Posts Tagged ‘poem’

Muse And Thrush

When my muse opens her mouth
the world does not swell like dawn busily
orchestrating the jagged pieces
of landscape into a seamless whole as it
fills a thrush’s throat with song.
Rather, it is the sound of quiet coming into
tune that she grandly presents,
the possibility of an undiscovered note
awaiting nurture to blossom.
Her gift is the presentation of an absence,
where hours pass without being
hours, seconds linger like a July sunset.
Surprised to find a melody
dancing, that flower blooming in no time
at all, awareness returns
to take full credit for what my muse and
a thrush have already envisioned.



In dawn’s early light
this ravenous metropolis
inhales its suburbs

With a paroxysm
of exhausted air, it exhales
nightly traffic jams

Rising from midnight’s
deep abyss, like a faint smell,
its specters’ footfalls

recount a city’s
buried past where forgotten
passions still decay

Walled with skyscrapers,
fortressed against incursion,
night outlasts its prime

Late to awaken,
sleepy denizens find dusk’s
gray turned upside down

Grandmother’s Medallion

It wasn’t my faith that
miraculously came back to me
decades after I’d
last stepped inside a church.
This was no revelation
found on a road to Damascus.
And yet it ignited
a spark from my religious past.
An unexpected treasure
rediscovered among the clutter.
No doubt, as miracles
go, this one was tiny: the gift
of finding something
that I could cradle in my palm.
Memory resurrected.
A simple medallion, depicting
the Madonna and Child,
with the inscription, Mother Of
Mothers Pray for Us.
Even if faith did not respond,
the nestled weight of
what she bestowed on me for
confirmation day is
now a talisman I carry daily,
honoring its presenter.

Mathematics Of Sleep

Lessened by division, where before there
was addition doubled,
age has presented me with two halves
unequal to the total
of what a full eight hours once provided.
Although it begins
as always with oblivion’s blank curtain
quickly drawn, I’m
no longer able to achieve its dark depths
or remain submerged.
Its equation fails to honor the dictum.
Caught in a no man’s
land between the bewitching hour and
dawn’s auspicious gaze,
awareness resurrects despite the silence.
I’ve had to learn,
here in my sixties, that a spooked bird
can only be coaxed
back into the nest by the practice of
patient indifference.
But still skittish even after it returns,
second sleep never seems
totally committed to the relationship.
When summoned by
the alarm, emerging from the shallows
of a dream’s drug
induced stupor, I question if I have
been asleep at all.
Those two halves not equaling a whole.


I can picture him in a bumpy pasture,
just twenty-three
that glorious spring afternoon, 1940,
about to climb down
to shake a farmer’s hand while eyeing
his blushing daughter.
Bloomer to Colfax, on to Rice Lake,
a lazy Sunday outing––
dreaming of how he will soon quit his job,
fly coast to coast and
barnstorm his way into the affections
of women everywhere.
Ambition fueled by the heavens above.

If not this year, then certainly the next,
he will be able to give up
back breaking work that barely covers
the plane’s expenses.
Unaware of the war’s rapid approach
and the truck driving job
waiting to corral him at the end of it––
his being grounded by
the demands of a wife and children,
I see Father having
descended from that clear blue sky,
still in the pilot’s seat.
Oblivious to a future’s clipped wings.


Setting out,
sight, sound and hearing on
high alert feed
a brain’s sharp awareness.

The fourth sense
awakens as I pedal into
the persistent
resistance of this headwind.

Tired legs
catalog fatigue’s encroachment
as I confront
another series of rolling hills.

Who knows
when movement blended
this uproar
into silence’s gentle drift?

Coming to,
I find, unbeknownst to me,
it has been
miles since my last thought.

Stolen Stardust

Each and every dusk a dragon
flies to the moon.
He has, after all, a vast treasure
trove of stars
to personally guard in the dark.
Camped in a cave,
his hot breath accounts for
this crescent’s glow.
But like the rest of us, dragons
are a bit grumpy
before their breakfast is served.
Especially if he
suspects children of sprinkling
his cache of stardust
on last night’s sweet dreams.
Which is why,
even before he brushes his teeth,
with a mighty roar,
this one fierily exhales, igniting
the sun’s glare
to find who might be the culprit.