poems

some poems I found

I found this poem, circa 1986, maybe 1987. Probably in February because there was still snow on the ground on that morning. There was the promise of spring flowers, either on the ground or in my heart…

I always liked the fortress best.
You can see the town from the guard’s post.
Hills. Birds. Lots of farmers’ fields
and snow — or flowers,
depending on the time of year.

We’d listen to the silence.
Outdoors — at the top of the hill.
And I’d slip to the edge with my lover
to dream and be safe
all the time,
not just when we’d kiss.

Then I found this one, and well, it’s about the moonlight reflecting on a lake and it made me smile in light of a recent conversation with a friend. I think I wrote an awful lot about the moon….

Midnight’s silver glow
lends a gentle calm to the lake.

The water’s surface,
already smooth as an oil slick,
slippery and impervious in the silence,
breaks randomly
as some fish or other occupant
creates ripples in the glass
while coursing through
its night-habits.

The calm returns slowly, rhythmically,
until it is once more a mirror for the moon.

“mountain goats” and dozy doats and liddle lamzy divey

The smile on your face
could outshine the midday sun.
I looked away,
engrossed in my own thoughts.

We prayed and sat
and sat some more
and I stole glances
at your smile,
suspended a little at the corners
of your mouth
like maybe you wanted
to keep a secret
that couldn’t be kept,
so I smiled back.

For a moment…
for that brief moment…
I knew, too.

not basketball

The moon perches in the blue-black sky,
suspended in time. Oblivious to the stars.

The moonbeams shine intently,
reflecting a more powerful light —
whether or not I pay attention.

But always brightly.
And always there.

today’s tweet: a rock, a taco, and a poem

In the shadows of the late afternoon sun,
I paced and moved books from one surface
to the next, hoping to jar some memory
from its fixed place in the ether.

Perhaps, and only if it wants to,
it might come out and play a while.

Distracted, I focus on the frayed ends
of the drapery and wonder how long
it’s been in such a state and has my
mother seen this, which would be very bad.

My eyes dart around the room, looking for it
again, the elusive answer teasing
me from afar and holding up my
progress until I pay it close attention.

Amused by the power it holds upon me,
it playfully stepped out from behind
the potted African Violet, (the one
desperately needing water), and
sat in the sun openly mocking me.

I pounced upon it and put us both out of my misery.