Soft dawn
no longer you
steam curls from my cup
palms pause on the chipped mug edge
still here
Each day
I set one down
memory moulds its shape
pen scratches, ink hardens slowly
again
Outside
light rain falls
waning petals drum the glass
shoes splash across stone puddles
lingering
Rooms learn
my slow outline
shelves echo my careful tread
clothes folded, dishes stacked, life
counterfeit
My breath
keeps a tally
poems slip forward past my hand
past the hands that fold, sweep, and lift
still on
A benumbing, beams forth
What but serves best
To gild, unblest
Late and lone, a dead look;
A death-wish hides.
Or what as soft, o'erspread
The snow reflects:
Tender respects.
Man, with the Earth consoled.
Heart-stilled, abides.
With a fist full of daggers it descends upon its prey
Dropping like a meteor without the light of day
But no rocky harbinger, this bearer of last light
It's gift eternal night borne on the softest wing of flight
Envy, and wonder, consume the pondering breast
Was it oversight or blunder that left us so unblest
Since the point where first we leapt, we long have sought the wing
Yet clumsy sad contrivance is all that we can bring
'sif chitin brought to shiny curve, could match the kite its wing
Still our eyes reach skyward, as if prince had been king
Our reach forever past our grasp… we're left to pine and sing
Oh we can bring the night to those we deem worthy of rest
But soaring on the breath of life is not how we've been blest
But rest assured in this one thing we share with those of wing
Squawk, or screetch, or melody, we too, can laugh and sing
Breathe deep as though it be your last, and fill your soul with song
Then let fly with the breath of life… sing loudly, if not long
WINTER JOURNEY’S END
Their calculations must have been at fault
Their instruments in need to calibrate
That wandering star’s location in the vault
Had seemed a compass true, inviolate
The auguries had all concurred to say
Event of moment in the cosmic scheme
To change the world forever come what may
Would come to pass; they’d seen it all in dream
Yet here they found themselves upon that night
Within a byre with beasts and men unblest
To witness scene both rude and recondite
The focus and the end point of their quest:
Young mother - fate to suffer, heart to bleed
Child God incarnate, laid in cattle feed
It's so sad when you hear of apostacy
these who started well on the Christ way
but temptations came in to spoil their walk
promising the world! what can one say?
The Christian is not promised it'll be easy
for they'll be bumps and bruises on the road
there's a cross to be lifted truly on high
plant your seed that needs be sowed
Remember Jesus walked this road before
so humble, lowly, meek He indeed was
but He took up His cross all His days
learn to do likewise escaping satan's jaws
Walk with Jesus on His path of light
all other routes find it ends in night
be sure be close to finding true rest
only in Christ for all others are unblest
Never give a thought to any other way
keep close to Jesus your only view
Remember He died for you with all its pain
now is with you making your life brand new
Autumn moon moods taunt my soul
as satirical jazz rocks locked, untold
gory stories of defeat, retreating soulless
untold joys, imploding screams unblest.
As a season, I reason stages of reproach,
storms of normalcy, winds of encroached
feelings reeling to hot to handle scandal
remissed, unkissed; insistent rare mantels.
My dear, the one whom rest eludes;
whence comes to you spirits at night,
these specters that harass your mood
and plague you when out are the lights?
Is there no pill or wonder drug
that eases you like a friend's hug?
From eve to eve you are beset;
and assailed by your dreams and fear
of the Reaper's looming onset,
which prompt your nightmares every year.
Like your nightmares, nights annoy you,
then irk, vex, and thus destroy you.
The Angel of Death's ghostly presence
disturbs your rest though you protest;
it reaves from you the assurance
that you are safe and not unblest.
But, my dear, I am here to tell
you,—that for you there's no death knell;
that you're beyond the reach of Death:
for God safeguards you forever,
and gives you life with every breath,
so that Death harms you never, ever!
And know that I'll be here to defend
you for all time until Time's sure end.
Wild with unbounded energy tonight,
I eschew my med's; but I soon then hear
the frightful voices trumpet in my ear;
they haunt me into the stillness of night
as I transform into a monstrous sight
(a version of myself which I most fear,
and dread, as mania befalls me). Dear
God! why am I accursed with this dire plight!?
Life with bipolar disorder feels tragic,—
it's like a trial by fire, a hard test:
sometimes this dark disease makes me frantic
with madness, rapture, and profound unrest
so vile that I become full-blown manic;
then I am overwhelmed, and feel unblest!
If I skip sleep and skip my med's tonight
against my doctor's warning, I'll soon hear
the strident voices trumpet loud and clear,
unnerving me,--trust me, it's no delight!
When I'm bipolar I fail to comply
and manias become fearfully near
'til I'm committed three times ev'ry year;--
it's a pain that puts my life on standby.
Life with my ups and downs can be frantic,
a crucible, a challenge, and a test;
at times this mad disease makes me panic
with madness, brilliance, and profound unrest
so frightful; (O God, help me when I'm manic!)
alas, its curse is rapture that's unblest!
To die midstream
moonbeam of rosette
bloom
Unseen to down-pour
whites of greyness grown
Be poisoned spears to
soldiers gone too soon
From country-cuddling
hold and seeds unsown.
Through wintery cold of
dewy-morning scorn
Where lies comfort in
dreams of homeward
force
The soldier's toil be made
the clarion-horn
To cheering crowds of
clouds to rain-remorse.
And dust o'er dust, the
soldiers buried, reign
A waste of years before
the waste behind
As mourning silence o'er
medallions feign
Dethrones the rest and
battle-days remind.
THE EPITAPH
"A soldier shall ne'er
grow to death unblest
Unless uþon regrets, be
laid to rest".
The poet's voice, a lonely flute
From the grotto of orphaned dreams,
And Sorrow the arms which wrap him
'Til e'en they grow frail, and falter,
Thus failing, cast him down-
A writhing soul unblest
By fair Sleep's last kiss...
His word, a sword
And princely thing!
His power firm, and curse-
For his the alighting of Heaven's sighs
Or a phrase to stymie giants...
Tho his thousand sonnets tribute Roses,
Nary a one will bed him-
For his the rage of the seeking Winds
Which howl through gardened graves,
A midnight dance of madness
By angels peopled and tears companioned...
Thus, then, he lives,
As touching the Dark,
And then the Dark awakens...
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