I choose not to revise these poems, imperfect as they are. I shall let them testify to a mastery that is still in progress.
I
The mourning sky is in stasis, bereft
Of both starling and star. Beneath its pall,
Trekkers through a snow-waste feel the slow theft
Of their senses. Blinded by White, some fall
Into a muffled sleep–blue from the tip
Of their nose, to curled up fingers and toes.
The ghost that hovers on their trembling lips
Is cursed, and earth-bound in a rope of cold.
The heartsick are in love with horizons.
There, a feathered sky encircles an orb.
Aviaries open in the gardens;
Their liberated doves begin to soar.
All the other seasons pass the time there.
Here, a clipped-winged zombie stares in despair.
December 8, 2009
December 12, 2009
II
The sun crowns the brow of the equinox.
Birds are unfurling the span of their wings,
Each a caduceus banishing Nox.
Shut-ins heal, as if decreed by a king.
Those who were shunned are stunned by the kisses
Of sunlight, while the nun in a courtyard,
Also touched, will begin to reminisce,
Knowing roses are rooted in bone shard.
A field of husks rattles a threnody
For the shriveled scare-crow’s corpse by the copse,
Silhouetted at dusk. The melodies
Of the winged are forgotten or mocked.
God wakes, but grieves what He cannot put right:
That first spring’s life, so long lost from His sight.
January 9 – February 3, 2010
III
(The Lawrence Tree By Georgia O’Keefe)
The black birds nest on the quivering boughs,
Each feathered head at rest beneath its wing.
The wind soughs without surcease. Branches bow
To the woman lying alone, veiling
With their shadowy camouflage the sight
Of an omnipotent, beckoning star.
Below such cruel clarity she lies
Shivering–behind her head, her crossed arms.
The land is at peace on mid-summer’s night;
She is not. The staring constellations
Have captured her, and cauterize the blight
Of comfort with stern interrogations.
God bends from heaven to kiss us awake,
As prisoners of unrequited pain.
February 13 – March 5, 2010
IV
Dedicated to Stephen A. Golden II
Three birds take wing off the bough of red leaves,
As if the wind has scythed them too. They float
Above a lake of hues, one sinking deep
Enough to reach the horizon that woke
It into existence. Now, it returns
From the dreams of the children who have prayed
Before sleep. Bird-song sings of what we yearn
To ink upon His golden tome’s last page.
Those leaves of red are loosed to drift away.
They halo the head-stones of the sinners
Who haunted God’s purpose, taunting His face
Crimson. All come to love Him forever.
The Deity burns in His Creation,
The distant stars, His dim diminutions.
March 20 – April 18, 2010
June 1, 2010
June 4, 2010
June 18, 2010
November 1, 2010
IV
(Alternate Version)
Three birds take wing off the bough of red leaves,
As if the wind has scythed them too. They float
Above a lake of hues, one sinking deep
Enough to reach the horizon that woke
It into existence. Now it returns
From the dreams of the heartsick who have prayed
Before sleep. Bird-song sings of what we yearn
To ink upon His golden tome’s last page.
Those leaves of red are loosed to drift away
To a smoldering fire, the smell of smoke
A solace from the pyres that scar His face
Crimson. Mindful of the heart that has broke,
The Deity declines His Creation,
The distant stars, His dim diminutions.
February 20, 2011
February 25, 2011
April 24, 2011
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