UNDER THE WOLF MOON

UNDER THE WOLF MOON


We live in the
bare branches now,
our skin splitting
painfully under
the brilliant circle
of a Wolf Moon.


We have been
busy filling the
universe with
our human voices,
mouths open,
sensuously, in the
O of rhetoric;
no time to press
our lips against
the sun and stars.


Somewhere out
in the dark, a fox
slouches low -
and turkeys, as
black as crows,
bark like dogs
and run wild
over the ice.


We try to remember
the names of things,
trees, sky, woods -
fractal thoughts,
meaningless now.

Transmutation
metamorphosis
shifting

I breathe you in.


The moonlight
shows your
low set ears,
your curved nails;
and now, I recognize
you only by the bristles
under your tongue.

A Winter's Walk Ending With Poem

Numbing Occlusion


Winter’s frosty
breath hangs
on the portals,
and clings to
the windowsills,
with bony fingers
of inert ice.
It settles itself
on the stone walls
surrounding my life,
impeding my movements.

COME ON, STEVIE

Walpurgis Night by Paul Klee - 1935

COME ON, STEVIE


Come on, Stevie,
let me pull you up
just one more time
through the door
of my waiting,
to bury you at last.


Why do you want to see
your tall Seminole mother,
hand against the sun,
standing on the rocks,
searching for your
soft summer hair
in the cold swirling
currents of the river?


Why can’t you just
stay under the water,
snagged and caught
by some long ago tree
now rooted in the soft
black silt of the river’s floor?


Don’t show us your once sweet face.
Don’t show us your open wounds.
Don’t show us your watery lungs
or your eyes so wide that we can see
all of your hope lost in them.


At night I sweat, as I walk
along the river’s edge
looking for you.
On the day that you disappeared,
your mother said that I could
find you - and I believed her.

But, someday soon, Stevie,
I will be too old to drag you up
from the depths of the river.
I will be too old to fix your eyes,
and to dry you off,
and to kiss your wounds,
and to rock you in my arms,
and to sing to you,
and to pray for you.


Someday soon,
I will not drag you up,
and shake you out,
and prop you up
against the beating
of my own living heart.

Breathing Poetry

My poem, ICONS, is featured on the wonderful new blog, "Breathing Poetry - A Collection of Words and Emotions." ICONS appears on the January 16 post.

Although, you may have read ICONS here, when I posted it back in the fall - please do YOURSELF a favor and (click here Breathing Poetry )to read the OTHER poems found there. It is a veritable feast for the eyes, not to mention the spirit! Nancy's blog has art, poetry, poetry quotes, contributor's links and more.

FROM "THE SISTER POEMS"

CONNIE


It was you wasn’t it -
who designed my winter games,
who sang in that high sweet voice
in a darkness only we could share,
and who cried for children of clay?


It was you wasn’t it -
who loved the idol of our time,
who tasted animal blood in our food,
who covered her womanhood with
wool so that none could see?


It was you wasn’t it -
who hunted the leopard,
who had lips of greasy white one summer,
who danced in the streets with hair
streaked by magic moonlight?


It was you wasn’t it -
who wouldn’t let the wind slice
my face - cold steel slicing -
and who waited by the gate of
my dream to welcome me home?


It was you wasn’t it -
…who loved me?

The Great Blue Heron

"HERON" by Merissa Gilbert Garrison

The Great Blue Heron


Against the delicate
dawn of a cold day,
the heron lifts
her head elegantly,
and points her beak
to the gray sky, as she
swallows a minnow -
silver, cold, and
shiny as a mirror.


Standing constant
and unwavering
in the icy mire,
she blinks back
dully against a
memory of days.


Suddenly,
she raises her voice
in a self-conscious
testimonial – a raucous,
guttural croak
that echoes over
the pond and
reverberates through
the exploded cattails,
and descends into
the dark muskrat lodge,
teeming with half-
frozen vegetation.


Then methodically,
she takes off from the
ice-edged pond and,
like a Gregorian chant,
she rises slowly
into the air.


Flying full winged
and ancient – she
rows over the tops
of the Scots pines,
brushing the night’s
snow from the tips
of their branches
into the wintry air,
where it glistens –
thousands of
sparkling crystals
shining in the
morning light of
the New Year.