Screen Shot: A momma bluebird taken through our back porch screen.
Silent Sunday (mostly)
To see a crescent setting in a southern sky… – a poem
To see a crescent setting in a southern sky –
a bowl of water sloshing, spilling Venus
and Jupiter over the rim – pulls me off the ground.
I’m grounded in a daily grind; no respite despite
the final bell and the walkaway. I cannot not walk
away from the heartbeat too loud in my eyes –
eyes seeking water to rinse the stress over the rim.
Tonight I have no bowl of lunar luminescence –
our sky is not dry. Clouds spill over; over my heart
is a canopy, a ceiling. Obscured by clouds, stars
and waxing moon slosh unseen behind a screen.
Among the Undead — a haiku (of sorts)
A silent classroom,
heads bowed, deep concentration –
cell phone zombified.
Silence Seen — a poem
It was a damning clarity –.
her lips moving.
I read them.
Nothing broke through.
Her voice was a still
Western Minnesota night
three hours before the storm hit.
Even the night birds held their breath.
Calligraphy — a haiku
My penmanship shakes,
requires I make a new brush –
or create fresh ink.
Baby Sandhill Crane
Silent Sunday
The Ritual — a poem
I
It began with a fever dream.
The folks gathered to listen
as a young one recited –
they listened to learn, to add
to previous, numerous recitations.
They rehearsed the song of the trout
that would not be caught, sung
the epic tale of their first leader
and the night he was born,
intoned the lament over the season
when the corn would not grow.
They told the stories that they might live.
Many other lyrics and tales uttered
to life within the circle sparked
and grew to life within the circle
through the night, the starred night.
We told the stories that they might live.
At the end of these, the young one
told of his dream and folk repeated
as an echo as he spoke. It thus
joined with the lore of ages uncounted.
It became a part of them.
It became a part of us.
We told the stories that they might live.
II
As was often after the stories –
came the long night visited by dreams.
Upon the next story fire some would
share their night visions, adding
them to the story that inspired them.
We told the stories that they might live.
Later story and dream would merge.
We told the stories that they might live.
III
The stories came with fire.
Before the first smolder – before fire
was ours – we huddled fearing beasts
that hunted the darkness; feared
others for whom the night posed
no obstacle.
We told the stories that they might live.
Sometime after we learned to capture
and keep a flame, we gathered around
with heat and light before us.
The heat spoke in crackle and pop,
hissing of serpents. Light casting
fleeting images, cavorting shadows.
We told the stories that they might live.
Who knows who was first to share
that night – a story of a hunt, three
beasts taken to eat, two men left
where they died. We all nodded,
we who remembered. The young
were silent. A few women cried.
We heard just one tale that night.
Our storytelling grew. The young
ones can now tell the story of that
hunt, the beasts and the dead.
We told the stories that they might live.
We tell the stories so we may live.
Silent Sunday
Published!
Many thanks to for publishing two of my poems at Verse-Virtual.
Life in Portofino 