Markers

A withered leaf of winter twisted dry and brown in summer wind.
Raindrops pelted fragile skin; shaking and breaking the clinging stem.
And it twirled to the ground midst thunder and lightning unseen.
There, the skeleton of winter past; crumpled; dead upon the green.

Outside a tiny house with all the windows lit at four; coyotes howl.
Sirens scream through the early hours before traffic starts to prowl.
The inhabitant, settled like dust on window sills into his nook,
waits the first bird song wrapped in perfume of ancient books.

Transient markers of seasons passed are wrinkles in the brow;
falling leaves that with the breeze take flight again somehow.
Barely noticed on the lawn when summer has raised the fields
And heat has choked the yellow spring from cups of daffodils

A Summer Night

Lights flicker on like fireflies at dusk
Sun sets and settles in brick dust evening
A red haze fades into grey and then night
I count windows and streets by their lights

There’s romance in the warm summer air
Stars are playing hide and seek in the clouds
Distant traffic drone overpowered by a cricket’s chirp
Honeysuckle drifts with Carolina jasmine

A night like this was meant for lovers
It brings an old man wistful memories
Somewhere cars are parked on lover’s lane
Couples cuddled will wake to early rain

I can see heat lightning in the distant sky
I never hear the thunder though I listen for awhile
Just a barking dog and coyotes at play
Sounds of night are drowned by day

It’s pensive but sweet; this melancholy night
Stirring the mind and heart with warm fingers
Like perfume on a pillow when a lover has left
I am satisfied now but desire still lingers

Softly, softly, almost imperceptible
The music fades into a gentle quiet
Sighs of longing are replaced by yawning
And I drift to dream in the summer night

Ghost Town

My heart is abandoned in a ghost town where lost dreamers meet
Neglected shutters rattle in the wind at the end of an empty street
Dust blows where nothing grows. Sadness howls within.
Crumbling remains stare from the hollow eyes of dirty windows

Where the fire played in the heat of day and burning desire lived
Now the desert night has descended with cold and loneliness
A flying scrap of paper tumbles; end over ragged end
A page torn from a life that is over; now tossed by the wayward wind

And in the vast dark emptiness I hear the echo of a human voice
But it is only a shadow and shade; this echo; a phantom of a noise
Speaking the syllables of a name that now rest carved in stone
Above the grave of a soulless man in this ghost town so alone

Beneath the name on the marble marker reads this epitaph
“With no tears left to cry in vain love has refused to laugh”
And when the laughter of life had died so did the poet’s heart
And the whiskey boomtown with its music dwindled to a spark

Soon the spark extinguished from the hearth and grate
Knew only cold instead of warmth where love came much too late
Seeking the remains of a bustling home; full of life and cheer
But no one came to answer the door at the vacant house so drear

My heart is an empty building of unswept floors and dust
Like rotting barns of ancient farms where dreams grew tall and lush
Beneath the wilderness skies once blue; beneath the dying sun
Dark shadows play at the end of day and now the night has come

The Water

Where the bright bow meets the sky
And rivers meet the sea
Where raindrops dance in puddles
Is where my voice will be

Where ocean waves are rolling
And my falling roars
From the cliffs and canyons
Onto the sandy shores

Where the lightning rips the cloud
And tears the sky asunder
Clothed in dark and misty shroud
Amidst exploding thunder

Where the dew has settled
On green fields of grass
And shimmering flower petals
To wash the feet that pass

In the lake reflecting bright
The winter’s golden sun
Or last red rays of dying light
When summer’s day is done

In the quenching of a thirst
Or tears that cleanse the eyes
Mixed with blood in every birth
To life and faith baptized

In the blood and spirit
I ever must remain
And ever be there near it
In all your joy and pain

Where the pitcher has its lip
And bottle has its spout
There my liquid life shall drip
Until my life runs out

Then, in burning desert sand
The living things must dry
They are given by my hand
But to dust they turn and die

Sometimes I Laugh in the Rain

Sometimes I laugh in the rain
Kicking through puddles of youth
Squishy mud between my toes
And trouser legs rolled

I often dream at night
Alone in my bed
And there is sublime joy
From which I regret to wake

I have cried in the dawn
And in the bright sunshine
Dressed in a suit
By my mother’s grave

Things are not always
People are not always
The world is not always
As it appears

A cloudy sky may pass
Grey and threatening
But it may have brought
With it, tears of joy

The sun both bright and warm
Can fail to heal
The coldest moment of our heart
Or light a darkened corner of the soul

Winter can make us appreciate
The fires of friendship
Spring can remind us
Of flowers upon a grave

The green of summer shade
Can bear with it, shadow
And autumn death
Can bring dazzling beauty

There are many seasons
Both of the mind and heart
There are all kinds of weather
And even solar storms

I want you near
If only to hold my hand
No matter whether I smile or frown
Because I need your love

Hearts needs understanding
Every season
Through all kinds of weather
Whether in joy or pain

Perhaps they’re lost in memory
Or found in the here and now
The why not needing to be explained
Sometimes I laugh in the rain

Old Age, Death and the Poet

Mornings come unsolicited; peeling away the comforting edges of night
Secret vistas my mind had visited hang surreal in dreamy lingering light
Outside, cold clouds drift the blue; covering my dreams in shades of gray;
Blanketing sorrows with somber hue; hopes of tomorrow with cruel today

The spring of eternal hope has stopped; plugged with rocks of insecurity;
Fallen from vast walls around my heart where time and death are surety
The hoary frost upon the land has settled into my thinning hair and beard
Things I know and understand have become instruments of pain and fear

Cummings said, “Old age sticks”. Shakespeare asked, “What dreams may come?”
Is that it then? Do we cease living; fathoming depths of death; grown numb?
I am left with the love song of Eliot sitting by the crash of stormy seas
Feeling I am but a pair of ragged claws. The mermaids will not sing for me.

Distant hills are beckoning; draped in purple gowns and egret feather hats
Where once I roamed; a boy and his dog, why do I choose to remember that?
What is happiness but peace of mind? Is it also adventure into the unknown?
If that were so; death would be kind to frail and crippled flesh and bone.

Ms. Dickinson could not stop for death and so it kindly stopped for her
But now I count my hours left passing in passenger train-like blur
Stop for me I beckoned but rumbling along; it seems life passed me by
My voice fades in faltering echoes as my poetry and songs both die

Do not, I beg, expect from me; visions of eternity. I never met with God.
Shall I be saved; spared from the grave or sickening thud of falling clods?
The dead do not hear; so I might be spared the sound of devouring earth
I strive to recall those first sounds of arrival from the moment of my birth

Where does youth go? In truth, I do not know. But it can be captured by hearts
This life I am married to like a wife will soon divorce me as we part
Perhaps I will find my youth again in distant hills beyond the clouds
Will dreams return with life reborn or am I only dreaming now?

RAIN DANCE

My life has been a summer storm
My days were drops of rain
And from the moment I was born
Typhoon and hurricane

Love was just like lightning
While death was loud as thunder
Both of them were frightening
Filled with awe and wonder

Friends were gently passing clouds
Their sympathy let in the sun
And when the thunder grew too loud
Love lit the raindrops; every one

Days were sparkling downpours
While all my nights were deep
The water fall became a roar
That robbed me of my sleep

With lightning on my eyelids
I waited for the thunder
And everything that I did
Umbrellas hid me under

So hid from life and dispossessed
I never felt the pain
Until the flood within my breast
Released those drops of rain

Now I’ve learned to dance again
Amidst the storm and trouble
For if my days are drops of rain
My spirit floats: a bubble

Dream Catcher

I went fishing once in May
On a lovely springtime day
I took along a can of worms
A rod and reel and book of poems

I cast my line into the water
Passing time the sun grew hotter
Soon I sought the maple shade
With some sandwiches I’d made

So stretched out in my new nook
I opened up the poetry book
The fish that day refused to bite
I watched some children fly a kite

It is too windy, so I said
On maple then resting my head
There, so propped, began to read
Among the helicopter seed

A day had never seemed so short
As I read each brilliant poet
Soon I was so far from dawn
That I began to stretch and yawn

I fell asleep till evening time
Dreaming life was but a rhyme
As the fish are caught with hooks
So such thoughts by poetry books!

Wildness

When the dawn was young the wild geese took to wing
Soared above the stubble fields of harvest with their honking
Red tailed hawk exercising pirouettes below
Then soared on high pursued there by a pair of cawing crows

A herd of morning deer gathered at the forest edge
Alert and twitching nervous ears beneath the swaying umbrage
The icy touch of January drifted through the field
While thrifty field mice searched for seeds of morning meal

I walked along the fence line marking movement with a hound
Observing nature’s wonders and listening to the sounds
A far woodpecker tapping Morse code with his beak
A querulous squirrel still chattering complaints too harsh to speak

Things like this I live for, listening to the warnings
Of wild and secret creatures on my walks at morning
Long ago I was set apart from this noble band
But there is wildness in my heart although I am a man