Friday, April 24, 2015

Poem in journal: Anima (in Summer)

This Grove of Trees

There is a wide circle
I am surrounded by it
and it is filled with silence.
Each day is a documentary,
I consider what is growing,
how to make my life sweet,
the slant of morning light,
the complaint of crows.

I will slowly turn moments
turning towards a breeze
nothing has changed
but it will.
Love and honor this
for I was born to love
even to disregard blue light
as great engines
slowly, suddenly, pass by
this grove of trees,
shaking the ground,
while I stand still knowing,
this grove of trees

that I am here knowing,
this grove of trees
that was once
not forgotten.

Monday, April 20, 2015

New poem 2015

Where I Am Perched

Where I am
is where I am,
as a cormorant
on a stick.
Light on water
Just am here
though cold
rough beauty
is arresting,
as are tops of sailboat
masts amidst
of singing,
no where else.

Saturday, April 4, 2015

The Little People

(It's Spring and Fairy is afoot)

The Little People

If I stand on tippy-toe
and turn ever so lightly
a space will open in the air
the smell of it drifts past my nose.
Sometimes when I turn like that
it is a rose garden all green
and pinkish, heavy with beese.

I know little people live in the creek
I know the perspective of looking up
through the underbrush as if it were jungle
the branches grow together overhead.
Sometimes the sun never peeks through
but there is always leaf on leaf
green on green—bright green jewels
lit from within—the green suns of our world.

At night in the pale moonlight
we play and play like we do all day
and all over, the blackness is touched
with a soft yellow of the fairy Queen’s nightgown
that she has thrown off playfully
and it floats down all around the world
the grass glistens moonlight on the dew.

The only thing we miss is the people-music
their instruments that sing like us
their baking sends smells down to us
we grow mischievous then and plan
ways to sneak through kitchen windows
at night we raid their refrigerators
as if we were their teenagers
who get a notion at midnight
they are a lot like us.

If only the people still remembered us
and left their food out on doorsteps
playing their music for us
sometimes joining in a dance
(that’s okay—we’ll do the singing).
I remember when the creek grows dark
under the cool branches and the leaves
are lit up and jewel-like,
the music is just out of ear-shot,
then my eyes can’t leave the clearness of the water.