Gator Pie And Love Songs xfo

Gator Pie and Love Songs

Joe Shepard

Copyright © 2011 by Joe Shepard.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011910404

ISBN: Hardcover 978-1-4628-9347-8

Softcover 978-1-4628-9348-5

Ebook 978-1-4628-9349-2

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This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

Love Songs Of The Autumn Light

Egrets On Brackens Pond

Slow Dancin’

The Gardener

Two Gifted Lovers

Birthday, 1991

Has There Ever Been A Mortal Love Found?

To Morning

Nor Half Century Now

The Candle’s Eye

Evening In The Garden

Uncommon Rain

Aloft

Like The May Rose

A Citadel

Once Each Year

The Seventh Seed

My Highest Regard

Wind Of ion

Sunset And Amber

And Live Out Loud

Beyond The Pillars Of Hercules

Morning Words

In Tether Rhyme

Courtship: A Sonnet

An Ember

Sunburst And Sage

The First Winter

Bread Upon The Water

The Loving Years

Eden Slumber

The Halo

The Years

Our Song

In The Beginning

Requiem To Papa

The Epic Of Bettye Jean

Family Reunion

Highway Home

Redneck Riviera

Jason In The Key Of E

Jonas Of The New Eclipse

The Thinker

The Gastroenterologist

The Troubadour

Oh Dylan

The Stone In My Breast

Stillness

The Fortress Mind

Foggy Morn

The Bouquet

A Beautiful Thing

A Moral Man

Hands

Sonnet Of War

Young Mardi Gras

What Of Love

Talk And Show Mercy

I Am Lifted

The Stone In My Breast

I Made Believe I Was Dead

Farewell To The Naked Pilgrim

And The Vision Of Hope

When There’s Crying It Means There’s Pain

This Life

The Trees

Up Side Down

Early Morning Scarlet Blue

The Event

Big Orange

A Bowl Of Wrath

The Monster In Phoebus

The Thanksgiving Feast

Many Are The Gods

Weeping May Endure

The Face Of God

Self

Morning Coffee

Comes A Horseman

A Veil Of Saffron

High And Dry

Made Of Wool

Winter

Love Songs Of The

Autumn Light

Egrets On Brackens Pond

Egrets on Brackens Pond

Were eating breakfast there

Yet by afternoon we wondered where

Disappeared the august vagabond

And onions long stemmed in schools

Growing only in this land

Off limits to any picking hand

Except for the careless fool

Follows along the scenic road

As it embraces riverside

To chaperone the changing tide

And inspire this thankful ode

We made our plans to meet

In a wooded park near a cove

To impress the witness pine grove

Yet not be indiscreet

O how I drink it in

My sweet and I

Kissed by earth and sky

Observed by wooded kin

And return often here

To cultivate solemn peace

And minister in caprice

To this satisfied sonneteer

Slow Dancin’

Slow dancin’ waist deep

in the Gulf of Mexico.

Feeling for your hips,

Kissing the salt from your lips,

Your face against the evening sky

is a radiant cameo.

The horizon sits still

on the green gentle swells.

The earth is kind to others,

But generous with lovers,

As we dance upon starfish,

hermit crabs and seashells.

How quiet now is the earth

while we consider naught.

No yesterday to fret,

No tomorrow as yet,

Just the two of us alone

with a single conscious thought.

The Gardener

How the imagination is fertile

from her delicate caring touch.

To be warm.

To be comforted.

I swear, I am consumed.

Consider her garden

just beside the house.

Her hands carefully and lovingly

arouse the earth.

It will not bear her caress

without yielding its harvest.

She knew the seed

before it was planted.

Yet her hands are instruments

of the vision.

There is gentleness.

There is affection.

There is purpose.

And the fruit bears witness

that the heart is sincere.

So now there is plenty

and the table is glad.

The heart of the gardener

is at home in the earth.

Two Gifted Lovers

If I were asked to write a song

I’d close my eyes and think of you

I can do it with plan or impromptu

And to pursue our love all day long

Is a course in my daily bread

Worthy are we of such sweet splendor

That night is near and words are tender

Like evening late on the night we wed

And filled are we with wonder

That the minds of two gifted lovers

Indwell each other as the Spirit hovers

And ion releases with a thunder

Like a storm over a parched land

As motion becomes a waited harvest

From the nearest field to the garden farthest

And life again helps me understand

That man should never be alone

Birthday, 1991

The sun was no stranger

to the Manhattan sky

the day you first cried at life.

And now, since evening and morning

have come so often

it seems easy to forget

that youth is a recurring thing.

Had I known you

when the young physicians

gasped at their curious pursuits,

I might feel as old as my years.

Yet, I am young in your grace

and new in your days.

So, when you cry at life

for the final time,

we shall be as children.

Has There Ever Been

A Mortal Love Found?

Has there ever been a mortal love found,

To match the hope of a breast long without?

And would the oath of love abide unbound

Through even most tempting currents of doubt?

Could man’s pale heart from the crucible learn

To give without pause and come of age,

And in the interest of ion burn,

Yet not consume the heart of jealous rage?

It is found within this corporeal form,

Among these bones and alive in spirit,

Breath that breathes the soul of a lover’s storm,

A love that rivals all the worlds that fear it.

So, in the comfort of arms such as mine,

Be at peace with the promise of new wine.

To Morning

Morning, do not leap in

like a lioness with young.

Make your way in moderation,

for dreams are unfinished

and hearts on the precipice

await their turn.

Know that the night is a hungry lover,

not easily betrayed or quickly forgotten.

Morning, do not arrive with indifference.

Delay the dawn and hold back

her affection for the new day.

Let Morpheus depart with honor,

undefeated, not taunted by the stronger cause.

Morning, do not come in.

We have a vision for tomorrow

and shall not perish, yet

the night needs a further pause.

And so, over my love and I

with a whisper and a glance.

Notice, but with quiet alarm,

you are rarely welcome.

Nor Half Century Now

In the early morning gentle quiet

As dawn begins to dress the earth

And sleep makes her way

To another weary world,

The wood thrush and his kin

greet us with new energy

And my life begins again,

As every day it surely does

With a prayer of thanksgiving

For your sure and constant affection.

Night will not presume its turn

Nor darkness take her place

Without the vow oft repeated

To set first among many trusts,

A faithfulness to tend the garden of love.

No century, nor half century now,

Nor twice a century come

Could steal this treasure,

Nor quiet this anthem,

Nor make of us strangers.

So let there be full assurance

That time is no thief,

And the years do not torment me.

Indeed, they love me in you.

The Candle’s Eye

Flames don’t fly

from the candle’s eye

without the note of mortal cost.

Winds don’t weave

through clouds that cleave

to heights that breath is lost.

But you remain

though the world doth wane

and the evening may fast wax cold.

There’s life made new

as near as you

in the love I fair behold.

Evening In The Garden

The twilight was green,

dark, velvet green

like moss on autumn ground

down near the sometimes creek.

But I spied her

silhouetted against the new fence,

shovel in one hand, cocked against the earth,

and with the other hand

looking like Bernstein in a garden symphony.

In another minute or so

even the light reflected

against the low purple clouds

would move west toward Richmond.

Yet she would linger a little while,

loving the land, outlasting the pain,

seeing only the promise.

Uncommon Rain

Be glad for the uncommon rain,

that it arrives just in time.

For I was thirsty, like the land,

and almost hopeless in my dry season.

My heart was parched, my soul

a beggar in rags and shreds.

Yet now I am refreshed

like the fields and the meadows.

Richer and deeper is my blush,

cleaner and firmer is my grasp,

and newer am I in wonder,

since my walk in the rain.

Aloft

Which heart is it that slays me

And lays me down to dream,

Of every season’s crystal stream

And all the high places,

And the sound of every wave?

Is it the beating heart that races

With thunderous ion vowed,

Or perhaps the gentle heart

That touches lovingly soft

But speaks to me out loud?

Aloft do I soar like the hunter,

And in your grace I am restored.

For I have fallen upward, in embrace,

Like the dreamer in a love song.

Far above this long life,

Beyond the temporal shores,

The heart is a giver,

The wife of my newest years.

Like The May Rose

Like the May rose are you real,

More in season than a winter flower,

But a fragrance of color and company.

My nights are as warm as summer

And the days I lost before your love

Are seasons of memories made softer,

Like the petals of Joseph’s Coat on the cheek.

But you are a rose of mystery,

For you neither wither nor sting,

And you lean toward the shade,

And love the freedom of giving.

It was I who discovered you,

And named you Musical.

You are my harvest,

Bountiful and covering the land,

And O’ what a green and loving land,

That smells sweeter today than ever.

A Citadel

My love for you is a gift.

It’s not something I could have

engendered, and yet

I feel as if it were my own.

Odd, how adoption births an idea

and after it has to season grown,

gently rendered the fruit aloft,

like the wind driven petals

of a favorite evening blossom.

Look how I blaze with blushing,

still the suitor, the cautious lover,

enamored with the illusory prospect

that you know me well and love me still.

This anniversary of our troth

seems both young and ripe with memory.

So, I am circumspect with regard

for my companion of these precious days,

yet reckless with expression.

Let our hearts be a citadel,

a fortress of spring and new life.

Yes, let our vision be grand,

for we are richer, stronger, more pure,

more blessed in our hallowed delight.

The gift of love bestowed unto to me,

give I to you in a covenant of increase.

Once Each Year

In this season the birds rise early

to fill the air with fragrant praise

of youth and newness and hearts ablaze.

And I regret that I’ve no wing

to lift me high at morn and sing

a parable to refrain.

I’d mount the clouds pink and pearly

and make my song a lilt

with comely cadence within it built

to please you in your heart of years

now six together in joyful tears

like a fertile flood of the latter rain.

And oft would I ride the currents fair

or even winds that palisade

to gather words like drops of jade

from clouds of scarlet blue

and arrange in verse to give to you

once each year in jubilation.

Then you would catch them in the air

as you dreamed the dreams of birthdays past

when time appears to move too fast

and hold them to you like a gentle friend

as all the birthday poems attend

your memory celebration.

The Seventh Seed

Like light over darkness

has love the power to persuade.

And I might be your secret lover

who calls you quietly by the artesian

for to quench, for to drink my fill.

Yet our love is more for the savoring.

And like truth in the midst of mendacity

love is the light shining on a hill.

A halo of hope makes me your saint,

your virtual lover, awake with prosperity.

Seven times have I sown this seed of verse

and again I am welcome in the field.

Yet like all life in these temporal times,

that which is not growing is death.

So, from the living word I breathe a song,

Come away with me my beloved.

Let this seventh of the seeds of life

be our beginning, the brightness of our youth.

My Highest Regard

How can I say what my heart compels,

When the risk is so great

And wisdom fails me without notice?

I am left in the midst of purpose

Like a witness, like an axiom,

To simply utter what is true.

Here is a cautious man, circumspect in love

Yet deliberate in its declaration,

A Caesar in the conquest of language.

This breath, this living creature

Anointed with the balm of expression

Makes this premeditated affirmation.

Let the two who are one be secure

And the years be a blessing in view,

For the treasure is worth any peril

And your love my highest regard.

Wind Of ion

Caught up on the warm wind of ion

I behave like a bee on a buttercup

All the moves I make are new

And I’m sometimes silly as a pup

With you my portion and my ration

Look at the way I flutter and fly

All around the garden’s fresh beauty

Drinking in the morning’s dew

More out of sense than intrinsic duty

Till I’ve had my fill and the field is dry

All the year whether short or long

The sweetness of the blossom remains

And stays like a memory faithfully true

From the August sun to the April rains

In the cleft of weak and the stone of strong

The breeze of clover is on me now

As the Rose of Sharon is near

For there are berries of red and blue

That I must harvest without a fear

And the kiss of a bloom upon my brow

Sunset And Amber

Sunset and amber,

like an evening burst of calm,

silhoutted against the pale august sky.

Your motion is still, bent low,

grinning at the new tomatillas

you’ve spotted near the bottom of the vine.

Momentarily, you’ll glance up

and notice me walking toward the garden,

and you’ll grin—again—this time

as you hold out your sagging shirt tail

and show me your prizes.

And Live Out Loud

What can be said before the day

to welcome the dawn and chase the night

to set our hearts fixed in the fight

against the war that encumbers our way

and declare for us a peace of ion?

What might we say as day nears end

and the urgent issues of toiling fade

with most of our judgments already made

as we seek to ease and rest and mend

then lay us down in slumbered fashion?

And what of words for the in-between

when strivings make our balance frail

and in earnest thought we set our sail

for calmer shores we’ve almost seen

toward the only promise of certain ration?

Let whatever speech we utter now

or any sound we yet declare

be in Christ the love we share

and live out loud our sacred vow—

and live out loud our sacred vow!

Beyond The Pillars Of Hercules

Between the vigorous fire that comes in youth

and the faithful wisdom that arrives with age

lies a mysterious yet provocative island of sensibility.

Like exploration beyond the Pillars of Hercules,

forsaking the safety of life’s still waters

appears a halo of hope in the mid-life mist.

Unlike the timid helmsman, fearful of the possibilities,

the practiced navigator tests the uncertain prospect.

Though few pursuits see any real reward,

and meager is the bowl of excellence,

the search is worthy because of its dream.

And on occasion, such as mine own,

there yields a golden fleece of wonder,

a love that mends and a peace that comforts.

So, little does the landscape of life matter,

for your lasting affection is mine to harbor.

Morning Words

Say the morning words again,

as if every morning was the fire of closeness.

Do not let the sluggishness of a wilted world

be the strength of our power.

We are on higher ground,

like the gates of the city on a hill,

with the warmth of a steadfast nearness.

Speak of all that is precious,

all that is impetuous at first light,

and kill swiftly the speech of malicious distance.

I am captive,

again, I am hostage to this realm,

this place of rest and affection.

It softens my bed and warms my eager reprieve.

What I see is a panorama of possibilities,

and my ears are blessed with comfort.

To confound what I know with fear and doubt

is to slay the heart of the vision.

So, I am content to hear the words again,

those morning words, those blossoms,

those fragrant fortifying flourishes

that yield out of the press as oil of joy.

In Tether Rhyme

I am awake and tender with care,

And full of life like an apéritif,

To whet this longing for fair relief,

Like not the fleeting Bradford Pear.

No, rather yearn I forever to be

Your constant affection, and cherished one.

Or else I’ll rightly be undone,

And never blessed with true charity.

For as the spring is soft in time,

And loves the summer when it is through,

This heart you hold in tether rhyme,

Can rest not from love’s sweet debut,

But only in its sure safe harbor,

In arms of shelter and gracious arbor.

Courtship: A Sonnet

If there was danger in loving little

Should I be timid and fair be still?

Or in loving much is it wasteful and brittle

To risk the voyage of the greatest thrill?

For many say the frailty of tender shoots

Lay not in the pain of growing strong,

But soft cometh not the noteful flutes

Upon the sad and poignant banquet song.

So, in the hour of the sun’s first joy

Will my heart be blest and much avowed

To capture your own sweet rays to enjoy

’Til evening mist meets its lonely shroud.

And in the courtship of a heart’s gentle thought

I find the treasure that long I have sought.

An Ember

If it were an ember, it could not be alone,

though in solitary form I should desire

a more kindred spirit than a kindling scheme

to nourish in me the fervent breath of fire,

that I may be quenched as I lay mine eyes

on the cause for which it has brought me higher.

An ember soaked in ardor’s colors,

when bright it burns as warmth and calm,

is all the more a respite from rage

and a soothing sense of mortal balm,

like when the end of day is holy

and the welcome sound of rest is a psalm.

And let the ember glow with fervor due,

not a timid flicker or a coy smolder be,

but a shout of a blaze and intrepid of heart

with sober anxiousness and sweet clarity,

for a cause that is worthy and good

and this endless grace that humbles the sea.

Yet the ember is just as you’ve surmised,

a metaphor in verse and a simile in rhyme,

for thoughts and words are meek on their own

but for the flavor of sentiment in mime,

so this ember is the love for you in me

like the zest of ion and the taste of thyme.

Sunburst And Sage

Sunburst and sage might the mood take

But with eloquence so readily dear

That I am connected in earnest, yes

Though not from a tethered fear

But for the colors’ fond caress

And the midnight hour’s familiar ache.

Let your patience with me reign

Though I be feeble in duty and mind

The heart is neither lost nor at rest

And attains a blessing when you are kind

To love with vigor to be so blest

And know your favor is mine to gain.

Oh, let sage and sunburst turn to gold

In an alchemy of mind yet undiscovered

For in the strength of love’s desire

I’ve seen myself arrayed and covered

With the gentle psalms of a choir

And your ever faithfulness to behold.

Renewed am I in you by your leave

For unto sunburst and sage do I cleave.

The First Winter

The first winter of my amazing voyage

was a season made perfect out of time.

For though it was winter on the lakes

and in the trees, my soul was abloom

with newness and with anxious anticipation.

Fair and tender were the winds of love,

as though it were summer on the bay,

and like kindness was grace given me

in abundance, a gift—I say, a gift.

Yet, who can hold a blossom forever

when the years have their way

and nothing seems to endure in innocence

beyond the timid youth of first things?

What strength can there be

in the simple desire to hold fast,

to stay the steady pace of the drummer?

The arms may cling and grow weary,

the breast may yearn in heaviness.

Oh yes, that first winter song was blest

and the voyage of that season goes on.

Its color and its form pressed securely

within the years like brittle pages grown faded.

And there is still anticipation, still fair winds,

because though the vessel slows with age,

its sails are made with care and affection.

This voyage has a marvelous and ordained destiny

with a most satisfying aroma

billowing through its ample mainsail,

bringing me home in love and comfort.

Bread Upon The Water

To cast your bread upon the water

means a return of that which is hoped.

I am but a meager seeker of plenty

and you are my rightful treasure.

Cast me down if I am without favor

and yield to a different course.

Though if I am your amiable delight,

bless me with affection without measure.

Consider the strength of years our portion

and with warmth all our love,

and render to the union your most favored joy

so I can take in thee an abundance of pleasure.

Come be my companion, my lover, my strength

and know me in splendor and in ordinary.

Let not my frailties be held in stern judgment

or let my faults be reckoned as offense.

My only virtue shall be to seek you ever,

to lift you up as in true devotion,

to sing and put my thoughts to verse

and make of our life the heart’s suspense.

So, I cast my bread upon the water

and hope for its return on every wave.

You give to me your love in offering

and I to you at the greatest expense

The Loving Years

I think often of those first moments

When it wasn’t so much the intimacy

As it was the power in awkwardness.

You didn’t know it but I could fly,

Oh yes, on delicate wings to be sure

Though I would have flown on thrust alone.

But it isn’t flight that sustains the heart,

Nor the strength of wings that keep me soaring.

There’s a bridge that spans the loving years,

Made of touches and glances and arguing dances,

And angry self-doubts and mistaken shouts,

Of truth that dares to invade the quiet fear

To conquer the troubles of year after year.

There’s a bridge that spans the loving years,

Forged in authentic reciprocal affection,

Trod over and tested in both directions,

Reinforced at times with determination

And repaired and mended in conversation.

So now those first moments are richly blest

As they segue easily into these latter days,

Filled not with regret for time that’s gone

But with the expectation of what’s to come.

There’s a bridge that spans the loving years

And I come to you across that gilded conduit,

Slower in my gait but certain in my steps.

Eden Slumber

When in the course of one decision

The balance lay open the cavernous cut

The wounds won’t heal in ever after

Though the sighs rise throbbing to the rafters

Midst the Devil’s baleful cackling and laughter

And lo, one goes about without prance or strut

Yet two can live as one in Eden slumber

Like peas, like pups, in timeless peace

Arrayed as the stars in glowing numbers

From space to space astride the thunder

Than eye or mind could see or wonder

The zenith of recompense and increase

So hope is dressed in canopies of grace

While yet the corporeal winds prevail

And treses disappear without a trace

Having run with patience the mortal race

Now ready to yield to the author’s face-to-face

For a promise of bliss and joy without fail

The Halo

A halo came and rested delicately on the two,

and without any fading or fainting

the pair became nova, exalting their warmth

in bright and shimmering curtains.

What graceful astonishment it grew to be,

from a hope gone awry and tears a’thrive

to a resurrection, a renaissance, newness.

“Can these bones live?” I heard him say

with an expectation that soared to heavenly heights.

I wondered with a thunderous thumping in my breast,

I wept aloud as I held my holy breath,

and the swift assurance came, like a whisper,

like soft fingers upon my brow,

in a quickening of invisible strength.

The midnight was past, the dawn was new,

and into the light walked me and you.

The Years

The years seem to lay down flat stones

Like a rickety road was being slowly built.

No yellow bricks, this funny highway,

Just withered pages, broken out of cages, and old bones

Crafted into a loosely-stitched multicolored quilt.

Jasper and old bent juniper woven together in lace,

Opaque and worn like grandma’s window pane

Allow only the vaguest review of a weathered past.

From southern states and sedate other byways

We put up our tents and made our way from place to place

Eating our daily bread or riding the gravy train.

Soft and sanguine were our footsteps always,

Ever in wonder of tomorrow’s capricious troth.

From wondrous elevations to challenging depressions

We posed and animated our journey with great praise

As we cadenced our pace and kept our oath.

Now, at a distance, the crooked looks less than it was,

And the zig-zag and the jet lag are fuzzy and unclear.

The way ahead has much more clarity and far fewer lessons.

It could be that forward is the way I’m facing, or because

That’s simply the way it’s supposed to appear.

So, hallowed is the time to come and the naked years ahead,

Like cobblestones of promise they fit within my stride.

Weather many to come or few to number merely means little

Since any figure in any life is prescribed, corporeal and brittle.

Let us therefore, in the grace of He that gives, abide

While the quilt of life is stitched further on, thread by thread.

Our Song

How many winters and springs

can the new horizon endure?

I’m not weary yet, and the journey

alongside you is an easy pace.

See me spin, watch me dance,

my stride is like the playful fawn

and the day seems new.

Come quickly, let’s winnow the hours

and keep only the treasures

while troubles and woes are shed

like the chaff on our threshing place.

This year, this season, this moment

beckons me with a musical gesture,

a continuous song in my otherwise

serendipitous and frivolous head.

I hear melodies about those tiny,

shiny flecks of gold in your

stunning hazel-brown eyes.

It’s an unfinished symphony, a fair duet,

a segno, a coda, and repeat again.

Let’s rehearse this opus of ours

and make it new each morning

till our days are upon their destiny.

In The Beginning

Requiem To Papa

My grandfather was a strong man.

He reminded me of the rain because

he was reliable and he ministered

to the spirit of me.

We called him papa and I loved him.

He was generous in a way

that made him beloved in the world.

He wasn’t really my grandfather, yet

I didn’t know that until I was 29,

when I discovered that I wasn’t

that much Irish after all,

but more like Portuguese.

Papa liked soft ice cream cones,

and I liked soft ice cream cones.

The last one he bought me was

the summer before he died,

on the way back to Mobile

from a day at Fairhope.

He never disapproved of me,

though I expect I’ve disappointed

as many as I’ve pleased.

I know I am diminished from his

absence, yet I am stronger

from the life he lived.

I learned to pray unashamed,

I learned the love of a family,

and I still like soft ice cream cones.

The Epic Of Bettye Jean

It was in the spring of ’45

and carefully with gentle pushing,

the boy child made his way rushing

into the tempest to soon arrive,

like a prophet in a southern storm

to take a course of unseen thought,

and yield a measured heart to wrought

to fill the spirit with a beckoning form.

And while the day slept on and on

the boy child two made entry,

for whence he took his turn at sentry

to give the mother of two more none.

For if the chance of life is rare

and breath comes only but to few,

the boy child two made life anew

from the handsome perch of naked care.

Then while the air was dense with these

the caution of lovers made ever deep,

yet best not take the wind to keep

but render life again in love to seize.

And make this new and precious fem

be soft and wild like lavender lace,

to give her the meaning of blush on her face

and the caring wisdom of a family gem.

So true is the cost of a winsome light

that birth at first is a fearful thing,

yet on the morrow doth love take wing

and kiss the Dawn for a rare delight.

For if the forth child the making swears

like a sonnet in the liturgy of years,

a careful love is quenched by tears

and makes the beloved of earnest errs.

For kind are the flowers of blessed fruit

to make the fifth child a sanctuary true,

like north on the com in the misty blue

and the firmness that rests on a solid root.

Though twice she might be excellent

and four her numbered vineyard yield,

let kindness be the comely field

of the sanctuary of her raiment.

Then came the sixth like morning bright

with eyes of dusk and an air of balm,

to go the way of snow and palm

as place to place was never right.

And all the kindness of lesser fare

from winter oleander to evening song,

might hold the gift of a playful wrong

that takes one’s breath on a fragile dare.

But of the opus of Bettye Jean

from opening chord to final pitch,

the seventh of the brood sprang rich

with news of cause and emerald green.

By love’s ission to a fare-thee-well

comes ever shifting sands of grace,

with vows and promises face-to-face

for what the end of a life may tell.

So let the horn of plenty flow

like a glacial river sure and true,

to inspire the scribe from end to new

the tale of mother’s kindred show.

And from the glimmer of a crested sheen

like the joy of an anchor in the realm,

we celebrate the news of a family elm

through the gilded epic of Bettye Jean.

Family Reunion

Once in a while we all come home,

Like fiddler crabs in June on Mobile Bay,

To reminisce events and indulge in muse,

of the Texas street house,

and the grotto out back—

of a Chevy in the yard,

and a spaniel curly black—

With a sharing of stories and family news,

In a quilt of Lucille progeny from home and astray.

Once in a while we all come home.

Once in a while we all come home,

To feast on gumbo and salty air,

And cry about cousins who fail to show,

with mama ’cross the river,

she’ll be here by ten—

we’ll talk about papa,

and when—

Mama was younger with room to grow,

And a promise was nigh for the gray in her hair.

’cause once in a while we all come home.

Once in a while we all come home,

To a family fest and a Murphy meal,

And games and chatter ’til ’round about two,

great-grandchildren sleeping

on the living room floor—

Mama Murphy dreaming

’bout Miss Taylor’s store—

And come Saturday morn we split up the crew,

To head back to corners that seem now less real.

But once in a while we all come home.

Highway Home

The highways all look the same

but somehow different and slightly familiar,

like that haunting scent of bayou musk

or poignant sense of memory.

I’ve been here before, many times,

often in nostalgic muse, bright and blue,

ministering to the eye and soft in soul,

like Spanish Moss on the great Pin Oaks.

There’s more than just reminiscence here,

more than the aroma of seaweed and crab boil;

more than the heaviness of an Alabama August evening;

beyond the gray, faded recollection of

Dixieland tunes on cold Mardi Gras nights.

What rises now, what presently gathers form

is the evocative sense of something larger

than the sum of all its parts.

A tapestry unfurls, a quilt ablaze with beauty,

of old scenes made lucid with

the taste of new wine and eminent charm;

an anthology of common stock.

And so, the highways beckon, from Mobile Bay

to Puget Sound to Foggy Bottom and yonder.

Like a Diaspora, the road is always home,

and the weave is becoming clear

and the highways seem to know the trail.

Redneck Riviera

In cadence,

calculated between the small rhythmic waves

cast upon

the white reflective sands

of the Redneck Riverea,

I self-hypnotize

and transport with dim but certain recollection

to a time with similar salty breezes

and comparable sea life fragrances.

Moving toward the deep

with delicate but measured progress,

then backing away again

like playing tag

with the tidal motion,

it’s a perpetual, peaceful game

that somehow soothes the psyche.

I am lost,

in contemplation and serenity;

no horizons but the water’s edge,

no shouts or even strident whispers,

just the ripple and wrinkle

of the home of the mullet,

the sound of satisfaction,

a means to disappear

and savor the sensory delight.

For an instant,

a willing and enchanted castaway,

yes, an eager fugitive,

for this brief moment

gaining new energy

and accepting the ministry

of salt and air, of sand and shore

my beloved summer peace.

Jason In The Key Of E

I was born in the key of G

with a song on my lips and

the sound of laughter for a chorus.

But Jason was born in the key of E

like the witness in a play,

a drama with playful tunes

and an encore like a gentle rain.

A son born to explore the rhythm of life,

to choose the pastoral sequence

from seed—to sage—to scepter.

In the crucible of pursuit was he tested

and kindled in me the pride of surprise.

Not a flicker, but a flame claims this heart,

yet quenches like the delta it creates

and the forest of strong affection it forges.

The more blessed am I because of this one,

this vanguard, this gifted craftsman,

this tunesmith with just the right chord

for this much-too-late paternal hymn of honor.

Jonas Of The New Eclipse

Once in a mist like Brigadoon,

A mother brought forth a son.

And of the human herd was none

Like this lilt of a Celtic tune.

His look was comely like coral hue

And he made his place a nest.

Yet though he bid to soft and rest,

The tempest he bravely knew.

From familiar world to worlds again,

Our home but a hope though blest.

Outlasting divisions from nadir to crest,

His spirit the ever ardent paladin.

Of strength I’m called to testify

And laud this son of vision.

In the cauldron of a heart’s collision,

Or the yielding of his sigh.

Yes, I know this truth from branch to vine,

And his credit comes to my lips.

This splendid Jonas of the new eclipse,

For this son of the soul is mine.

The Thinker

So, what might be the thought of a thinker?

Musing out loud on scraps of old notepaper,

the meaning of life and love,

and impressing all readers with

how thoroughly confusing it all is.

Such are the strains of poetic license.

Like Ratso and Fatso, it just doesn’t come together

unless it’s unfair, unreal, or unclear,

soaking in wretchedness and woe,

satisfying the discordant with alas and alas.

Existential come the cries and laments.

Out of ever-present darkness arrives the soul,

clad in the spiritual equivalent of ivy and moss,

exalting self like the end of all things,

yet impotent to fathom all but its own reflection.

In clever words and crafty syllogisms they rant.

As if from below sea level and drowning,

the mind in agony and clarity at once,

the scepter of wisdom giving no comfort,

yet coveting the company of like dwellers.

The Gastroenterologist

I was leaning forward in the anal trenches

as aches and age engendered unrest

and poop confinement had me in its clenches

with clogged apologies from sphincter to chest.

“Where’s the dignity, where’s the sanity?”

I cried in earnest from injured vanity

while the beads of perspiration streamed

and surely the dead awoke as I screamed.

Phospho®-Soda a quart at a time,

in one end and then look out

as torrents rush to find the down-spout.

Can any other feeling be as sublime?

Then off to the gastro-grisly castle

and a waiting room of smiles chagrined

for knowing that each attending vassal

is doomed for probing from end to end.

Paperwork first for this encounter,

weather in for an upper or in for a downer,

and then the juice and the butt-a-scope,

no pain because of the goodness of the dope.

Finally, awake but wobbly and weak,

no kiss goodbye, just sent home finished,

cleaner than Clorox and pride undiminished,

and a smile, as it were, from left to right cheek.

The Troubadour

Applause and ovation, the troubadour comes forth,

in the style of Prometheus, both windward and alee.

Stretching out his musical arm his reach goes north,

like a pioneer, seeking and exploring the wilds,

then on to warmer regions with cynical smiles,

coming squarely to rest in artful degree.

It might have been the pace of the prodigal mind

screaming with ion and reversible light.

Yet few have seen this winsome torrent at rest,

an energetic tunesmith in sync and on the edge,

swinging both a crafted Gibson and a pitching wedge,

with one eye on the day and the other on the night.

He’s a knight of rare armor and a friend of the young,

with sympathies that don’t blow so easily away.

Brought home as a trick-or-treat bundle of joy,

he weathered the slings and slaps of younger times,

etched his sound and fury with notes and rhymes,

now skillfully forging the final right of way.

Oh Dylan

Oh Dylan, you’re not the villain

But you’re killin’ the women folk

’cuz you’re a cutie poke and a handsome bloke

With those sleepy eyes

Like a blue ribbon first prize

And cuddling soft in daddy’s arms

With incredible charms of newness

Leaving me clueless what you’re thinking

Blinking sleepy, slobber spillin’

Little baby boy Dylan.

The Stone In My Breast

Stillness

I wish I could walk among the tree tops

And fall to the clouds in soft dew drops

While fireflies light up the early night

Blinking off and on like a neon light

As I lay in the grass and look to sky

Through leaves of trees that climb so high

I’m naked in thought as eve washes in

Like the Gulf tide in the Mobile basin

And the sound of birds gives way to frogs

While I hum to the symphony of barking dogs

The lonely stillness is a welcome retreat

As I fall to earth in my front row seat

To catch the show of the stars in space

The clusters of lights like Queen Anne’s lace

Then close my eyes and harvest this rest

For later remembrance amid the tempest

The Fortress Mind

In the Land of Unforgiveness

reigns the fortress mind.

Its ramparts are high

and its gates are strong.

Its fields are barren

and its citizens are blind.

Absolution is unwelcome

where it doesn’t belong.

The citizens perish

without a vision.

They court Gehenna

and consider it rectitude.

In ignorance they commit

the sins of omission,

While prayer of petition

rules under the rood.

Foggy Morn

This morning the fog lay down

like an ocean on the land.

How natural I seem

moving through it

unobserved, quite undisturbed.

I am solitary in this great pond,

or at least the perception.

There is no sound,

save my heartbeat

and the suite

beyond.

I am a native of the element.

Hid but not hiding,

not lonesome yet alone.

For this brief commute

the ministry of calm is absolute

and Peace gives me her throne.

The Bouquet

In a bouquet

Wilted and dry

Blossoms from Musical

Appear to cry

Though sad appearing

The petals confess

A soul beloved

And nothing less

While eye regards

A beauty concealed

Life in death

Is love revealed

A Beautiful Thing

Brown and gold and rusty red

mark the dead

in beauty like a shroud of promise.

Then as a quilt

upon a giant bed

the patchwork ends its Autumn odyssey

and resolves to love the earth instead.

How the gifts are made

paradox for us in the realm.

Behold! the masquerade.

Death, to be a beautiful thing

must hold the assurance of Spring.

Then do we embrace

the funerary cavalcade.

A Moral Man

There’s a moral man inside me,

Looking smart, with excellent praise

For the image of right,

To shun the shadow of what man thinketh

Of unbridled, patronizing might.

There’s a moral man beside me

With an eye for another side,

Hazily seen but well understood

Like the coming of winter

Or the bittersweet memories of childhood.

There’s a moral man who comforts me

With reassurances and comion

Like a father who embraces his son,

Who is troubled not about judgments awry

Or the works that abide undone.

Hands

The hand is a minister of hope and of harm

This beguiling implement at the end of the arm

Cupped to carry a stream’s fresh taste

Or fisted and angry for the promise of waste

Would that war were an obsolete game

And conflict was known by any other name

With one hand behind me I’d minister grace

In the temperate sanctuary of the human race

Yet the cauldron of conscience brews naught but fear

In a world where hands are wet with tear

So amid the tempest and spent with despair

These hands find their way to each other in prayer

Sonnet Of War

In the mind are wars pursued

With vainglorious victories renewed

On the right. And on the left hand

Sits the son of weakness in a land

That kills its own. Wormwood grows

Among the prophesying nuncios

Who smoke it in their peace pipes

While ing judgment on the gripes

Of the jokers and jesters. Now sleep,

And shout with acrid acclamation but do not weep

In anticipation of the end of all things new.

The virtues once loved are now taboo

And night brings on its own petition

Through the industry of inquisition.

Young Mardi Gras

Serpentine streamers

and peanut butter kisses

fill the cold February night.

They rain down to the street

in torrents of generosity

as children scramble and scurry

to claim their prize.

Watch out, knuckles!

The shoes of a city are nigh.

My fingers are so numb

I can hardly feel the keys

on my sleek black and silver clarinet.

But what does it matter?

I can’t be heard

above the horns and drums.

But what does it matter?

My mind is on the aroma

of hot roasted peanuts

and two kinds of candy apples.

Still, I march on in formation

stepping over the horse shit

and dodging the streamers.

I am a cardinal,

clean in my red uniform tunic

and starched white tros.

Up front, Billy dances to a step

he learned for “St Louis Blues”.

It’s a hybrid—sort of a cross

between the bop and a boogie march.

As we turn the corner

at Government and Broad,

we do the Suzie-Q

to thunderous applause.

We’ll share the moment again

on the bus trip back to the home.

For now we’ll finish the festive trek,

throw our instruments on the bus

and take an hour of liberty.

We’ll eat popcorn and hot dogs,

ride the Bullet and the Round Up,

and throw confetti in every girl’s hair.

What Of Love

You believe in love

but you call it freedom.

Wanting to be unencumbered,

you speak of liberty as if

she were your child.

Yet they were twins,

freedom and responsibility.

Did one die at birth?

And what of love?

Talk And Show Mercy

We could talk and show mercy,

but silence must be a sacrament.

Ten ways to grow cold

and the lesson’s just begun.

Time is no friend to the prisoner

whose heart is in conversation.

Let’s talk and show mercy,

or put this debt away

and restore my breath to me.

I Am Lifted

Out of the rubble of what I think,

I am lifted

high, like adoration.

Beauty and affection encourage me

and I am seized by truth.

Yet truth is a pure elixir

and sweet, like adoration.

You are a gift of grace.

And so I am well known

like the coming of daylight,

for I have told you everything.

Your grief is a wound to me

like war to the innocent.

Yet I am lifted high.

The Stone In My Breast

I would sleep

But my heart is afire

And the works left undone

Cry like an autumn storm.

It’s not that I’m afraid,

For fear is a coward

And comes upon us in weakness.

No, this tempest is pride,

The ugliest of seven children,

Who test my strength of will,

Who lay my conscience aside,

Who pour the cup of penance,

And cloak their form in piety.

So, instead I shall weep.

A New vision will I pursue,

And perhaps the stone in my breast

Will seek another weight.

My frailty shall become my strength,

Meekness my might,

And sleep will come in peace.

I Made Believe I Was Dead

Lying limp and lifeless like old bait,

I made believe I was dead.

I took no breath and my eyes were fixed,

And mortal thoughts,

Without their remnants of reason,

Fell in like prodigal children.

Strung together in beaded fashion,

They formed a rosary of regret—

Beads of crystal,

Like teardrops in the sun—

Multiplying into myriads

Until a river of light

Washed over my eyes and brought me home.

With a gasp I welcomed life,

And with a sigh I was glad.

So, I made believe I was asleep,

And I awoke in good time.

Farewell To The Naked Pilgrim

As a thinker he was bold,

Wore his thoughts like a turned up collar.

Nothing profound, or astounding,

Mostly gray, insipid, noise.

He was one of the boys.

Once in flight through this life,

How his verve has now vanished

Into the chasm of bitter regret.

Clothed only in memories now,

He watches youthful enthusiasm

Hasten to haste against his counsel.

Walking through his kingdom now,

as if in a funerary mood,

His eyes are pulled to the ground,

His promise, an irreverent sound,

His countenance, a pitiful exit bow.

Would that any soul rue his ing,

It would count as a garment of praise.

Though a shroud indeed, yet one of need,

But seems not to be offered in charity.

So naked and alone will the pilgrim go

Into his good night, into his good night.

And The Vision Of Hope

Nobody knows just how it’s done,

But a man holds a rope attached to the sun,

And he pulls on the rope whenever he cries,

To coax the sun to faithfully rise.

When the man laughs he sings out a tune,

And watches the sky as it catches the moon.

So, once every day he feels woefully sad,

And after he cries he feels wonderfully glad.

“Why”, you may ask, “does the man get it wrong?”

“Shouldn’t night have tears and day have the song?”

But tears are for growing and darkness for rest

And a man who is blind can also be blest.

From a man who can’t see, with a song and a rope,

Comes the strength of choice and the vision of hope.

Thus is determined darkness and light,

By the man who cries day or laughs the night.

When There’s Crying It

Means There’s Pain

A pox!

A plague!

A pitiful commentary!

No, they haven’t come for me.

Yet.

Fear grips the mortal sea

like tentacles of terror.

In the name of freedom

are half of us put in bondage—

a consequence of intellect,

insecurity, and investment.

Innocence is devoured

as wolves fill their bellies.

No trust is left in the land,

no willingness to touch the truth,

no time to be comforted.

Though when there’s crying

it means there’s pain.

A pax!

A healing!

Let there be a healing,

and dress the grievous wound,

and taste the oil of joy.

Yet!

This Life

There is a life,

a cool and incandescent life

I know well.

Like blue knows the sea and sky,

If the conversation won’t tell

and the rumors don’t lie.

Ever in musical motion

and clean and clear be

this life of purpose and direction.

The Trees

All the older, taller trees

along the Tensaw and Middle Rivers

are covered with Spanish Moss,

hanging long and limp in a slight breeze,

looking like the swamp elders,

playing guardian to the habitat.

The bayou seems warm

and familiar like an old friend.

I am home, again,

and the feeling is gentle on me,

like a soft kiss and a friendly smile.

But old acquaintances are all absent,

or have perished with time.

Only the trees remain

to welcome me home.

Only the trees remain,

I knew they would.

Up Side Down

A tree is the same upside down,

without the leaves, under the ground.

Except it eats instead of breathes,

and to the earth it rightly cleaves.

The birds can tell a naked limb,

though winter turn it damp and dim.

They know which way the heavens fold,

and how a tree’s blood doth run cold.

Yet night can cause the eye to strain,

and build a picture in the rain.

To make it seem as though instead,

the ash and oak are on their head.

When morning clears the land with light,

and day can witness a familiar sight.

Behold, right side up the trees appear,

as if they never did turn queer.

But often in the cleft of shade,

as phantoms call and faces fade,

I know I see a tree or two,

upside down, or is that you?

Early Morning Scarlet Blue

The early morning scarlet blue

There for a moment in my rear view

Turns my attention to introspection

And I almost miss the intersection

My mind dangerously unaware

As I gaze at the winding road and stare

My foot on the petal and going faster

Oblivious to the dawn or disaster

While fantasy grips my morning thoughts

They soar like intrepid astronauts

Across the bridge and over the hill

I’m lost in thought and day dreaming still

Then into the lot I stop to park

The day is new and the world still dark

And I am thinking of naught but you

In the early morning scarlet blue.

The Event

Stumbling in the dark at 2 a.m.

the day begins like every other.

Stump a toe at the right hand turn,

eyes closed to stay half asleep,

one eye cracked in half my sight.

I think I wonder what my mind is thinking,

trying to what it was dreaming

just moments ago before this inconvenience.

No need to disturb the peaceful shade

with lamps that loud the quite night.

So here I sit with elbows on knees,

like on my sofa, only less at ease,

and the door ajar, ’cause I like it like that

and I’ll be in bed again momentarily,

but for this instant I rest on this nest.

Yet what do my startled eyes behold

but the hand of a guest on the curtain fold

and the face of frightful surprise.

“Oh! I’m sorry” says he, with mild chagrin

as he retreats in certain disappointment.

Though I’m not impeded from the duty,

devotion to it seems of less import

and I acquire a slumberous desire

to discover my berth once more

and lay me down to another borrowed sleep.

And this day which began quite the usual,

now in a promise to betray routine

causes me to consider the unexpected.

And I would guess the guest might ponder

the safety of predictability in this place.

Now at 2:35 as the morning’s hush

surrenders to another intimate flush

and my one good eye finds the clock.

Yet this time I tough it and turn

and hold till 5:15.

Big Orange

Big Orange… whapped me right in the eye

as I crested that green magnolia hill.

Like the pointy poke of a fingernail

in my left hazel hued cry,

I watched her with my good one sail

across the Friday morning sky.

Liking that it was near long week’s end

and searching the horizon for my day,

she showed another tint of pot-o-gold

as I made the curve and rounded the bend.

Then east along the pine dotted way

where the roan mare runs with her foal,

I slowed to take it in, this beauty seldom seen,

of bright velvet orange over soft emerald green,

till morning ran late and I had my fill.

A Bowl Of Wrath

Might has fallen like a ton of grace

but where are the slain,

where are the ghosts of achievement?

From every village in every tongue

roar the awful boasts in refrain,

like the ship of souls in a torrent.

Mind over the mount of reason,

exalted upon every lofty and lovely purpose

like a quilt of presupposed wisdom.

And lying in repose are deeds of the arcane

with a slanted phrase upon the lips that curse

and the pearl of a tear that will not come.

Let a bowl of wrath be breakfast

and let not the chasm of trouble

for the men of stain on every high hill.

For all are here and will go quickly there

whether ahead of the pack or limping last

says the closing lines of the final quill.

The Monster In Phoebus

There is a monster in Phoebus—

a lofty and insulate Ruprect

with the breath of fallen angels

and the hideous manner of a train wreck.

Protected by the Chesapeake

and Mill Creek’s shallows,

the monster plays the harlot

and wrings the maiden’s neck.

The tidal moon and sabers old

and cold forensic constructs

amalgamate a kind of Casemate bloodline

and yield a plumage of high-tech.

And he roars like the damp winter wind off the bay—

And he reaches out with tentacles of iron and clay—

And he motions the come hither gesture of a spiritual stray—

His name is Omnibus

for his anthology is a circular audit—

of expression without syntax,

of syntax without language,

of language without words,

of words without expression.

The Thanksgiving Feast

There was something about the colors—

the brown and gold and rusty red

that made me feel like my life

was a borrowed thing—soon to be redeemed.

Other things too, like the crisp

crackling sound the Autumn leaves

made under foot

seemed to bring on a sense

of urgent creation.

So—I raided the cupboards,

begged the cookbooks for luck,

made tracks to the grocer—again—again…

forays into the fridge were almost violent

like an African safari.

At long last the anxious season gave way

to my first creative feast—my inaugural banquet.

Bless us O Lord for these Thy gifts…

And send someone to clean my kitchen—Amen.

Many Are The Gods

Many are the gods of this and that

Self-appointed idols and icons aplenty

with a vision in concrete like a movie plot

the atomic weight of Krypton and a cheap shot

and versions of the truth, maybe ten or twenty

’cause that’s how it feels or that’s where it’s at.

Their mouths are full of malice like perfumed mace

and a scepter of peer praise is given in jest

for before their thrones lie an angelic chorus

singing phrases of doom that need a thesaurus

to rescue their wonder and kill all the rest

and shove it like rage back into your face.

From headline to dollar sign comes the weeping

and mourners pay the ferryman with coin of the realm

while spitting with venom is a concert event

and Isaiah’s caution is mangled and bent

as actors and players take charge of the helm

to lock our lost nation into their safe-keeping.

But the gods are hollow jesters of stage

and hubris is fertile like box-office winners

for desperation is an art and a skill

and some folks are stupid but know what they will

like who are the righteous and who might be sinners

and spurn the convoy to a smug tinsel cage.

So woe to the gods and woe to their train

and woe and alas must the echo be loud

to tell and exclaim of the toxins that flow

from the mountain of America’s minstrel show

and those that live on a sardonic cloud

we shun the storm and embrace the spring rain.

Weeping May Endure

Weeping may endure for a night,

yet night seems millennia.

Distress and dissonance, the crimson

flow and torrent of freight,

like a siege, assaults the heart and mind,

from judges and magistrates,

drunk with shrewdness, dancing in the dark,

to slay mercy and kill the kind.

The cries, the yearnings, like sound and fury,

a tale of slim and meager significance

to a world infatuated with the celeb du jour

and deaf to all but a consecrated jury.

For joy to come at morning’s fresh light

and reign be given to justice,

for ashes to turn to breath and bones

and meekness to holy might,

the ransom paid must exalted be,

and mercy poured from heaven,

from the sides of the north to planet earth

must come the crown of victory.

Yet not on wings of wrath and ire

will morning see its pleasure,

but in the turning of heart and soul

to the crucible’s righteous fire.

The Face Of God

If the countenance of God be hid

Bid me speak in tones muted

Suited for just a somber sense

Whence cometh only the night.

Light, though, shines when He is near

Fear and mourning fade like dew

True to the sun’s abiding face

Grace be His nature and mercy mild.

Child of affliction made pure as gold

Bold I come to the bountiful throne

Prone in heart yet set on high

Nigh to Him that makes me His.

’Tis only He that bids me come

From my estate to one so grand

Branded with a name that’s new

Through the face of God not hid.

Self

My spirit is a smoldering caldera

now that the sudden blast has subsided

and the quickening fuel of life

bubbles in uncertain anticipation.

How the moment is swiftly done,

tomorrow and tomorrow now a chronicle

of an opus not fully explored,

and the soft sinews of sweet wonderment

are now given way to much heavier weights.

My soul is a new and dangerous expression,

like a forest all gnarled and pathless.

What shame, what contempt it strenuously bears

among the briars and thistles,

with darkness like a quilt of curiosity.

Though with hesitation,

I now contemplate acute loneliness.

And from a summit once scenic and majestic

to a nadir equally and appropriately opposite,

the shadow clowns celebrate the pathos.

My body is a gray and desolate tomb,

With jackals for mourners

and autumn leaves to frame the stones.

Wounded by a thousand cuts

it lingered like a pitiful martyr

until there was evidence of its worth.

Sing the somber song, say the proper prayer,

cover with the soil of abandonment.

Night holds court for the night things

and a weary self has per chance to dream.

Morning Coffee

Just regular old drip java in the cup

watching the hummingbirds zip through the yard.

It’s like being asleep only enjoying the view

of the crepe myrtle blossoms floating to the dew

while Spunky edgily gnaws an acorn on his guard

’cause any second I just might stand up.

Beyond the sugar maple trees just below the tips

the early morning sun is waiting to rise

while cicadas are buzzing their morning song

before it gets too warm and shadows aren’t as long.

And its breakfast time for the bumble bees and butterflies

as the chilled morning breeze cools the coffee on my lips.

In this solemn Eden of thoughts and such

the realm of ideas and dreams is rich

with myriad reflections on life and grace

and how I’ve managed to run my race

and if I’ve focused on my gifted niche

or if I’ve hemmed and hawed and alibied much.

Among the aroma of lilac and sage

and the sound of chestnut warblers and finches

there’s a voice in the quiet morning light

like the sure and certain steps in the night

that frees me from the midnight’s clinches

and calms my fears and soothes my rage.

So as I ponder leaning back in my chair

taking in the dragon flies and the smell of thyme

I renew an early and fervent intent

To savor my love of God and repent.

And cradle with awe this sense of sublime

to offer in this chapel a morning prayer.

Comes A Horseman

How was I to discern in 1966

the legion plagues to visit since then

of chance gone wasted in the hearts of men

in the dismal arena of American politics?

For now rings the echo of the sad amen

As Charon mockingly boats us ’cross the Styx.

The country’s blood runs a mordant red

and the mood of many a caustic blue

while emitting the bite of a sardonic hue

are those at the reins clutching their daily bread.

Drunk are they on the indulgent brew

of the pedals of power and the duties they’ve shed.

A prophet without honor might have spoken

of how our ravenous appetites laid waste

our holy landscape so awkwardly embraced

and made of our hopes so hopelessly broken.

O now are we to make our drear haste

to accept yet another messianic token?

Now comes a horseman so pallid and pale

with a rider whose name is uttered in the night

and the people all shudder in expectant fright

while racing their blind fingers over bloody Braille.

They hope for a glimmer of revelating light

with no eyes to see through the requiem veil.

So say to the messengers on the sides of the north

come enter with liberty this spectacle we make

and inspire us now to remain alert and awake

to rest not on foundations of what we are worth.

Let rescue and repair be for heaven’s sake

how we are salvaged and whence we’re drawn forth.

A Veil Of Saffron

There’s nothing to fear but the end

and the end is a veil of saffron.

Oh, that the realm of dreams

would comfort and reassure,

as the warmth and solace of summer.

Yet imaginings of day and night

award no gifts of consolation,

no grace, no haven, no serenity.

At the precipice, saffron yields to scarlet

and the morning light is an onition,

a reproach, a pointing finger.

Say that dreams are but a wisp

and offer a cry of angry censure.

Nevertheless, behold your event horizon

as evidence mounts and particles race,

and a veil of saffron draweth nigh.

High And Dry

The corn is now just about waist high

You can tell its progress by the crow’s cry

As the swelter of Virginia’s summer draws nigh

And the garden’s mulch goes from damp to dry

Without much help from the cloudy sky

As the grass turns brown under the dragon fly

And the willows swoon and the pole beans fry

No matter what I do or how hard I try

To keep a little cotton tail from commin’ thro’ the rye

While gnats and pollen dust poke me in the eye

And upon the vine the grapes go awry

Like in a faithless storm when the rain is shy

And there’s nothing to brag about, nothing to deny

So I’ll just sit myself right down and cry

Made Of Wool

All throughout the endless ages

men have sought with fervor deep

to assuage with isms of every ilk

their bruised and injured consciences.

Taking upon themselves the mantle

of prophet, these self-appointed sages

like inspired heralds of the wind

seek to rescue the lost and wayward sheep.

These shepherds of worldly wisdom

attempt to corral the mass of mothers’ milk.

While in clothing made of wool

these wolves of ravenous appetite

bark their rubbish and ram their bile

upon the dwellers of ancient earth.

And the ants of the busy and comatose hill

wanting their neighbor’s tree and their tummy’s full

cast themselves upon the pyre

of the shepherd’s glowing light.

Crying “bread and circuses” in plebeian fashion

the wolf answers with a sardonic smile.

Then from the depths of liberty sought

a strange and kindred idea arises.

It percolates like wisdom not of man

and whets the yearning for breath clean and clear.

Then the conflict rages like thunder and rain,

the war is waged and the fight is fought.

The goodness of one is the bane of the other

yet which shall claim the victory prizes?

Aye there’s the rub, ’tis for you to say

which is dissonance and which fits the plan.

Winter

The unkind cruel winter malice

Gave me a gesture like profanity,

With promises worse than sacred oaths,

Expletives undeleted,

And a gaze of cross-eyed insanity.

I sneered one back with cold contempt

And toasted the bitter chalice

In the face of the hostile solstice.

How the nights grow in fatigue

And loneliness haunts my dreams,

Like linear images without sharp colors.

The air is burdensome

And the season cries its screams

In icy mystery and harsh intrigue.

How the days yearn for light

And move like sloths on the ground.

Slivers and shafts peer through clouds

On a journey without heat,

Silver tiaras o’er the treetops crowned

Thankful for the birth of bright

Effervescent and welcome shrouds

Of sunlit pockets and windless retreats.

This is for the time of mourning and grief

And I am at the ready and on my mark

For respite, for color, for the great melt.

I would consign the cold to hours brief,

Command warm and light to the wretched dark

And stand erect from where gloom has knelt.