You are the wild flower in my palm
With no stem to keep you anchored to this covetous earth
You are the fragile thing I dare not cup,
As your petals whittle away under the wind
And flit unfettered in the air;
Exaggerated fear leaves my fingers numb
Hungry need leaves my fingers twitching
And my hand is paralyzed by turmoil
As every breath of wind takes another petal from me
And brings to my lungs, my chest and my heart
An overwhelming scent of need-
You are the wild beauty in my palm
And I dare not hold you to my chest
For I fear to crush you
To know first hand
That caged beauty, is beauty no more.
To have the love and sentiment
Of man, a vibrant rose,
Who courts with such a tenderness
While striking such a pose.
His flaming petals, soft and sweet,
That gently brush my lips,
A dashing leaf of lively green
Has slyly swept my hips.
His body tall and stiff with life,
His stalk down through his stem,
The shades of envy darken so,
That he becomes a gem.
His thorns, he wears them strong and proud
Though lethal they appear,
For thorns he bears to shelter me
And rid me any fear.
His velvet quivers in the breeze,
Like dancing sheets on fire,
Caress me love, from head to toe,
And see what may aspire.
For when a rose declares its love
Its pollen it will share,
So soft like dew drops over me,
I am captive in his lair.
Entangled leaf in leaf we are,
My petals soft and pale,
One jagged edge of you I feel
So tender without fail.
You trace my figure soft and slow
For petals, they will break,
But since you hold me warm and safe
They’re only yours to take.
So pick my petals, one by one,
And let them flutter by,
For all this world needs to survive
Are roses, you and I.
I am the spirit of satin stardust
and the antiquities of golden memories alive
I call to you from the rising warmth of the sun
and greet you in the misty morning light
I am the steady and rolling drum beat
echoing from the jagged heights above
I am the mysterious curves of the raging waters'
and the freedom birds of love
I rise above the white summer clouds
in lilting songs of grace
and roam with the western tail-winds
to take you home again
I am a Spirit of our gracious Lord God Almighty
of love hope and faith
I have come to tell
Dedicated To P.D.
A giant snowball in springtime
From twenty yards out the sound and smell
Closer now; breathing her numbing scent
Listening to the drowsy hum
of greedy and jealous bees
forced to share her bounty
with Tiger and Zebra Swallowtails
School will be out soon...
Memorizing every branch within reach
Her limbs are just low enough
for a boy to scramble up quickly
fleeing imaginary monsters
still lurking and prowling below
Taking ignorant and blissful advantage
of this daughter of the wild; his protector
His big sister to run to...
Shiny and slippery black bark
that oozes burgundy sap
which dries in animal shapes
Summer twilight is coming
Bats twittering overhead
chasing nasty mosquitoes
A noise echoing from far off
A door slamming maybe...
Tucked safely away in his favorite pew
(Naughty boy, eating during church!)
sampling her forbidden fruit
sweet and sour...half is seed
Thieving Blue Jays get the most
Screaming and scolding arrogantly
yet flying away unpunished
Grannny will make jelly...
Oh everlasting Father, creator of all things
He knows that heaven is far beyond the grasp
of a feeble and fumbling mortal mind
But when You decide to send Your beloved Son
back to rule the earth for one thousand years
If he is judged worthy to be in that count
May one humble servant say if it's like this
that would be just fine...
He is above us in the clouds
run through the fields and speak of thee
He will grow roses
I will be the stem of the roses
for I shall never leave your soil
You will be the tree I grow beneath
and he will be our rain.
Sad Heart, now thou art wither’d from the Sun,
What man, or god, will near thee run?
Wrought in twist like branches in Tempests' gasp,
What Comfort, or Gauze, shall be near to grasp?
True ones begotten are the ones now Rotten
And the ones now Rotten will never be forgotten
They are merely sad remains of assiduous Tears
That have been meddl’d with and tatter’d Raw throughout the years
And thou, cruel Mind, that sat’st still thru toiling trail of Night;
Must dream your broken Dreams; thou’rt a sanely flight!
Can thou extinguish passions of Fire, Disease, or Rain?
—tho thy distinguish’d influence trains to abstain
Thy Remnants brought to debris in thy Empty street,
Devour’d by Vultures, their bestow’d beaks entreat
Merely are they cleaning an inexhaustible Mess
Alas! Leaving thy rudiments of Identity to redress....
Under the care of sun and rain
My leaves have unfurled
My buds have burst forth
My own will has been done
This was my beginning
Through the seasons
Spring brought me to life
Summer grew me to new heights
The fall must come sometime
The frost will encase my barbs
And I will return to meditation
Waiting patiently for my rebirth
For your light to peek through clouds
Your moon to hold me within night
When spring returns...
I will dance in the wind
A never ending flower
She walks away.
Girlish and glorious
like a kite on a string
tautly slipping through tightened fingers,
burning a little,
and slicing through
if ever left unattended,
so preciously tensioned
against the cold
Tears begin to flow
but I do not know . . .
or the wind?
If my heart, then am I sad
to be here on the ground
to be watching the kite
In answer, a quivering.
"She will not fall or float away while I hold her thus.
She will be beautiful for me."
It is the old man from the threefold of life
To whom I have taken control on this
But the poet whatever
The cause should be
The one who must walk
Along the concept
For which beauty fades from
Measure of apparent
Size of naturalistic explanations
Regardless how rich your heart is
And none of us is able pass through.
It is the poet who is living
Psychologically into this burrow of guesses
And paradises within him
With reflection and with correction
Of life this creates such
A record that commands he must live or die.
When the sky bleeds solitude
like a wounded weeping heart and
the horizon’s embrace wraps valleys about eternity,
then, only then, can the bountiful earth find love.
Crimson dawns feed the artist eye, and poet’s pen
for all that’s green and wonderful must bleed, and rise, and die.
Each reflection rainbowed in cirrus cloud’s caress
or white capped ocean wave combine
Blue bloods of forest’s fringe between earth and sky,
meadowlark and nightingale
a wedding bell of bliss,
the mornings brings…