Poetry III



Each word the harvest of vowels.

Breakers of consonance

flatten against rocks.

A stride breaks.

A passive rhythm pushes

into bearable impatience.
The ray that fractures darkness

can shatter a mind.


The honey that snakes through nests

of twigs pushes some over edges.
Falling down is prerequisite

to rising; the desert

donates seeds that douse

our thirst, and the barbed nooks

of a worn parka slam

shut against our keys.

For some the daze of expansion

signals demise,

though what abandons us

is judged useless tomorrow,

and the portal that steers us away

will restore us.

Between north and south

we converge where light and dark,

two, yet not,

merge, meld,

complement, ally.

Each vowel

a consonant;

a rock a wave.



The Word

Be still for a moment

I am weaving a poem

from the silver in your hair

to be read in whispers

between windy nights of June

between November dawns.

On the other hand

I could cast a poem of coral and turquoise

to be shouted

above rebellious waves

or the rattling bones of Cherokee chiefs.

The air is restless and the bumblebees

have forsaken their flight

waiting for the first word to be.

In the beginning was the word of love.

In the end, only love will endure.


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