Poetry

The Apple Blossom Pool

On the placid,

limpid

apple blossom pool

water striders

skate and skip

in hunt

among white petals

fallen,

floating

gently adrift.

 

A gust of wind,

quickening,

fills the air

and dimpled pool

again

with speckling

sails of light.

 

Startled waterside

a band,

a bursting

multiplicity

of small blue

butterflies

scatter,

swirling,

“winking

and blinking”,

in periwinkle petaled

flight.

 

The Sudden Robin

The sudden robin

And following, falling,

Meadowlark lilt sound,

Resound, echoing and cascading

With and in my meandering heart,

With the selfsame pastel startlement

Of lupine and yarrow and wild rock rose

Bursting unbidden, source unseen,

Through the evening light watercolor

Wash of grays and blues settling

Suffused in soft concert cast across

The many mottled greens

Of this wondered

And wandering world.

 

taking time

taking time to see,

to clearly see, the tan

curling, swirling

stance and dance

of sunlit, windblown

winter grass

 

taking time to hear,

to note the chorus,

the lilt and line

of winds passing overhead

through a long-needled,

red-barked, ponderosa pine

 

taking time to read,

to carefully read the tangled

fractal calligraphy

of countless, leafless,

living branch and tree

 

taking time to let seep

deep within

the sweet fragrance,

the shadow and light,

this lasting breath

of earth and life

 

and taking time to never

let pass by unseen

the silvered gleam

of lingering ice

in a trickling, dancing,

softly singing stream

 

 

Waiting for Cranes

For Tom Mangelsen

 

Waiting for cranes

In a cramped camera blind

We recorded the Platte River sounds,

Rippling water and the long evening songs

Of seeming countless unseen birds, focused

And scattered voices overlapping, counter-pointed, turning

Undirected vocal baroque tapestry, orchestral calliope,

Cacophonous, melodious, anonymous, stippled

Painting, water-falling poetry, holy offering,

The longing lilt of Spring, freely cast into

The ending day, into the coming night,

At once random and one,

Distant and near,

Song and ear

As one,

Enclosed

And clear.

 

That evening the cranes never came

Yet we tumbled forth, forever filled.

 

Small Town Night

From that long ago distance

Of my small town sheltered youth

I remember still so clearly seeing,

On one deep blue starlit night,

Framed and cross-veined by then

Stark and leafless trees, lines

Like thin rivers reaching

Star bound Orion caught,

Cast and held, beheld poised

Mid stride and moving timeless

Above my sleeping, tree-lined street

And how alive then seemed

All the skies on that clear

And youthful dreaming

Distant small town night.

 

Lost Creek

The rich dry falling, curled

Walnut brown parachute

Sails of sycamore leaves

Zigzag down, falling,

Floating then stately down

The layered, limestone-lined,

Gentle celadon stream,

The early Fall afternoon

Earth, air, and light etched

And embossed, back lit,

Gilded and butterfly splined

With dappled leaves,

Tall yellow blooms,

And black dragonflies.

 

Sage Ecology

Delicate gilia

And brusque paint brush

Scattered scarlet and orange

With the pink and blue pastels

Of chiming bells, crane’s bills,

Lupine, and penstemon

In bloom among the pungent,

Black-branched, jade green sage

Lure in, darting, the quick-tongued,

Needlepoint, petal-tickling,

Probing, stirring whirl and blur

Of broad-tailed hummingbirds,

With wingtips whistling,

Weaving briskly rhythmic

And trilling metallic green

Through the rich sweet nectars

And colors of a mystic land.

 

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2 thoughts on “Poetry

  1. There are some interesting points in time in this article on the other hand don‘t determine if I see every one of them center to heart. There is some validity however i will need hold opinion until I check into it further. Piece of content , thanks and that we want more! Put into FeedBurner at the same time

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