Tag Archives: poetry

The answer

On an errand from my town to another
(a lazy man’s errand- don’t you dare schedule me anymore)
I pass by the old weathered sign “Trail Entrance”.
It’s a blue arrow, meant to point north, to the left,
but now decrepit and flaccid in its old age.
Doing a face plant into the dirt,
telling us all to go to hell.
It’s been ten years, maybe longer,
since i took pride in making that steep ascent,
fording streams on stepping stones,
marching up muddy slopes,
finally reaching my destination:
a balding summit called Teapot hill.
It commanded a beautiful view of the countryside, and,
immersed in its quietness, on just the right day,
I could watch the cloud shadows roll across green fields,
gobbling the golden sun.
In the late summer, when these dark ships passed over me on the summit,
I felt a slight chill,
as little vortices of whirlwind seemed to spring up from the earth around me,
dispersing bugs and scattering the ashes of old campfires.
Tempests on the Teapot.
After a time, those black windblown spaceships would disperse,
giving way to green radiance once again.
A one act play that I would give anything to call up at will.

Today is such a day, and I know it, even from the pavement well away.
God, can I make it? (I think)
I surely would like that feeling once again.
That feeling of being soothed, of being comforted, of being spoken to
without words.
Of owning my place in this, a green jewel of the universe.
I stop, and reverse back down the gravel shoulder. Lock up and go, you fool.
It’s mid September. The rains have not been kind this summer,
and so the steep sections of the trail are not so muddy.
And, another kindness- someone has built rudimentary bridges across the streams.
Even with these blessings, I have only half the wind, and take twice the time.
I look nervously at my phone. Plenty of battery, but no signal.
On my own, I stop three times, and then reach the flat top.
Someone has carved an old stump into the form of an armchair, and I sit,
catching breath, head bowed.
There’s a sign, crudely carved.
You Are Here
You Are Here
Welcome Home.

The Seventh stairway

Furtive and troubling, the rustling of things,
Imagined, perhaps, in the dark.
And close now, the flapping of leathery wings,
And the hounds are beginning to bark.

Some thing keeps them at bay, at least for the while,
As I gather my breath near the top
Of the seventh of stairways, to the narrowest aisle.
I dare not consider to stop.

I know not the agent that’s let me go free
From the poisonous pits down below.
Perhaps entertainment, for somebody’s glee-
Is the hope I’m beginning to know.

There was a faint glow on the steps further up,
But now it is bleeding away.
The guttural growls are without interrupt,
And the bats are denying the day.

How much life I have left in these limbs to go on
Is in doubt, as I climb once again.
To such dizzying heights, trying to make it to dawn,
And the Order of everyday men.

With a desperate run up the last of the stairs,
There’s a light I see glowing once more.
Through a portal there’s flowing the sweetest of airs,
But a Presence is guarding the door.

Its radiant blackness, its absence of eyes,
Its telepathy shrivels the spirit.
Its figure of nearly impossible size
Says that doom is upon those who near it.

“Ah, me!” did I cry, to a nebulous Savior
That I always had held in such doubt.
My faithlessness; all of my wretched behavior,
Had brought this misfortune about.

Wake me up!  Wake me up!  Let me out!

Image credit to:  https://www.flickr.com/photos/arthakker/8720100528

Marshmallow Moon

Me and my dear daughter
Are a-goin’ to the moon
She’s pilot of our spaceship
And we’ve gotta get there soon

We’re bringin’ back some samples
Of rocks an’ dymond jools
We know somebody up there
We’ve never been no fools

She fires up the thrusters
Her job, it is to land
I’m suited up and ready
To go at her command

The ‘Puter says we’re landed
Though our ship, it seems to bounce
So tipsy and unsteady
Like it didn’t weigh an ounce

We finally seem to settle
The ladder, down I climb
With shovel and a pick axe
I hope we’re here in time

Our man we knew had told us
The “Window” was so shallow
But late we were, and so the moon
Had turned into marshmallow

Say not goodnight

how has it come to this pass
has it all been for love unrequited
or that yours has never been seen
all that you have reached for
all the rare moments of joy
every dream, hope, yearning
dashed
your vessel is frail, dry, and hollow

say not goodnight yet
close not the door
gentle one
there is no solace in darkness
there is at least one who loves you
do not fear
dear one
lay your head to rest
upon the downy pillow of expectation
and let your spirit be soothed
by the hand upon your brow
and the other, holding yours.

Animal crackers

a stork, a crane, a pelican
a leaping jumping gnu
a fish’s spiny skeleton
a pouchy kangaroo

a monkey, mink, and elephant
a cassowary too
but daisies are not relevant
the cattle will but chew

cats and bats and dragonflies
and porky pigs and cows
and things we can’t reclassify
until the time allows

the dog, the hog, the butterfly
the hornet with its sting
the moths that only flutter by
and don’t disturb a thing

majestic hawk and eagle
the horse and donkey too
the peacock is so regal
its rainbows of the hue

the lithe and speedy antelope
the spider and the ant
but don’t include the cantaloupe
upon this list, you can’t

the mouse, the louse, the chickadee
the octopus’s arms
the crickets chirping crickety
their song, with all its charms

the lizards lurking in the dark
the marmosets that jump
the woodpecker that pecks the bark
the camel with its hump

there’s more to come, ’tis just a few
and I forgot the fox
and many more, I’m telling you
won’t fit into the box.

Hand in hand

We awake from the blessed sleep
after death’s embrace.
Here, in Heaven’s womb,
we lie, we look.
Our breath upon each other
a perfume.

We hear, in gentleness,
a sighing soothing swell of song.
We smell grass, fresh after a rain.
We stand, with lightness of mind.

We see, on the green hillside,
a throng in white.
Some turn and beckon.
Into each others eyes we smile,
then run, without flagging,
hand in hand
into a welcome of open arms.

There is lilting laughter.
then a hush of anticipation.
from the horizon’s haze we hear
the Overtures,
sung by the sinless Seraphim.

We journey long, without tiring,
for we know what awaits
at the End of Ends.

Poisonous

Under the skin, something poisonous.
Like an acid flowing,
as if from the Alien monster.
Watch out for the dribbling!

Often now, there are thoughts that reflect
that menacing countenance.
A wrestling match
(With an Angel, or Devil?)

Tenderness, not likened with love,
Pain’s manifest in the body glove.
Sore to the touch, no matter where.
Could be from cooking to medium rare.

The chef is the spirit
that wallows in sorrow,
and all need to fear it,
’cause it swallows Tomorrow.

My Mary

I wake up this morning
my heart is so full
I’ve made your long tresses
from the blackest of wool

your dark eyes a-shining
your cheeks rosy red
your lashes reclining
when I put you to bed

imbued with a smile
that’s just starting to show
and so graceful of motion
each movement I know

so spirit, enfold me
with all of your charms
my dearest, just hold me
in your motherly arms.

my marionette
my mannequin
my Mary

Buying tomorrow

Congratulations, Sir!……………..Sir!
You have bought into
your Third Century!

I am one hundred and ninety nine years young.
By virtue of my accidental genes,
and the continuance thereof,
I have bought into my fourth lifetime.
Tomorrow is my 200th birthday.

This will be my third Fading.
Tomorrow I will have the injection.
It will be into my spine.
It will hurt.
And then……………

In my first life, seventy two.
In my second, sixty three.
In this one, sixty four.
I have felt sudden violence, then blackness.
I have felt the slow ravages of disease and pain.
I have felt the time worn festering sadness
that makes one want to skitter quickly up that last hill
and jump into the uncertain void.

And now, this injection is peremptory.
They have enough of the serum.
They will not wait for the accidents and agonies.
I am to carry on.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It is tomorrow as I write.
The hurt has come, the sudden flush, the pinkish tears, the ringing ears.
The buzzing electrical feeling in the old nodes of pain.
Their cancellation.  Their outflowing down my cheeks in impossible cascades.
A warmth in the stomach pit.  A widening of crystallized vision.

They have left me, blessed in a white bed.
New clothes, shiny shoes, hot shower running.
In a room with curtains of knitted navy blue.
I sit up, then stand.  I do not part the curtains,
but instead I let the light of day love me,
filtering through the navy mesh,
like the snowy screen of an off-channel television.

In this glow, I test my first paces.
At the window, I part the drapes.
I see it is still early spring,
the low bushes and twiglets bent with ice.

There are crazy birds, darting, darting.
Seemingly directionless,
these messengers of mirth.
I smile, and lick a salty tear from my lip.

The birds.
To me now,
they are but flying seeds with button-like eyes.

The seeds of tomorrow.