Tuesday, December 11, 2012
This Quiet Morning
THIS QUIET MORNING—
after the white dream—the sun
not yet filtering through the tree
outside the window, an unseen bird
brightly singing somewhere in
the morning—repeated now for quiet
emphasis on the bluish gray sky.
And as I record this, the bird stops
singing as though arrested by
my thought—and a hum in the air
that may be the wind or the far
day-sounds beginning—is sounding,
like ocean against shore. I can smell
the salt—I can hear the sea gulls,
lonely as ever, circling and
crying—only above the traffic now.
And the clock says 6:00
though I know it is really 5:00.
And the unseen bird is singing again.
Soon the sun will fill the dark leaves
of the tree with gold fluttering light
and I will close this poem.
A SOUNDLESS MOMENT
A lone black bird on a sudden quiet path—south to north across the field outside my window as I glance out at just this moment of this day—the field a makeshift canvas of brimming shade in sunlight—how sharp its flight against that shadow/wash of gold—how quick and silent on the morning.
(first pub. in Manzanita Quarterly, 2001)
unhappy man selling old stuff
to dark shadows of people
who offer not enough
(first pub. in Brevities, 2004)
THE DECEMBER VOICES
Today Now This raw day This day
the white whisper of voices, come
home from the past—
Trembling, I hear them,
furtive, soft reverberations—
the white whisper of their voices.
"Discernment", Mixed Media by Mary Burke KingGuide to the Arts, Summer 2000
Whatever speaks. Whatever listens
The blessing between.
There is a moment.
Closed eyes open.
Mute voice finds word.
A frail stillness is what is.
So is motion. One builds on the other.
Call this power.
Look through the presence you call ghost
as it flows through you.
Now you are one.
Even here, separation
The longing toward the unobtainable.
My mother named me happiness.
Shall I believe her?
Time passes through me
like poured water.
Gold fastens to my sand.
I gleam with pleasure.
(first pub. in Poetalk, 1993)
EACH TIME I COME BEARING GIFTS
Each time I come bearing gifts
the loved one
and I, unworthy,
must bear all that stuff away:
must take it back:
the shriveled love
(first pub. in Blue Unicorn, 1978)
SONG THROUGH MIND
I have heard a rare bird sing
as though blind—
though this may not be so.
Its song fell through everywhere
like a blessing made of love—
can love be otherwise?
—Medusa, wishing you Happy Channukah and giving thanks to Joyce Odam for today's poetry and pix! Our new Seed of the Week is The Best Gifts—whether they're the best gifts ever, or today, or in the future, physical gifts, or talents, or just things to appreciate this quiet morning. Send your poetic thoughts on such gifts to firstname.lastname@example.org Don't be shy; don't be just a lurker...