Moments – No Talent For Certainty

Erewhon

The artist stops to paint a scene
With colors that she purchased from
A shop that closed six years before,
A place that smelled of spirit gum

And costumes hanging in the back
By landscapes painted for the stage.
And in the now, she thinks about
What happened to that place.

Her painting packed up in her car,
She takes the long way ‘round to where
That shop was open, years ago,
But there’s no newer business there,

Just broken windows, abject signs
Of long neglect and passing age,
And how the dreams we bring to life
Soon leave so little trace.

Her painting hangs now on my wall,
The glories of the woodland fall;
As she to senescence has passed,
I think about the spell she cast

About a shop I never saw,
A time and place I never knew,
And how it feels in moments true
To see another’s

Point of view

“… the noblest arts hold in perfection but a little moment.” — Samuel Butler, “Erewhon”

{ the feel }

when he still had the feel, the earth
was cinnamon, and waterslides,
and autumn like a kiss, a lingering,
discovery, no guides,
each whole experience — a birth.
when he still had the feel

when sorrow had another place to grow,
he held the air and ground
inside a heart that stretched into the sky,
each field a temple mound
he came to love, to really know.
when sorrow had another place

see, now — the dirt is open, bare,
and all is silence but the air;
the wind on his uplifted face
blows in from some less sorrowed place,
and he knows buried, underneath,
the feel is there —

somewhere

The Sea Rolls In

The sea rolls in at twilight time,
The day is laying down to rest;
My love is standing by my side
And I can hear a beating in her chest…

The waves are lovely, soft and wet;
The dampness there upon my brow,
The spray, dispersing in the air –
And we, yes, she and I, are closer now…

In distant places, somewhere else,
There might just be two others who
Are feeling what we’re feeling now:
If so, those hearts are truly, truly blessed

Sunrise 7

He walked down to the waterside
When he was twelve of years,
Awash in nescience and pride
And dreams of new frontiers

And there were gulls, and mourning doves,
And fishers organizing --
But when you're only twelve of years,
The sun

Is always

Rising

Snowfall In The Meadow

Snowfall in the meadow,
Wind blows through the woodland,
Day gives way to shadow,
All with frost is aproned —

Boundaries and fences
Bring to thought tomorrows:
Where we draw our limits
There will come

Our sorrows

Recoiled

He thought they’d had, for them,
A quite good day.
He took the garbage out
Before she asked, complimented
Her on the new hair style, and
Listened for some time after
Inquiring as to her day

He tried to make eye contact as
She was taking unusable things out
If the refrigerator and moving them
To the garbage can, smiling on
Occasion to show his sympathy with
The vicissitudes of that day’s battle

He commented on how selfless she
Always was, and how people took
Advantage, sometimes; as she finished
Drying her hands after washing them,
He lightly placed his hands on her shoulders

Whereupon she recoiled, turning at
Once to pass that off as a gesture of
Busy procedure on to the next task, while he
Realized with the first dim realization of
A new forever that
What used to be good enough for her

Wasn’t good enough any more

Charleston Park

The sky welcomes us

To walk on –

A limitless day —

To share is human:

Like this:

To share is human:

Like this:

To share is human:

Like this:

To share is human:

Like this:

To share is human:

Like this:

To share is human:

Like this:

To share is human:

Like this: