Our Numb Wanderings...

Ron Peat

THE ROSE AT SUMMER'S END
—Ron H. Peat, Auburn

The rose of summer opens up,

leans into the warm sunlight,

stands firm in its rooted stance,

dreams of the brightest red

it can become in a sunny sky.

It stands outside the old fence

with a wide-open, fragile heart

and sings of hidden beauty.

With its deepest velvet wonder,

its shaded leaves are still green.
 

The rose of summer holds

to all it can be and wants more.

_______________________

Rattlesnake Press is proud to welcome Ron Peat back to the Sacramento poetry scene. He was active in the SPC Hart Center Tues. night workshop for many years and did many poetry readings around the NorCal area. Ron worked with disabled adults as an art instructor before he retired. He has an MFA in painting and drawing from Texas A&M University-Commerce, and remains interested in painting, drawing, print making, sculpture, ceramics, galleries, museums, the outdoors, birds, animals, trees, stones, spirit, love, and revelation, in addition to poetry. On Wednesday we'll help him celebrate the release of his new poetry book, Abyss of the Moon, from Xlibris, which can be ordered on the Internet at www.Xlibris.com/Bookstore

 or purchased Weds. at The Book Collector. It's available in paperback or hardback through Kindle and Amazon, as well. Today's poems are from Ron's new book.

See you Wednesday, 7:30pm! That night we'll also be celebrating the release of Richard Zimmer's new broadside from Rattlesnake Press—the first in over a year—A Bench Called Henry. And it's not too late to sign up for the Seasonal Read-Around: five minutes reading poems of your choice—yours or somebody else's—about the winter/holiday/whatever seems appropriate season. Just lemme know: kathykieth@hotmail.com

I've spent quite a bit of time the last few days spiffing up the Kitchen, which included moving around some of the furniture. Most noticeably, the local online journals (Poetry Now, Ophidian and Convergence) have been moved higher up on the b-board, where they'll be permanent fixtures for easier access.

And happy 80th Birthday today, Allegra Silberstein!!

______________________

SNUFFED WICK
—Ron H. Peat
 

Following a voice in the vulnerable heart

he is led deeper into rambling turns

within a shadowy labyrinth.

He marks the mossy stone walls

to remember his numb wanderings

through those winding passages.

The course of the hallways narrows:

begins to crumble away: end: they become

a thickened night around his footsteps.

At last, he stumbles, falls face-first inside

a huge black chasm: Emptiness widens

where his mumbled echo is silenced.

______________________

DANCE PARTNERS AS THINGS IN THE WIND
—Ron H. Peat
 

Her spirit holds him near in lift and fall

it takes his breath away with each embrace;

In laughing wind and graceful sky they dance

and he’s a clumsy bear within the fog.

She sets her toes so softly down on tiles,

she’s like a gentle fawn that walks in snow.

In effortless dance she tracks, uplifts and maps

the orbit placed on moon or stars as deep

in velvet space she follows: traces grace

that’s held in ceaseless movement; while he

is caught within his struggled steps amid

the fray of motion’s spin, where tumbling feet

announce their fall inside mistaken range

of pace where quest collides with pulsing heart.

______________________

HER FIELDS AT NIGHT
—Ron H. Peat
 

If he were the dark sky tonight

the shadow of his open heart

would lay across her earth

and touch her furrowed

fields. He'd linger easy within

those moments that are her

muffled wings held in owl's

flight. Amid the rustled rows

of dried corn-husk, he'd sing

and reach out to kiss each

mountain top that quenches

her resolve in a rounded

sleep. He'd blind the dark cricket

and the cat's silent foot-fall
inside the moon’s limpid drop. 

_______________________

THE REMEMBERING GARDEN
—Ron H. Peat
 

He hears a faint fall of rain-

drops on leafy cloth

The cool air is crisp, moist

from his released breath

All this in the lush garden:

contamination of spring’s

demanding fullness

regains its tinted greens

The iris is dressed-up

in its fragile purples

standing straight, tall, rigid

in its longing for the dream

Too soon its breath—

its beauty is retraced

where it withered

and faded a moment ago,

yet now it’s reborn again.

______________________

Today's LittleNip:

SPREE
—Janet Pantoja, Woodinville, WA

Shop 'til you drop my dear friends.
Spend all your hard-earned money.
See it go away with ease—
Slip right between your fingers.
Soon your credit card will call . . .
Sorrowful, you'll regret your
Self-indulgence with a sigh.

_____________________

—Medusa (and thanks, Janet—Pleiades! That's what those seven-thingies are called...)

The Many Faces of Ron Peat