Poetry

08/16/2013 #4

Mountains, I see your subtle
blue and green, the quiet lines
that define your form; ridges fall
into the hills where valleys are born.

08/16/2013 #2

Earth's shadow slips across the
surface of the lake. A termite flies
by, wings ablaze in the last
light of the falling sun. Creeping colors
twist and shift, a natural kaleidoscope of
snow and flame on the cloud patched sky
and long blanket of water. No wind stirs
to wake the waves, my only sight the
quiet rite of nature tucking in the day.

08/16/2013 #1

Pearly clouds coalesce over Lake Quinault,
a sweeping blue and silver staircase to the sky.
Stripes of hot white light clip the shadowed hills,
cutting sharp silhouettes of the distant pines.
Black and silver ribbons ripple on the lake's face.
The setting sun splits the sky; air and water wake
to blaze brazen shades of liquid gold.

08/15/2013

The setting sun gently furls the sky's unending clouds
as the day's long rain retires to foggy mountains in the east.
Light, clean as the morning dew and trembling like an infant star
gently caresses rippling waves of cedar boughs.
Amid the ring of towering green, just above the central meadow,
a dragonfly dances as Loreena sings "The Lady of Shalott."

08/09/2013 #4

Gravel and dirt sing a slow, steady beat.
Shadows dance down the leaf-crowded lane.
On my left, dog tags clink, their ringing
my only link to regular life.

The leashes are loose, yet their gravity
is all that binds me to the ground.
Storms of fine dust lift my brown feet
beyond the towering clouds.

Inside my head, music moves and sounds swirl.
Words weave their way into lines of rhyme.
I prune the prose to fashion poems, neat haiku
of strict five-seven-five.

A shock of pain pulls me back to the path:
another blister forming underfoot. I smile
silently, thinking that soon my feet will have
no more flesh left to lose.

Like my best writing, my days have
set structure, a pattern reflecting poetry.
Miles are my meter, five-seven-five:
the week's start, week days, and week's end.

My feet pay the price for this wandering life,
shoes and skin worn thin with walking.
But the dogs and I need exercise,
my brain frames as a loose excuse.

Spiderweb

Strands of silver
dripping with diamonds; in the
center, a dark jewel.

The weaver rests in
her wet fairy net, drinking
the cool morning dew.

A rising sun wipes
the lines dry. Invisible
lines bind a stray fly.

08/09/2013

Borne west on the deep
Sound, a barnacled belly
plows a lonely path.

Dawn cracks as he clears
his throat, a rush of air to
warn the fog away.

Lesser fish learn to
leave his course. Seagulls swarm in
his wide, raging wake.

Waves spill over the
shore; rocks and pebbles
sing upon the sand.