DARK LAND OF DREAMS

On the darkening shingles, cold rain pings and splatters,
while over the forest a pale mist lies.
The only things that move, are a few shadows
over the shallow pond where stars lie just beneath
the surface, like bright pebbles, strewn.

At the lake frothy water scours the banks,
sloshes the matted reeds that crowd the rocks,
the fallen logs that soften and soak up dark water.

In the house at the edge of the forest,
yellow light stains the window, spills across black pines,
the old oak that partially umbrellas the dripping roof.

Inside a woman claws at the edge of sleep,
her mind an animal slinking through darkness,
taking her places she doesn’t wish to go,
but she follows reluctantly--
one small bit of reason planted firmly
in this earthy realm.

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WIND CHIMES


I grab a leash and whistle for Hannah.
In the woods, mist curls around our feet.
A sleek snake is a black streak, riffling dead leaves
as it hurtles through the underbrush.

At the pond I wade through cold stars,
the moon, a pale chipped plate
stuck in the crotch of a tree.

From where I stand I see yellow light
pouring from my windows, and smoke
from the chimney, I hear small dogs,
their staccato barking, shrill,
amidst the soothing music
of wind chimes.

As I head home, darkness wraps my shoulders;
crows are hunched in the old oak,
their voices silent, glossy feathers dull,
against stark gray clouds.

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MARCH


Mushrooms emerge under the ancient oak--
reds and deep rusts that I have never seen before,
little umbrellas of poison sprouting through soggy leaves,
through clumpy grass, the bare earth.

Trees loom overhead still dripping last nights rain,
but the sun shines fiercely through stray clouds,
and early morning air moves around me
fresh and sweet. Daylilies bow low,
but slender reeds are already lifting,
and vivid red climbing roses, reach for the sun.

Light shimmers off the old metal watering can
and canning jars filled with rusting screws and nails;
even the cat carries sunshine on her back
as she creeps through the shattered garden.

Steam rises form the pointed roof of the house,
the potting shed, the back of the mare,
grazing in a tangle of weeds.

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TWO WORLDS

From the skin of the pond
comes the tremor of your voice,
from the pines, as the wind shifts,
and out of the depths of darkness
where stars flicker like candles in the wind.

Because wrapped in darkness
we are free to dream
I sense your breath on my neck, 
the stutter of your fingertips along my thigh,
my breasts tingle, damp
with the warmth of your tongue.

But you can only smile behind dusty glass,
face untouched by speeding years,
your countenance, deathly still.

Tags: Poetry

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TWO WORLDS

From the skin of the pond
comes the tremor of your voice,
from the pines, as the wind shifts,
and out of the depths of darkness
where stars flicker like candles in the wind.

Because wrapped in darkness
we are free to dream
I sense your breath on my neck, 
the stutter of your fingertips along my thigh,
my breasts tingle, damp
with the warmth of your tongue.

But you can only smile behind dusty glass,
face untouched by speeding years,
your our countenance, deathly still.

Tags: Poetry

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WATCHING OVER ME

Morning holds it’s solitude

in the forest that hums almost silently.

Outside the windows, wind has swept

the trees clean of debris, so that now

the sky hangs clear and drowsy

between bare branches.

An emerging sun, paints gold across the pond

as I burn dried brush in sprawling piles;

I can taste the smoke, feel it’s grittiness

as it passes like spirits, rising.

I lived most of my life in the city,

baffled by people like me, who would write an ode

in praise of a single blossom,

or stand all day, painting it’s frail beauty.

But life holds many surprises, and although

we imagine we control our own destinies,

there are powers beyond our ken;

and as I put pen to paper, somewhere,

I sense an approving nod, a doting smile.

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　Just returned from california, on the train!!  LOL

　

ON A TRAIN HEADING WEST

Through a dark pane of glass,

I watch the soft black velvet that is night

spread across the prairie to swallow

the mountains: in the distance

a lake’s slight movement I will never see,

aspens their silver leaves tarnishing.

Smoke from the train embroiders black

across the face of the moon, thin threads

that weave among stars sprinkled like sugar

in the vast sky.

The lonely sound of the whistle haunts the night,

as a sharp beam of light cuts through a landscape

that swells, then flattens, only to swell again,

and always in the background rattling railway cars,

their clicking wheels, the comforting sighs

of passengers adrift in a river of sleep.

　

Tags: Life- nature

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