LA PRIMAVERA 

Awaken to the newness of life.

Spring is a glorious forthcoming.

Only once myriads of brown and green,

the forest now floods of sun-gold,

yellow and purple dense growths of lilies,

columbines, daisies and lupines

imbedded in the forest floor,

or hanging like ribbons from the sides of trees

or the edge of the canon,

making everything tingle and glow.

Below the foot of the valley,

the river bounces through the foothills;

twirling torrents lead into a performance

of dancing bubbling foamy whiteness

among the cascade.

Forever shall I remember the river's song.

And for years to come,

hum its melodies throughout my dreams

 

Over in the distance,

the birds begin to stir.

Jays chatter, meadowlarks converse

while flowers spread their petals.

Every timbre of forest relishes

in morning light.

Ground squirrels; rodent people

scurry into leafy canopies,

pearly cumuli of dew-drops

once glistening in silvery reflexive bundles

now vanish.

The entire landscape glows

like a child's face during great fervor

or happiness.

Every life cell in the forest rejoices

to the dancing songs of Spring.

 

Now comes the rain

with corresponding elegance,

flooding the ground.

Some, with blunt plap-plap sounds;

a soft reverberating humming.

Some happy drops fall straight

into the bosom blossoms of flower cups,

caressing the legs of lilies,

showering the bending stems

of newly growing flora.

Raindrop vapor in rising motions

coming from ground puddles

and hastening back up to the sky

in a succession of bouncy spirals;

God ventriloquists the puppet Rain. 

The first thunder-wave echoes

through the valley

as if eager to join the rain's dance and song

with low booming timpani of majesty

and pomp

and splendor.

Oh, the symphony of spring rain!

 

The storm is over,

no longer black;

the clouds float away

revealing a blue sky

once jaded by a cumulus mask.

Once a cornucopia of booms and harrows,

the echoing thunder-waves now play silently.

The birds reprise the storm,

answering its phrases with their own

t-wiiit, tw-iiiiits,

rejoining the tumult of spring,

rejoicing in earth-song. 

 

 

 

VENTURE

If there lives a place on earth

      where peace is to be found,

         where blackness breaks,

            where the soft somber caresses

         of the wind’s loud echo

      beseech inner reflection and self-wit,

it will not be found intentionally.

 

The land will find you.

 

Somewhere in a lighthouse

      light is searching,

twinkling cursive

and living. 

 

 

 

THURSDAY

I wrote a sad song today

I neglected my lunch and the oven went up in flames

I wrote some haikus today:

 

      All were about you

      And the little things I love

      the smell of your hair

 

I road a mad horse today

Even in my dreams I failed, flipping over the reigns

I wrote a ballad today:

 

      To tell the truth of earthly years;

      the coloring of pigeons.

      I find the source of burning fears

      the past is non forgiving...

 

nor is it living

 

the future is hope. 

the present; reassuring

of what is called being.

 

 

L'ESTATE

 

Beneath the jaded golden mist of the sun's finger-rays of light,

                 the shepherd,

flustered with heat, sweats as the flock confines

into communal wool huddles of sweltering dithery.

 

"I do not know just how long it takes

to become saturated with the elements

so that one takes no account of them."

 

For now, while the sky is crystalline and the wrath of the sun unwearied,

                 the shepherd,

and his flock conjoin with the pines,

scorching in sun-rain.

 

The cuckoo welcomes us with a tumult of buoyant melodies,

just as autumn offers the earth a blanket of foliage.

The summer air is serenaded by the sweet voiced ballads

of the turtledove.

The finch's cry, sang with silly exuberance,

glozes over the blankness, emptiness if you will,

of the shimmering mesa trail;

only, only

with the Golden hope of scoring the peaks and ranges with his song.

 

It is difficult to distinguish the call of the squawking finch from the still chant of the desert wildlife:

        the drone of bees,

                the scurrying of lizards

                        the hustle of squirrels.

 

If the swell of vibrations,

which are the golden-violet glow of summer twilight,

were to shudder into song,

the sound would be the counterpoint of violin timbres

exchanged between ornithological benevolence,

the chatter of love harmonies breaking along the blossom-tops.

Hearing the chip-chip-chapping of the birdsong,

it's performance is no new thing to gape and marvel at.

 

A steady zephyr chariots the air.

From the north, the wind grows frothy

with the glittering colors of ground-swept dust and verdure.

The wind elevates its threatening presence,

conquering the valley with its blow.

I say "threatening" so it seems.

 

As each torturous gust of wind blows heavier and more demanding,

                the shepherd,

now frail, trembles fervently and quivers with fear

of the devastating storm that will soon engulf him.

 

 

 

POST-GRAD RITUALS

 

Perhaps I shan't see my Neverlands.

Glacial periphery, tombstones of crystalline,

Irises in icicles, fog rolls and brittle bark.

Gold bracelets at the bottom of a well.

I want to breathe my dreams

But I can't sleep or see in the dark.

 

Don't tell me not to worry,

"Nobody knows what they want."

Post-grad rituals, jitter cloister-phobia,

Focus, get emotional.

     Wide

          Open

               Spaces

 

Perhaps I shan't gleam in window light.

Levolor symmetry, shadows stripe a silver arch.

Long bones in zebra print; repetition is resonant.

Old bracelets in a box somewhere.

I want to live my dreams

But I can't seem to stop once I start. 

 

Boats tell me not to hurry,

"Nobody knows what they want."

Loose-ended feelings, a single-cell amoeba.

I won't get emotional.

Why open spaces?

 

With time to grow a beard now,

I want no-time to shave.

How does it feel to spoil?

We waste our dead in graves.

Heavy boots, for crying out loud.

Some never feel the soil.

 

Perhaps I shan't either.

The end, forever nearer.

Nearer, nearer, nearer...

 

I'm living in cloud-cuckoo-land;

Drowning in loud ticking sounds.

Clearer, clearer, clearer...

 

Time is running out for us

 

and you just

     move

your

     hands

upon the clock.