What The Heavens Know

 

How often we forget.

While it waits, patient

as dark molasses

for December biscuits

that rise and brown

in hot ovens.

 

That public sky

above our daily tasks,

watches us spin

and turn in turbulence

as we invent new stories,

new myths to fit our lives.

 

Before molten memory,

gods and goddesses

filled with lust,

stirred the cosmos.

Fought their wars,

birthed other deities.

 

Listen, this firmament

has old, old tales to tell.

How we rose from water;

How elements of stars fell

formed bones, scales, flesh;

How something walked

across this land.

 

In the shadow of deep night

sometimes we pause,

maybe we pray,

maybe we praise.

Maybe we remember

why the sea forever calls us.

2015 - 30 poems in 30 days

To Travel A Two-Lane West Virginia Road

 

Early April, headed East

sounds           so glorious

at 6:30 AM, while

everything is still dark;

raucous bird songs

thick in your ears;

a little dew or even

frost on the windshield.

 

To drive into morning

is not what you expect.

Oh, it begins – lovely,

light stalks the air, slow

as that tabby after a field mouse;

Colors bloom, leisurely

as those July morning glories

on the old porch trellis.

 

But you have forgotten,

in this dawn with no clouds,

that the sun does rise.

You top the hill – there she is

blindingly beautiful!

You can’t see the road, other cars,

or the big bronze Guernsey

on the berm of the road.

Day 30 - 30 Poems in 30 Days

National Poetry Month – Farewell

What a great time!

Everyday a new poem
flung out to the universe
let loose, to settle
on our shoulders – tongues –
in the corners of eyes.
Things we thought unsayable
coalescing into a great swell
across fields of sorrow and joy.
Memory planted – rooted
like sycamore, oaks, pine,
into our consciousness,
rising up to light us all.
I’ll miss the shared poems
of friends – words from
writers new to me,
this sharing, this long luscious ride
in the pony cart of life
along the highway of free-verse,
rhyme, poignant prose and haiku.
Though this month is gone
we will remain faithful
to the things which move us.
We’ll come together again
pen on paper scratching
to define ourselves.
Until next April
may the metaphors be with us,
every one.