Poetry Friday: The View

The View

Slow river flowing
white jade in the morning light;
silver in the night.

Poetry Friday: The Blue-Gray Dome

The Blue-Gray Dome

I misplaced myself a little while,
lay on the balcony with a jean quilt
looking at the stars.

The blue-gray sky domed over me,
draped over the mountains and the city.
Dewdrops hung from invisible strings and
crickets sang a chorus of night,
a song to carry my soul to sleep
in a lonely land of inhales and exhales.

Cool autumn wind danced from my toes
to tickle my face, blowing under the quilt.

I memorized the scene of silhouette branches
and tiny hurried satellites,
faint light spilling out the window.

Wrapped snug in the patterns of blue,
the varied stitches of white,
I closed my eyes and shivered,
warm and cold all at once.

A Quick Ode to Autumn

I am so excited that autumn is finally starting to show itself in the valley! It comes with the start of school, cooling temperatures, leaves on the ground and the slow approach of the holidays. Autumn is the mother hen season, tucking us all under her wings of warm gold and brilliant auburn and rich, silky red. It’s a time for hugs and gloves and mugs and new love. Autumn means that there will be time for raking leaf piles with the neighbor kids; inhaling deeply the crisp air and smell of fallen leaves; and making new relationships that have the potential to last longer than life.

I love the turning of the seasons anytime, but autumn is hands down my favorite.

P.S. Have fun at school today, my fellow students! We can do this.

Poetry Friday: The Dreaming Boy

The Dreaming Boy

The earth, it speaks of the dreaming boy;
the trees, they echo his name.
The brilliant sun in the summer sky
remembers the day he came.

His steps, they fell on the cobbled path
in a steadily crooked beat,
with a white dove in his outstretched hand
and gold soles beneath his feet.

The dreaming boy, so he called himself,
sat upon his hill of glass.
He watched as his days went rolling by;
he watched, but refused their pass.

The boy with his eyes like living jewels
and his heart with ice-bound seams,
always believed that he had yet
to be woken from his dreams.

So his dove, his soles, and his clear glass hill,
they faded out of his hands,
like the even tide of the ocean shore
dissolves in its golden sands.

And the dreaming boy, though he was no more,
for he saw with a broken heart
that the wasted time wand’ring through his days
had been real from the very start.

The earth, it tells of the dreaming boy;
the trees, they whisper his name.
The silver moon in the diamond sky
breathes soft of the day he came.

Poetry Friday: Autumn’s Palette

Autumn’s Palette

Floating ducks on the rainbow pond
of red and gold and green and blue

Falling sun before long blue shadows
across green grass and gray stones

Flying black birds in the white sky
over red and black cars

Flailing brown branches in wind
above white-frosted tree trunks

Death Will Grow My Jasmine

Today I opened the door and was greeted with a hearty gust of wind. It tugged on my flyaway curls and buffeted my face.

The walk to the bus stop was spicier than usual, bits of dirt and leaves and twigs scratching my calves. It was the first day I wore shorts to school this semester, and already it was paying off.

I crossed the street to stand by the lopsided blue sign, halfway convinced the bus had already come and gone. Cars whipped past on the busy road, swirling blossom petals and making once-ugly trash dance in the breeze.

I breathed in the April air, cool and fresh as the mountain it had run from.

I remembered that just a few months ago I wanted to die; had begged God for it.

And I was happy to be alive.

But looking back now, hours later, it feels bittersweet. I’ve buried the Maney that wanted so desperately to die, just so this Maney who craves life can live.

So now we’re dancing through the garden
And what a garden I have made
And now that death will grow my jasmine
I find it soothing I’m afraid

Now there is no need for suspicion
There ain’t no fraud kissing your hand
I won’t be lying when I tell you
That I’m a gard’ner I’m a man
In your eyes babe

Lyrics from “The Gardener” by The Tallest Man On Earth.

To Matter

I leaned into his body with my shoulder against his chest, his arm wrapped around me as we rested against the car. Five birds, black against the pale blue and yellow sunset, flew across the scene. The world darkened and melted into gray clouds–all the world except the framed sunset with a strip of land and distant mountain separating marsh from sky. I thought how easy the landscape would be to paint, and yet how impossible to capture its beauty and complexity. I tried to focus on the moment, the serenity of the countryside and the silence of the oncoming night, but concentration proved difficult with his warm body next to mine, the almost tangible feeling of love and acceptance he exuded. I struggled with the guilt of depression, even with this human in my life, even with a perfect place like this so near home.

He said, in his soft voice, that the place was actually dead, and he gave evidence that convinced me. But he didn’t know it was the most alive I’d felt in weeks. I felt so much real emotion–not just anxiety, but anticipation; not just curiosity, but wonder. But most of all, caring; caring for him, for myself, for the future, for the moment. And I almost remembered what it’s like to matter.