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Golden Morning
Oh, golden morning!
Oh, glorious day beginning!
The face of the sky is miraculous!
The sun is awakening, Eden awakening,
Rays filtering through trees and fence posts,
Twinkling in silver-wet remnants of the past night,
Waking the heavy-eyed garden, the terraced vines,
Where newborn blossoms are radiant in emerging day.
The Breath Of God
Sing away. Float away.
Lay a soft whisper in my hair.
Upon an ocean fly,
Across a sea of endless blue,
Across an azure day.
A wisp of white upon the air,
A fleecy blanket on the sky,
The breath of God are you.
I am the sky
I am the sky.
I am the stars above.
I can fly
On the wings of a dove.
I rejoice
With a windy voice.
Hear me cry.
I am the sky.
Fly
Walk on the clouds,
Among the crowds
Of cotton birds,
The marshmallow herds
Of gossamer opossums,
And fawn blossoms,
The fleecy flocks of sheep
Floating fast asleep.
Step on them one by one,
Until you reach the sun,
And claim a piece of the sky.
Fly!
Sage Minstrel
Song of a little stream
Babbling obliviously,
Transient Summer dream
Flowing mindlessly to the sea,
Over stones and moss calls,
Merrily piping and singing.
Over gay cascade falls,
Tunes of existence are ringing.
Play on, thou, fearless sage,
Though thy tones fall on deafened ears!
What words might truly gauge
The earnest wisdom of thy years?
Subjects Of The Pond
Silver is this dance at dawn,
A splash of white upon the glass,
And spark of sun on thrashing fin
That tumbles through the mirror once more -
Then as before, the gentle trance
Of murmur lapping on the shore,
And pass again to swish and crash.
So spirited, this slippery spawn!
Surprise At A Lake
A lumpy guy among the weeds
Has passed me by in hurried hops.
Towards a pool,
He leaps
And drops.
The water breaks
In silver pieces.
A flash of moss slips in between,
And kicks a wake of rippled creases
To the cress along the reeds.
Builder
I’ve found a pool
Where one did not use to be.
I’ve found a mound
Beneath a cedar tree.
I hear a sound
Like the churning of the sea.
The fronds surround
And hide the poet from me?
Angels In Green
There are angels in green
Dancing on my window sill,
For an afternoon sunbeam
Streaming in from the day.
A soiled soul they clean,
For a bit of water will
As the earth’s fair children gleam,
And in my heaven stay.
Poem From An Elm Branch
The poet laureate of an elm
Sang to me his poetry,
Trilled his sweet verse
In appreciation of a tree,
That he and I might converse
On the meter of his realm.
March
In March, the first warm raindrops fall,
In hint that spring’s front troops do call,
But marches in a winter squall
Like drumbeats on the roof and wall.
April Showers
Sprinkling of the May queen!
Iridescent showers
Attiring her in green,
Awakening flowers,
Come a day raindrops sing,
Praise a new maiden’s birth,
Raise the lady of spring,
Grace the mother of earth.
The Colors Of A Ray
It looks like rain today.
The rolling clouds are on the way.
The sky is turning fast to gray.
A rainbow comes to stay.
Fairy veils begin to fray,
In silver mists begin to spray.
Wind sprites have come to play.
They have sent the sun away,
But kept the colors of a ray.
A June Bug
A june bug came in September,
To wait out winter’s harm
In the kitchen window sill,
In the potted plant sanctuary,
Until the days grow warm,
Through October,
November, and December.
And in January,
It was there still,
Extending its stay
Until May,
Never wandering away,
Until one fine June day.
Dandelion
There’s a yellow one
Among the grass,
Too mellow for sun -
But could for gold pass.
Above the domain
Of the flower bed,
A tooth and a mane,
A dandy lion’s head!
Robins Are Singing
Robins are singing.
Robins are waking.
Robins are bringing in the day.
This glorious morning,
With spring in the making,
Robins are singing
Of sun here to stay.
Garden Jester
A little rabbit beneath the rose,
One ear up and one ear down,
Shows his silly-wiggling nose,
Lifts his ever-happy frown,
Leaps across the garden floor,
Prancing as a racing steed,
To itch his chin upon a weed,
And settle in the grass once more.
Feline
Sleek is this stealthy dragon.
From a sofa
Springs she
Upon a sunbeam.
Swats an evasive dust,
This shadowy specter,
Arches up,
Sweeps low again,
Tame once more then -
Only tranquillity;
A serpentine tail
And hymns softly hummed.
A Bird In The Hand
A bird in the hand
Must be worth any
Two in the bush -
Much more grand
To stroke a head,
And feel a beak
Give your finger
A trusting push.
Unless, instead,
You might convince
The two in the bush
Not to linger,
Since two in the hand
Would be as nice
As one, at least twice
The worth of a bush
With many.
Wish On a Starfish
Make a wish on a starfish.
Find a dream in a sky of sand.
See the universe in a dish.
Behold, a light I can hold in my hand!
arizona rope
sliding gliding
lithe and slender
escaping from sun bake
between cool stone
nest home
you
leglessly running
vacuum cord retracting
into case
with a rattling
behind
Heart Of Wood
My tree has budded anew,
Has donned her morning attire,
A delicate waking hue
That only spring can inspire.
She wears the green of waking.
She will weave a tapestry,
A dress of summer’s making.
She will bear a quince for me.
She is as my sylvan child.
I raised her to tree from seed.
I espoused her from the wild,
And care for her every need.
And she repays all my care
With a vitality fine,
With leaves and fruit, scents my air -
Has rooted her life in mine.
I greet her as my friend true.
She would answer if she could.
I’m sure that she loves me, too,
Deep down in her heart of wood.
Morning Has Broken In Idaho
Morning has broken in Idaho,
Along a fold of glacial grain –
And pine trees growing row on row -
Upon the high-rolling hills and mountain peaks rising -
Eastward, westward, the coming sun surprising
Shy host of woods wandering tranquilly along the roadside,
White-tailed, lingering for confirmation,
Dashing away into the underbrush -
Dew on leaves and grass, shimmering diamond-silver-white,
Abandoned jewels of passing night -
The twittering tongue of thrush -
A cottonwood taking in a golden ration -
A sleepy owl on a sweeping wing of cedar -
Wildflowers, paintbrush-fresh, scattered freely among the grass -
V-formation of geese in high-held pass,
Holding fast to the point of their leader,
Upon a sunbeam riding,
The highest rays of day to meet -
Clover, knee-high and sweet,
On a breeze blowing -
A song from the creekside flowing -
Brisk perfume of conifer -
In the treetops, the wind’s glorious sound -
A flash of red wings, fluttering,
Feathers in a fir,
A hawk settling from his sky, riding,
Following a current down to the end -
A grasshopper on a thistle hiding -
A ground squirrel searching out a friend -
A ruffled grouse standing his ground,
His courage fluffed and sputtering,
Ruffled and drumming the cadence of the day -
A caterpillar in the dry leaves finding its way -
A monarch butterfly upon a daisy come to play -
A crow rowing at the tail of his brother -
Awake all for the show!
Morning has broken in Idaho!
Ah, to live to see another!
Closed For The Season
These woods are closed for the season.
The trees do not care to be seen.
Fatigue is likely the reason.
They are tired of being green.
When you’re the biggest thing to grow,
Nothing else has much of a say,
If you want to put on a show,
Then sleep the whole winter away.
Those Winds
Those winds that blow down southerly,
Bring icy air from the northern sea;
A wicked, prickly, needle cold
That makes the landscape stark and bold,
That makes the children cease their play,
That makes the birds all fly away,
That turns the pines to frosted cones,
And skelps the skin right off yer bones.
Feathered Fairies Of Midnight
Spirits of the highest air
Beneath a lunar noon fair,
Beneath a cedar bower,
Have come to visit this hour,
Heaven’s earthward-blown daughters,
Stirring the still pond waters,
Breaking in silver slivers,
Delightful sightly givers
Of show and song compounding,
Magical trumpets sounding,
Dancing madly in moonlight -
Feathered fairies of midnight.
On A Magical Night
On a magical October night,
The porch is a delight
With a jeering jack o’ lantern bright.
Cornstalks in the fields murmur a fright,
When the wind is right.
A breath blown down from mountain height
Carries a leaf like a brittle kite.
And when the moon is right,
Shadows seem to shape the light,
But not quite.
One can see the trees, bone white,
As gaping jaws prepared to bite,
Or a demon free, or a witch in flight.
With luck, a spirit might come in sight,
With a little luck and magic, it might.
Winter’s Hand
Winter, fiendish hand of destruction,
Slowly steals the green from every leaf -
Ruthlessly crushes life’s production
With the touch of a murderous thief.
Winter’s blow feints high then creeps low,
To spread a most malignant disease -
Dragon’s teeth sown in the guise of snow,
That raise skeletons where there were trees.
Teeth Of Winter
Icicles gnash along the eave,
Aligned like rows of icy fangs,
A point of bitter luck to grieve.
In a balance, cold and hot hangs.
Snowflakes, hardened by their chill lot,
Put their jagged teeth on display,
Their hearts frigid, their tempers hot,
Until sun warms their hate away.
Diamonds
Diamonds glitter on the lake,
At a winter morning’s break.
The value that such wonders hold
Is more precious than any gold.
Wealth made in a single night,
Formed in an hour, and gone as fast,
Gems that but a season last,
Are indeed a treasured sight.
Lady Winter
A maiden has arrived,
Spread her ephemeral vestiges in the stealth of dawn,
Enswathed the threshold of morning with her frosty gown,
Attired the world in bridal white,
To wed the groom of first beholding,
Abiding unblighted, for the caress of flesh fingers,
For the blood-warmth to take up a portion of her veil,
To abide as one substance,
She and I,
For a moment of courtship.
Marauder
A marauder has breached the cabin floor,
Turned a crack between the planks into his pantry door,
There, ransacked a sack of roasted cashews,
And left the shells piled neatly, having taken his dues.
He wears a mask to disguise his design
To share as his own what I deem to be mine.
Though, from time to time, he appears quite bold,
On the stump of a tree, my intrusion to scold.
Goblin
Something’s out in the garbage bin,
Too loud for just the rain,
And not quite in rhythm for wind.
But it’s too hard to tell in this din,
With the moon gone and the stars turned in.
Almost impossible to catch a fiend!
By morning there will only be muddy paw prints
And fish fins left over from dinner,
Scattered around the bushes by a goblin.
Denizens
Tearful hymns from midnight gate,
These fallen spirits expiate
Their nightly deeds with doleful cries,
And wear the wit of ancient guise,
And catch the moon on moon-disk eyes.
Who? Who?
Meadow At Midnight
I rose at noon nocturnal and cast a glance beyond my window,
Beyond my window pane, beyond the glass, to a sleeping day.
I bade it greeting, bade it say what it would say,
With a light touch raised the sash, stepped lightly outward,
Across the threshold into the twelfth-hour radiance,
Into the dew-wet grass,
Across the grass, treading lightly, to the garden path,
And passing to the pasture sweeping low at my knees.
And a goose called out lonely from the night far above me.
There I observed the moon for a time,
Entranced by the nimbus radiance.
The pale moon is luminous upon the treetops.
The pale moon is unrevealing beyond the treetops.
There are shadows beyond the trees,.
The night is not revealed beyond the trees.
There is deep mystery behind the trees, entrenched in the branches.
There are shadows enveloping the branches and leaves.
And there is a cat creeping or a raccoon out on expedition.
But there is no other adumbration but speculation from the woods.
The moon speaks only of the meadow directly this evening.
All else is oblique to my understanding,
All else obscured from my vision.
The moon is luminous upon the meadow, radiantly betraying.
The moon is luminous upon the grass, intimate and revealing.
The green is gone from the grass, silenced by the moon.
Silenced are all colors.
The grass is gray and divested of pretension.
The bones of the grass are revealed both lusty and circumspect.
The nature of the grass is revealed -
The present rising from the past,
The present subsiding to the past.
The grass is possessed by a presence of moonshine.
On the grass there is a stirring, rising upon a moonbeam.
Palpitating is my heart at this unseemly revelation.
My heartbeat is unsteady, failing and overpowering.
My breast is beating life and curiosity.
My curiosity is tangible, most tangible and marvelous.
There rises a form from the grass, a fluctuation of luminosity.
There rises a gossamer form or a form without substance,
Neither wrought by moon or shadows alone,
Nor brought forth a spirit born on imagination’s whim,
A flicker, a tremulous whirl rising then subsiding,
Settling down in the meadow grass,
As a veil torn away from a secret lover’s face is cast aside,
As a spotless gown might settle round a bridal procession,
As a delicate moth fluttering might light upon a blade of grass
But rise again to dance in the lunar morning,
To reckon with the stars for the moon’s affection.
I rose at noon nocturnal and cast a glance beyond my window.
I stepped straightway to the meadow in my passion.
And in the light of a midnight moon, I am entranced by curiosity.
Among The Thronging Flowers
Stand upon the highest garden stair,
Among the thronging flowers.
In the most spacious of bowers,
Sow your affinity to the air.
Gather a glittering bouquet
Of blossoms blooming in endless space.
Harvest a twinkling nosegay,
And hold it against your starlit face.
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