HIGH NOON

It is high noon and the child dances

Amid the beauty of the day:

Flowers glow, trees shimmer.

The air is charmed by her child-song,

Light and sweet.

 

It is high noon and the child dances,

Forgetful of the now invisible,

But waiting, shadow,

That even at noon

Touches her joy with the dew

Of remembered and future sorrow.

 

It is high noon and the child dances—

Joyous laughter spills

Into the brief sun-bright hour

As she twirls,

Breathing in the wonder of life

While the sky wraps round her

All of its mystery.

 

It is high noon and the child dances.

 

#SummerPoetry #PoetryandChildhood #Dancing

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Orange Days

Summer glows

in the produce aisle

where oranges,

ripe with sun,

pile warm days

on happy laughter

 

They roll,

solid and plump,

into your hands

 

You breathe

in the piquancy

of memory

 

Ah, summer:

Ripe, sweet

And juicy

 

#SummerPoetry #PoemsandColor

 

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State Fair Memory, No. 14

With balloon string tightly gripped

In his fingers, candied-apple sticky,

A speck of cotton candy glued to his nose,

He stumbles on his short legs

Over the pebbled path

Till he stops with a shriek of joy,

His cinnamon-red tongue extended in delight

As he bends to dig his baby nails

Into the slick guts of frog remains

Smashed by a random tire in the parking lot.

His mother plucks him from his discovery.

He reaches over her shoulder

Toward the froggy mess

Before I lose sight of them

As they sift into the crowd,

His screams fading beneath the bursts

Of sound from the carnival left behind.

 

#StateFairs

 

 

 

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One Hike in a California Summer

The dust lay heavy

On the trail

On the leaves of trees

On the scrub undergrowth

And the rocks everywhere.

 

Dust nearly choking

Every heat-laden breath

As we trudged forward

Sweating with backpack burdens

Toward a campground

As yet unseen.

 

Step after burning step

We moved along, some staggering,

Till at last we descended

Into a small glen

Washed with the breath

Of sweet brook water.

 

Here at last was shelter

From the sun and dust.

Evergreen trees stretched tall

Casting cool shadows

Into which we pooled

Settling our tents and packs

Making our home for the night.

 

Sleep, deep and soothing

Came easily there

In the forested quiet

Kissed by the music of water.

Our long hot walk forgotten, forgiven

Within the glade.

 

We rose in the morning

Reluctant to leave

As the new day’s heat

Already sifted down

Through the trees,

And circled us like a predator

As we climbed out.

 

Our reluctant feet plodded upward

While our minds drifted

Back to the cool oasis

Left behind which still energized

The surge once more toward home.

 

#CaliforniaandSummer #SummerPoem #HikingPoem

 

 

 

 

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THE LAST BATTLEFIELD

He rides alone.

His tribe is many, but he rides alone.

Mounted on a wearied steed

And heavily weaponed,

He’s dressed full-armored for the fight.

 

Alone, with no enemy before him,

He knows the greatest fear.

Armed beyond the possibility of defeat,

His jaw tenses, his heart pounds in his chest.

Alone and seeming safe,

He reins still his dying beast

In the desert peace

As his eyes search unbelieving

The empty horizon.

 

There, beyond the world’s end,

Just beyond his human vision,

There must wait the final enemy

On the last dreadful field of battle.

 

#BattlefieldPoems #Anti-ArmanentProliferation #Anti-WarPoem

 

 

 

 

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MEASURING A FRIENDSHIP

We laughed together

Every time we spoke.

For a brief, easy moment

Or riotously

Till our eyes watered.

 

While we laughed

Our hearts were lighter

As if we were once more

Children at play.

 

Did that shared laughter

Outweigh the deep

Political divide,

And the long lists

Of troubles poured out

Over the many years?

 

Did our laughter

Have more weight

On the scale of time?

Were those light moments

Enough to support long friendship?

 

For words spoken in elegy

Or in epitaph,

What higher praise

Might there be than these:

 

We laughed together.

 

#Friendship #FriendshipValues

 

 

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PACIFIC SARABANDE

It is a day for the eye of Monet:

In the subtlest hues of blue,

a melody of ocean and sky

wraps the California coast.

 

The sky is a singular blue wash…

that translucent clarity sometimes found

in watercolor landscape paintings.

 

A mixed blue palette of ocean

spills for miles tantalizing the eyes

from the horizon to the surprise on the shore:

 

Prussian blue, a shiver of cold

unrelenting, fathoms of darkness

threatens at the edge of sky…

 

Undulating midway,

Violet and cobalt blue

unravel in ribbons, swirl into pools…

 

Sliding over the coastal shelf

A deep turquoise, more blue than green,

A hue more Mediterranean than Pacific.

 

The rising perfect curl of wave

Catching the w0estern sun

Glows in palest aqua, almost light jade

 

Then spills onto the shore

Foaming rich with undertones

Of periwinkle and lavender.

 

It is a day for the eye of Monet,

A phantasm of blue:

Ocean and sky in a gentle sarabande.

 

#SeaPoetry #PacificOcean

 

 

 

 

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AN APOLOGY TO FEET, A NON-ODE

I cannot write in praise of feet,

Though they are worthy of acclaim

For the service they perform.

Though there are those

Who would praise their beauty,

I cannot see their loveliness

 

Whether carved in limestone and perched high

Above an Egyptian desert scene, or

In the marble pediments of Grecian temples,

The mosaics of ancient Rome—

None can woo me to their cause.

 

Feet by El Greco fail to stir my heart.

Steadfast it remains before the bronzes of Rodin

And the so excellent etchings of Durer.

The fact is, I cannot find the foot pretty.

 

It is awkward at best or like some mistake,

Something borrowed from a form

Unlike our human frame,

Perhaps an extraterrestrial joke?

 

My apologies to feet.

I cannot find you beautiful,

But I thank you greatly

For your sturdy service.

May you continue long and strong.

 

#PoetryandtheHumanFoot #TheFootandArt #Humor

 

 

 

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SKATES

With a flickety splick

Slap splickety flickety

Skittering

On concrete squares

Old-fashioned

Clamp-on

Steel-wheeled skates

Slap slickety slishhh

Into a turn

Splack

On the run again

Clack

Splickety flickety

Freeeeeeeeee

 

#RollerSkates #SkatingandPoetry

 

 

 

 

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HIDDEN LILACS

The first time I smelled lilac blooms,

Was at a hotel in Oregon.

The lilacs draped a wall

separating the hotel car park

from a nature preserve.

I returned as often as I could

to walk beside the delicate scent

held in that narrow space.

The fragrance was thick like fog,

yet airy, floating gently like bubbles on the air.

And it was pure, without the undertones

found in bath salts or perfume—

wonderfully sweet, but not cloying.

That corridor between the trees

lining the wetlands and a car park,

was like a small room hugged around

with that delicate scent.

For the casual visitor, it was

a bit of heaven dropped to earth.

 

#NaturePoetry #Lilacs

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