Belated Words

Write On!

Tag: poems

  • Far off the path

    Far off the path, once for wagons, horses and sturdy legs, now returned to green/growth and rut/ravaged into a faint trail I find the place spoken of, the necessary spring source, hidden in tangled vines/web, secreted away below a stone surround snugged in emerald moss; now briefly guarded by March’s pale bluebell sentinels.

    The only evidence of human touch: the dry-stacked surround and haunting creaks…muffled thuds….underfoot of roof/tin buried beneath a century’s damp humus. No foundation stones, roof rafters or siding survive; all salvaged or burned or rotted away by nature’s plan.

    Searching for origins of myth; family tales hinted of this place; of skimpy, poor raisings and violent pasts; of one, if word of mouth can be believed, being strung by his neck in this, his yard, from this massive oak, in front of family for desertion from the war that cleaved both family flesh and a nation’s harmony myth. Voices still cry from beneath the ground, some say, but I only hear flora sway and taste the water’s cooling release; the taste savored by the one hanged in this, his once yard.

    Mountain laurel, head high, further extends the shade and boast purest porcelain, blood/pink-tinged, blossoms. Minute Bird-foot violets peer …surprised…from the knurled feet of the oak that lives with shame of complicity. The earth thrust spiraling fern/fronds upward in rampant arrays, prayerfully uncoiling, reaching for dappled pale light, offering beauty’s recompense for the chaos and raging rants of her progeny.

  • Skates

    for T

    Clack-clack-clack-clack-clack-clack-clack…

    a stick along a picket fence;

    sound soothes as does the vibe of my hand,

    bumpty-bumpty-bumpty-bump…

    skates roar on an autumn sidewalk

    up my street lined with familiarity.

    •

    “I’ve always had a secret

    that I could not share

    about my conversations

    with the tortoise and the hare.”

    •

    Cheeks redder than red as my hair,

    eyes wind whipped to weeping,

    a swipe of a pink sweatered arm

    does my nose just fine.

    Metallic clatter off the curb….jump!

    Jump! and back up again.  Rooar! Rooar!

    •

    “Tell me Mister Hardshell,

    how do you sit so still;

    haven’t you made promises

    you’re obliged to fulfill

    and……is it dark inside your shell?”

    •

    “Listen, little darling,

    honey can’t you see,

    we’re only made to gaze and wait;

    our only purpose is to be

    and….darkness softens time considerably.”

    •

    Comes the call but the roars too loud,

    “Come in, its getting cold!”

    The cold wind swallows the familiar plea

    and there’s clacking on a picket fence.

    •

    “Tell me Mister Speedster,

    why do you run all day,

    why do you dither and dash

    in such an erratic way

    and…where are you going?”

    •

    “Listen to me sweetie,

    life is just a thrill!

    We rush and rave and cast

    about….and over the hill is the carrot patch.”

    •

    The street is still familiar….

    shorter, of course, narrower, too;

    roots have heaved the sidewalks

    to skateboard ramps, little matter,

    kids play in the street now with no

    respect, daring you to hit them.

    •

    And still, often, I lie in the dark

    listening to Mister Hardshell breathe,

    drawing first my legs, then arms and

    lastly my head into my shell and then

    synchronizing our breaths….slower…

    slower…to slower…to stop…if I could.

    •

    And there are times I chase Mister

    Speedster till my lungs ache with

    a greed for things unknown and

    anger gushes hot from every pore

    splattering those near me and

    they turn and look at me and I

    never hear their abashed silence.

    •

    Where are the picket fences now

    and a good stick with which to ply

    a synchronous rhythm, a survival beat?

  • spring place

    Off a path once for wagons and sturdy

    legs, now rutted and rocked into a trail,

    I find the source, the spring-head spoken of,

    sleeping in deep shaded vines, secreted

    by a low, sweating stone surround, finely

    encased in velvety/emeralded moss

    and guarded by pale bluebell sentinels.

    The only evidence of human touch,

    the surround and haunting creaks beneath leaves

    of roof/tin’s leaf/muffled thud underfoot.

    The jeweled woods thrust spiraling fern/fronds up

    in rampant arrays of prideful bearings

    uncoiling toward the dappled pale light.

    Minute individuals of Bird-foot

    violet and Indian Pipe peer from

    bases of old-growth pine and giant popular.

    Mountain laurel, head high, darkening the shade

    boast purest porcelain blossoms of white.

    •

    I came searching for origins of myth:

    family history told of this place,

    of skimpy raisings and violent pasts.

    Of one, if word of mouth can be believed,

    strung by his neck in this, his yard, in front

    of family for desertion from the war

    that cleaved what little harmony was here.

    Voices still cry from beneath the humus

    some say, but I only hear flora sway

    and taste the spring’s trickling, cooling release.

  • Leaves

    Should I be raking leaves; they’re piling up?

    My yard sleeps beneath a saddle-brown snow

    complete with two/foot drifts snug around shrubs.

    The paths and spent flowers seem content though,

    resting without pressure to be well-groomed.

    My eyes tell me this without judgment of

    their own; leaving the decision for me.

    Taking my cue from nature, I chose to

    lie fallow and rest beneath a rich snow.

  • The Moth

    Your history flows freely:

    a gently bubbling shower massage;

    effervescent revelations of sweetness,

    moist longings and caustic bitterness.

    They twirl and coil,

    these memories of your considerable passion.

    My acceptance of one entices another

    and another and with each a glance

    from gleaming eyes, demure and measuring,

    wondering at my salient calm.

    I wonder: how close can I linger,

    how long can I sooth and be soothed

    before my dusty wings explode in flame?

  • Fawn

    Along the bank of a singing creek

    drawn crouching beneath tangled laurel

    to a sandy cove by a sweet stench,

    I found a fawn, awhile dead, untouched,

    inches from the water’s edge.

    Her pliant, serene/cervine body lay melting

    molecule by molecule      returning      ascending

    and her soul held wake above      wafting

    among lustrous white laurel blossoms.

  • Squirrel Narrative

    Spiraling up and up with scratching speed,
    the squirrels pursued each other around
    the rough barked pine faster than my eyes could shift.

    I lost them in white sky glare and tangled
    needle mass; raucously harsh, screeching calls,
    marked them before their leap to a neighbor oak.

    The smaller fell, spread-eagle in air;
    missed! I thought, but spasms of tail/tick-tock
    and tendon/claw snagged a limb-tip easing
    his plummeting fall to stronger growth.

    Then, daring pursuit, the parent raced on,
    intent on schooling squirrel ways without respite;
    tree to tree with chattering leaps of faith.

    From limb to power line the parent jumped
    beckoning the smaller to follow fast; the pupil,
    leaping, slipped, then swung upright and froze:
    the taut wire of risk lay suddenly clear
    in the vastness of white opened air.

    Father/mother? chastised hesitance with
    warnings of dark omnipresent beast,
    and ran the unforgiving wire quickly away.

    The rodent/child, doubt crushed, wavered and fell,
    clawing apathetic air to the street
    where he lay and twice twitched, perhaps with thoughts
    of soft/leaf nest and of drinking water.

  • Bird Haiku

    Grackle

    Brazen hundreds flaunt

    their stuff, screaming their presence;

    conquering the trees.

    •

    Bluejay

    Unsympathetic;

    reigning, brassy-blue diva

    of the canopy.

    •

    Bluebird

    The blue of God’s eyes;

    with cheek-blushed breast, you flutter

    in your dainty bath.

    •

    Crow

    Black hole against soft

    sky blue as boy-baby blue;

    harsh as a night scream.

    •

    Mourning Dove

    Flushed from brush in twos;

    rattling chortles of wings lift

    them to lowest limbs.

    They call in soft glee.

    Mistaken for sad laments,

     their calls haunt our days.

    Skeptical of bliss;

     we refuse to hear pure joy

    of a gleeful heart.

  • Maybe, it’s just me, but…

    My mind can not comprehend a meaning.

    Surely, you merely, poke fun;

    content to tease less agile minds

    ……………..sliding words along,

    a string of pearls nicely strung,

    glossed with an aura of interrelated-import,

    advancing only themselves across the page.

    The meter, the sound, the flow is sweet

    but what do you…. so delightfully…… decline to say?

    Do you at night giggling safely in your bed,

    berate yourself for naughtiness,

    or…..crying, fear your efforts wanting?

    Listen…there!…. Listen.  Are you repeating what you hear?

  • The Mower

    Still…I feel the spongy dead-stop of my swing

    of blade against the harden broom-sedge tuft.

    Higher, I reasoned, taking another swipe

    with a sling-blade taller than my six years.

    Golden grass flowed with the blow yielding only

    dry flotsam with straw scented disappointment.

    •

    So strange….memories lingering half-centuries;

    others just a day, a moment, or never really made.

    My first remembered ambition: to lay low

    that field, expansive then, for no particular reason

    other than to see it felled…..to smell accomplishment.

    Stubborn grasses or allergies brought tears

    and abandonment of blade and pride; both

    flung down hard…..then dreams for years self-thwarted.

    •

    Now….walking aware, overstepping briars,

    through fields of desiccated, swishing grasses;

    hand, palm down flat, I caress resilient sedge tops.

    My blade, bright with sharpen glints, shouldered.

    I’m ready to swing with practiced ease but

    only for purpose and with reverence for grasses.