Archives for category: free verse

Gratitude wore a beautiful gown for me

She dressed as a perfect persimmon
ripening in the glazed bowl on my table,
translucent color and depth,
yellow, shading to orange to red.
All of them together, and in between.

She has always been like that,
without beauty she can’t be known.
To be seen is all she has ever asked.

She uses the same magic on
every beautiful thing in sight.

To my eye she seems especially
fond of Autumn and sunsets,
but, as they say, it is all in the
Eye of the Beholder.


In November
the fog seems determined
to draw a veil over the valley,
and steal dawn from the Sun,
to hide Autumn’s glorious display.
It meets in utter failure, of course.
When stealing beauty, that is what you get.

Each morning’s fog has an
aspect unique, exquisite, mysterious.
Sometimes it creeps like a cat stalking,
or swirls in, white and cold, sculpting
the trees into crystalline chandeliers.
Or, like an ingenue descending the stairs,
with white, opaque, petticoats of mist.

I Am falling in my own forest.
Each leaf on every branch is me.

Red, orange, yellow swirling in
myriad shades, without repeat.

The same light once curled atomic,
waiting to radiate from the Sun,
before the rainbow divide
becomes the color in every leaf.

Drifting through the air, each
making a pattern, to and fro,
like bright spinning hulls
in the sky, never one,
in aeons of time, the same,
every last one unique.

No one will remember a single leaf.

Unforgotten is the Fall.

I Am alone, falling to the ground.

We went to Face Rock Beach today.
Blue skies up above, not the usual case,
no wind, no fog, a really nice blue day!

Rows of people and dogs and kids
are gathered at the fence guarding the
precipice, pointing and laughing, ooh’s, ahh’s
at the crab-dance of folks, scurrying below
on the beach, making patterns in the sand.

An artist is there directing and
moving his arms like a conductor,
a choreographer, drawing a perfect
labyrinth in the sand under the watchful
eye of the giant Face in the Rock.

They use brooms made from what’s
washed up on the beach, branches
and such and some basic tools
devised over the years.

He and his happy devotees
like to watch them wash away
in the tide, perish, dissolve,
disappear, never to be seen again,
to feel the mystery of impermanence.

Labyrinths aren’t meant to solve
mysteries, only to deepen them,
draw you, silent, to the center so you can
wait for the tide to wash the labyrinth
and you and even the Face in the Rock

I wonder if the Man in the Moon
is related to the Face in the Rock?
Were they both flung billions of miles
across space to stare at each other,
one in the sea and one in the sky,
only to dissolve in eternity’s tide?

I wonder most of all has either ever
seen their own face, or, for that matter,
have you ever seen yours?

Moon is having a laugh today.
It starts with a quarter smile in
a blue day sky and beams
a Cheshire Cat grin
on ancient red rocks.
It knows the giant
red stones, strewn
in melted, twisted scape
eons ago, are dissolving
like lumps of salt on the
Shore of the Cosmos.

When Fire belched magma
from the core of the Earth
and Water carved the canyon’s path
they did not choose the convoluted course
as they sculpted the massive,
towering, molten red spires,
and tumbled, giant, balanced rocks,
precariously perched.

Water flows to where
it will, as is its nature.
It carves with patience,
the path of least resistance,
not with hammer and
chisel the way Humans do.

Men and woman
think themselves
free to do as they will,
make it happen,
damn the consequence.

Moon knows, as do Fire and Water
that freedom is a Myth,
bondage an illusion.
All is as It is.

All are gathered in a circle,
there is the sound of a light rain
tapping out a rhythm on
taut black umbrellas and weeping
and the shuffling of feet.

A town square is littered,
with flickering votives,
cellophane bouquets,
wet teddy bears
and deflated balloons.
The wax is melted, a burnt wick
smell mingles with rotting flowers.

We all know the scene.
We know it all too well.

“Let us observe a moment of silence.”
An awkward moment, not silent at all.
Coughing, crying, feet scuffing dirt,
lots of little sounds in clouds of despair.

Everyone knows what silence is.
We rise from deep dreamless sleep everyday,
and tumble into it with abandon every night.
The one with no guns, no bombs, no hate.

A moment without beginning or end,
the one that never comes or goes,
the one with no one in it, beneath the dream,
Eternal, without measure, or span.

Stop pretending you don’t know what it is.