#6 - SUNDAY MORNINGS

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A piece of chocolate filled pastry to go down
with a double cup of my favorite joe; the newspaper
spread out on the bed, sorted into groups -
main/entertainment/travel, house/car/want ads, coupons to clip;
Debussy mellowing his way through the iPod’s speakers;
the sun’s silent aubade filtering through the windows…
.
and Baby, snuggled into the crook of my neck, napping,
oblivious to the intermittent rustle of paper, the iterative
arc and turn as I read each pressed page;
and me, feeling like a placid sunset
at the end of a summer’s day.

Poem 5 - April Morn

Not much today, I'm afraid it's slim pickinsville. But at least it's something. .


April 5



A cotton candy sky greets the eye
as I pull back the curtains. Outside
papa sparrow sits atop his house
while mama, inside, broods
on their clutch awaiting the first
tap-tap-tap of beak
against calcium shell.

.
Squirrels chase each other’s tails
in wild loop-de-loops while a small
group of starlings plays a game
of tug-of-war with a last nights’s bread.
Jays swoop down in fits to forage
in the grass.

.
At seven thirty am the backyard’s
busier than the five o’clock freeway.

Small Song: Mid-March Morning

April 4

Just outside the bedroom window

I see crocus patchworking the lawn;

a mix of Easter colors to warm

the winter weary earth,

both of us

slowly rousing from slumber.

Borealis (rev1, from NaPo 2005)

April 3

An Arctic curtain shifts from fuchsia
to emerald, ripples in sinuous folds
in the pavilion of night; fluoresces
as solar winds slipstream past.

Think of it - a sky three million years cleaner
brimming with diamond dust; primitive
man shindigging around flaming peat
whipstitching the air with his club
and pointed, stone-headed stick, keening
to the heavens and promising, in his language
of grunts and postures, to deliver a sacrifice.

Though science casts a cold light

as it dissects this phantasmagoria

we still go rigid, gasp and point fingers. 

Made suddenly small in God’s universe

we are free to drift with the cosmos,

sense that part of us that is still stardust;

embrace the call of like to like.

********************************

Borealis (original draft)

Sheer curtains blend from fuchsia
to emerald, hang in sinuous folds
in the pavilion of night; fluoresce
as solar winds slipstream
around the planet.

Bewitched by this phantasmagoria
I ponder ancient man, wonder
what he called the bleeding skies;
which god he thought he’d angered;
and if he cowered in the deepest nook
of a communal cave, squat down
and shivering in the dark.

Think of it - a sky three million years cleaner
brimming with diamond dust; primitive
man shindigging around flaming peat
whipstitching the air with his club
and pointed, stone-headed stick, keening
to the heavens and promising, in a language
of grunts and postures, to deliver a sacrifice.

Science books swell with colorful plates,
dissect the mysterious recipe with charts
and techno-speak, yet we go still as stone, gasp
and point fingers, suddenly made small
in God's universe.

Broken Mirror

April 2

Among the smells and yells,

the bang-clang of pots

against cast iron grills,

I wait for my order, eyes focused
on the doe-faced girl

as she twirls a slender tress

and stares at herself

in the mirror, dreaming…

what?  Still innocent and unscathed,

she hasn’t learned yet that dreams

are just that;

In a year or two she’ll take

mother’s place, scrubbing the counter

and cooking over an open flame, sweat

trickling down her back, ankles swollen,

over-taxed knees slowly disintegrating

while Happy Cat sits

dark and sullen on the counter

and no longer waves.

April 1

Flame tongue,

cardinals crest,

Sunshine Tree;

bright light on a dark day

neither rain nor frost can diminish,

even though you’ll fall someday

in showers of red, red sparks;

fireworks

borne on the back of a chill wind.