a train honey you can’t pay attention to people.”

“Good times like that won’t come again,
He took the money, now he won’t even talk.”

“Mom I think she might be…”
“Shh.”

“They’re all staring, but family doesn’t care.
Family stays by your side forever.
Why won’t anyone treat me like family?”