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Best Poems Written by Rd Mcmanes

Below are the all-time best Rd Mcmanes poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Old Poems

the rhythm of old poems,
precision breathing 
in and out,
nose and mouth.

reality fogs a window
on a cold winter morning,
clears the congested mind
one wrinkle at a time.

in our misspent youth,
we twist words around the tongue
and take them out of context
without real meaning.
 
after we learn to stammer 
in the italic frame of spoken language,
we speak without real communication,
every word uttered is misunderstood.

the rhythm of old poems,
simple beauty without change.
i always come back to them
pure as the frost 
on a window pane.

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At My Window Sill

light breaks across my window sill
golden rays of early morning sun
filtered by the window’s pane
a symbol, another day has come 

i gaze out across my window sill
watch the play of two young squirrels
hear the songs morning birds sing
feel the warmth upon my face 

i linger in front of my window sill
staring at the green of the woods
and dream of passing this day
here, at my window sill

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Mountains In the Mind

there are mountains 
in my mind
those i can’t climb
no matter how i try
smooth glass-like walls
with no finger holds

thousands times 
a thousand
i circle the wide base
there are no crannies
not a hint 
of small cracks
nothing i can see

i dream of wings
something with which
to ascend 
unassailable heights
but my thoughts
are mired 
in solid concrete

there are mountains 
in my mind
and i will never 
reach their peaks
each one remains 
a stranger, one
i can never meet

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Night Trek

I walk in the darkness of moon’s shadow
Neath the dark stars of night’s sky
A path traveled mostly by day
Now traversed by the black of night
Each step, a step in the dark
Wishing for a lighted way 

Hoping not to have lost the way
Fumbling through the black shadows
Feeling the coldness of the dark
No illumination from the sky
Nothing but the dark of night
Wishing for the light of day 

Oh but for the sun of day
With the light showing my way
Drive back the dark of night
Push back the cloak of shadows
Burn away the black of sky
End the reign of the dark 

Only sun may end this dark
The light for beginning of day
Change black to blue of sky
That I may find my way 
Chase back the dark shadows
Brought out by the night

Let the day end this night
Light now my path of dark
Shove back the night shadows
Turn this night into day
So I can find again my way
Let the sun rise into the sky 

Turn the black into blue sky
End this dark and blind of night
That I may be on my way
Instead of lost in this dark
Hoping for light of day
Scared of night’s shadows

I fear the shadows of the night
Of this black sky so very dark
Till the day then I know my way

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Oklahoma Clay

Most evenings, right around supper,
when the sky was streaked red
right before dark, the old man
would talk of Oklahoma-

the first time he hunted squirrel,
down by Coal Creek, and how
you could usually sense the rain,
long before it actually started.

How he caught a big crappie
on the Fourth of July, and how 
it snowed that same year, first 
white Christmas he had ever seen-

he recalled finding an old graveyard,
now at the bottom of Eufaula Lake- 
whether the Corps of Engineers 
moved it or not, he couldn’t say.

Mostly he remembered;
the damp smell of red clay,
and how on real clear nights, 
he always wished on the stars

If the wishes came true
nobody will ever know,
now he’s there forever
beneath the stars 
and damp red clay.

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Whippoorwill

grass on the graves
the whippoorwill
far away

published The Heron’s Nest # 9: Sept 2003

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Keepsakes

notable notations
have become keepsakes
collectable paper scrapes 
with no book or look
remotely resembling their own
bits of envelope, napkin, and such
whatever happens to be handy
when that mood strikes
and i am compelled 
by undeniable urges
to write something down

i have yet to figure out
why these bits of notation
seem so important to me
years later, i rarely remember them
and even on the occasion
when i might recall a detail
not much sense can i derive
from the cryptic hasty scrawls
most wind up a total mystery
one i never seem to solve
yet still i save them every one
thinking, one day i will
but the years seem unkind
my notes fade to yellow blurs
mouse chewed keepsakes
remnants left from another time

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Cup of Tea

Sometimes I drink tea to remember
fingertips crushing the dried leaves.
I never measure the amount,
adding pinches as I feel the need. 

I let the kettle whistle,
moments rising above its sound
merging in clouds of steam.

I pour the water slowly,
always stopping at half a cup.
Swirl the wetted leaves gently
careful not to breach the rim.

I like to let the leaves settle
before adding more water,
an acquired ritual I confess
though the reason escapes me.

I never take a sip,
not as long as I can see bottom.
Tea should be strong and fragrant,
something to fully savor
as if taste could be a sin.

Places, people, and even dreams,
swirling in sloshing currents
of freshly poured tea
and I remember each memory
from cup to cup.

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Haiku Summer Breeze

in the breeze 
summer’s soulful song plays
on the wind chimes

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Before the After

a fragment of before
prehistory rhetorical relic
some long ago thought
where imagination blooms
as reality withers
not quite dead

our dreams
become fermentations 
something to sip
when it is time to believe 
to have passion
in a worthwhile cause
but what do we know 
beyond today’s wishes
and tomorrow’s intentions

the future is a horizon
we have yet to see
what we will remember
comes much later
after what is
ceases to be