One Knee Bent

  

Summer Green Leaves
—Photo by Ann Wehrman
—Poetry by Ann Wehrman, Sacramento, CA
—Photos by Chris Feldman and Ann Wehrman
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Pixabay

the leaves are dancing

flat, soft, fuzzy
cerulean leaves turn and dance
above, beneath, entwine with gentle breeze
leaves light as the sunbeams
that dapple and warm them

 

 

 

Rose
—Photo by Patricia York, CCO, from Pixabay.com

dewdrop

petals sweet, ruby-red
drop of dew glistens
on delicate surface
shimmers, quivers
petals lift in the breeze
dewdrop remains


(prev. pub. online at poetry.com, 2002;
since revised)

 

 

 

 Pine Needles in 3D
—Photo by Chris Feldman

 

CAUTION

Ice scent on the wind
deep, brisk, invigorating
still, inside I’m warm.

 

 

 

 Elephant
—Photo by Chris Feldman

THE ELEPHANT IN THE ROOM

the elephant in the room
your cancer
has returned, stronger

there may still be a chance
though chemo is a bi-weekly roaring tiger
that bites you, then chews slowly
spits you out, then comes back for more

you rationalize
you are over seventy now with few regrets
but what would you do
with another two decades

travel Europe with your love
create music, photography
continue your spiritual studies

the shade is drawn, late afternoon sepia
November’s early twilight
subterranean in your refurbished Victorian
aged furnace rumbles

your cat, best partner
reclines on your chest
your thoughts reflective, intuitive, logical

in the center of your room
of your body, your life
the elephant 

 

 

 

 Tunnel Lights
—Photo by Chris Feldman

MISSING YOU

you’re far away,
yet your spirit holds me

I’m drawn deep within
the memory of your eyes,
envision your lips on mine

a covered bridge
spans the distance between us
tongues are flashes
heat lightning

I imagine your long legs touching mine
our spirits blend in the darkness

do you see my face?

 

 

 

 Stormbridge
—Photo by Chris Feldman

 

INTERIM SONNET

I tried to write about our love today
although I should have given it more time
I searched for perfect words that would convey
this moment’s crystal call within my mind

to hold you, feel your love again—and I
still love you, mind to mind.  It’s worth the Muse
though she withholds her touch, but still, I try—
I write, then crunch the paper--it’s no use.

I pace through stretching, work, then nap,
I rest. I’m only fallow ground for now.
The shortest walk outside these days will sap
my aging fire. So, will you come? And how

to live my last few years on Earth with you—
admitted, it’s my dream—and your dream, too?

 

 

 

 Rainy Afternoon
—Photo by Chris Feldman

HYMN TO MY LADY (MALADY)

give my life
each day a little death
to die in your arms, death into life
bones in my feet swell
I limp on through the rain

spring birds, squalling child
marrying maids, doves in their cotes
dance and sing—
I cower in my corner
listen to raindrops fall

 

 

 

 Clockwork Nightmare
—Photo by Chris Feldman

MOSCOW

in the orphanage
thin faces
pinched and white
steel blue eyes
peer warily
at strangers
too tense, too cold for tears

he fled the shelter’s abuse
now begs for coins
in the subway
cigarette hanging
from nine-year-old lips

darkness falls
he steps over
empty vodka bottles
crawls between
two wooden boards
under a staircase


(The poem, “Moscow,” was inspired by an 

NBC television broadcast on March 18, 1999, 

on the situation in Russia at that time.)

 

 

 

Graveyard Panorama
—Photo by Chris Feldman

 

THREE HAIKU AGAINST WAR

    I.    Failure

After the bombs fell,
I walked through the barren spring—
10,000 years more.



    II.    Dark Age

After the bombs fell,
chewing on my fingertips
I wrote poems in blood.



    III.    Desperation

My computer down,
rough-edged calloused fingertips
trace letters in blood.

 

 

 

 Fisherman
—Photo by Ann Wehrman

KEEPING FAITH

Afternoon clock records time’s silent
movement;
statue of a Chinese fisherman: glossy
jade jacket, upraised pole, white beard, one
knee bent.

Honored teacher, fear not; you haven’t
lost me.
Days and years continue—wind, sun, and
rain-filled;
statue of a Chinese fisherman, glossy.

Almost twenty years now, my own row I’ve
tilled;
in the first few, the humble statue came to me,
as the days continued—wind, sun, and rain-
filled.

Although I’d never buy it, this gift was free;
salesman brought it, on the job, with other
stock.
Within a few years, the statue came to me.

The class of artwork I’ve been known to
mock,
it holds an honored spot wherever I go;
salesman gave it, as I unloaded his stock.

Beyond my window’s lock, strong spring
breezes blow
and the clock records time’s relentless move-
ment.
He holds an honored spot wherever I go—
jade jacket, upraised pole, white beard, one
knee bent.

 

 

 

 Invocation
—Photo by Chris Feldman

NOVITIATE

Old man pores over
leather-bound book;
dust sparkles
in soft sun’s rays, dances
around him,
anoints his bent head.

Dark-rimmed glasses heavy
on his nose, head sinks slowly,
settles onto the cryptic text.
Through tired lips
his soft breath grows regular,
a little drool escapes.

Smiling,
she peers over the fragile pile:
bent shoulders, balding pate,
still laced with reddish brown.
She squints to catch
words he had read,
between his snores
gently removes his spectacles,
raises her hands,
pulls down holy fire.

 

 

 

 Coffee Beans
—Photo by Bellezza87, CCO, from Pixabay.com

A RIDDLE

I grew up plump and red-cheeked
on a high mountain farm,
loved to swing
in the sunlight and fresh breeze.
Yet one day, my fortune changed,
and like a Black man ripped from his home,
I was plucked out,
crammed onto a monstrous ship,
jostled, packed tightly into the hold.
Nothing in my childhood had prepared me
for the slow-burning fire, the grinding pain
as, fully matured, I was pressed into service.

I yielded all, my heart’s blood expiated in
offering,
and I hope that it soothed someone,
warmed, braced, and strengthened someone,
as I lie here, old and spent,
my remains in a heap, soon to be
returned to the ground and forgotten.

 

 

 

 Dark Journey
—Photo by Chris Feldman

Today’s LittleNip:

EPITAPH
(For Ruth)

—Ann Wehrman

here lies one who loved
although not always wisely or well
nonetheless, Hell itself will
finally bow and release her
to climb, by herself
every long and painful step back home

___________________

—Medusa, with many thanks to Ann Wehrman and Chris Feldman for their very successful collaboration today!

 

 

 

 

 —Illustration Courtesy of Public Domain

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LittleSnake’s Glimmer of Hope
(A cookie from the Kitchen for today)

 
suspended in
misty meditation—
garden store
mossy Buddha