A dusting of stars
A dusting of stars
blown across my world,
blinding me with beauty
I’ve done nothing to deserve.
How many years
did it take that light to find me
alone here in the night
as if it knew, all along,
I would be waiting,
watching,
wanting it?
A dusting of stars
erasing the dark,
offering me wishes
I’m afraid to make.
instinct
wind blows steadily
at the Puntledge
gulls fly backwards
rain is imminent
water flows jade
ripples over rocks
sets secret traps
in seeming innocence
salmon run again
their backs dark
sides lined green
white and wine
darting thrashing splashing
mouths gasping water
wait in twos
alongside heavy current
fins breaking water
sluggish silent brooding
sudden flashing movement
silver arches up
sinuous back glides
upstream into shadow
gravel beds rest
inevitable tug sated
Ribbon
Red, edged in gold.
run with wire
to hold a twisting shape,
it follows layered branches
from star on top
to wide, skirting bottom
of fragrant, noble fir.
Green and narrow,
it tumbles in ringlets
from brightly papered parcels
nestled
under spreading branches.
Shining silver in the starlight,
it wraps
'round boughs of cedar,
holly bright with berries,
ending in
a bouffant bow.
Primrose yellow,
it holds your hair back
as you sit within
the fire's glow.
Thin as gossamer,
clear as rain,
we unravel it -
tie the knots together.
There is enough
to last forever.
Ambiance
Honeysuckle, or is it jasmine?
Drifting
with golden light
from candles burning low.
Notes
spin from your guitar
as your fingers dance with the strings,
echo within.
I lie on pillows,
gaze up at the ceiling.
Honeysuckle is a warm summer night;
jasmine a winter delight.
I cannot decide.
Is original thought original sin?
When so many truths
hang like perfect red apples among shiny leaves
I cannot pick one over all the rest
to bite into.
My thoughts mingle with the sky,
soak into the earth,
but change nothing with their touch.
When you tell me your beliefs
I cannot say which one of us is right,
and your one road to salvation
is not the dusty road I travel.
Black spots
Black spots
crawl over things lost
and not worth reclaiming.
All the windows I have opened
can never air this house.
I see no reason to cling
to what has brought only disappointment.
Hours of wiping walls with bleach
have been futile,
for even the sting of it in my nose
cannot erase the smell
of black spots.
Through the gap of green curtain
and before the door
jacket hanging casually over the edge
from a rainy yesterday
waiting for
rain again tomorrow
the bicycle stands
propped by a chrome-plated rod
you'll use it in an hour
unobstructed in the empty streets
stopping at red lights
out of habit
River
Glacial run off
seeps through loose scree
joins other trickles
winds between stones.
Quickening streamlets come together
build strength in volume
force a path through the landscape.
White, tinged with blue:
pale milk rushing down bare stone.
Water flows over rocks with power
that proves their insignificance;
cuts divisions into mountains
making chasmic avenues to the lowlands.
Echoes through tangled trees
and buttresses of stone
giving voice to magnificence.
Tumbling water changes
from white to emerald
disciplines mountains
navigates vales
slows and thickens.
Now brown with sludge
it glides at length
fat and wallowing on the delta.
Widens until it is impossible to tell
where river ends and ocean begins.
Water blends with water
edgeless from one to another
salt and silt combining
until salt outweighs silt.
Your Release
If I could find a frame
in which to enclose your pain,
to tangle it in a web
so you don't rely on it,
I would.
You see, it makes you intense.
You allow it such freedom:
you don't refrain
and when caught in the flow,
you should.
If I could shower
a constant stream of comfort
into your tortured night
and silence it forever,
I would.
You see, there is no purpose
in a flaming tower
which will only ignite, not unite.
And ultimately, if you don't fall
you should.
A travelling wind
not meant to linger
whispers your release