For Saffron

This old, yellow man is speaking: “Yellow is a color,” he says, as we both look down at the miniature rose he holds gently, carefully in his hand. “The secret, the beauty of pale yellow is that it reflects most of the light it receives, almost all, keeping only what it needs to glow with a pale-yellow purity. It balances the intricate form of this rose with its lack of complexity, intensity. The secret of pale yellow is its simple beauty.”
“Now, this rose is a rose... a flower,” he says, “light and form. The secret, the truth of this rose is in the balancing of the visual with the virtual – reality balancing with the spiritual. A rose is a rose... until it is made beautiful. Its truth is its beauty... mysterious and, in remaining a mystery, it is eternal...”
I’m watching the old man. I’ve heard these words before. His tone is deliberate... profound. I’m listening to the sound, but, absently for there is something else on my mind – Saffron:
"What about joy...” I ask, “Isn’t joy a form of beauty, a form of mystery? Isn’t joy eternal?” Death is on my mind. But, before he can answer, I awake for I am only dreaming.
The death of Saffron... I’m burying the young, yellow-beaked bird in some late hour of morning... burying her (I think it is a she) and, now, I plant a pale-yellow rose bush above her body. I’m not doing this as a remembrance; I’ll remember her. No, I’m doing this to give to the earth, to the air, another form, a new form for beauty... the mystery continued... the need to believe strengthened while I wait and watch for roses soon to bloom... life from death – Saffron forming in the center of a flower. Her beak softened into pale, silky petals. I’m staring at the rose bush... late morning. Stars are forming, gleaming, in my eyes. I’m waiting for one of the buds to open. But, before it does... How could she have affected me so quickly, so deeply? But, before there is any answer, I awake for I am only dreaming.

This book is dedicated to my daughter, Mandala

Warnings

The sparrow’s song is sweet
A song of morning’s glory
The crow’s song is hidden
In its callings.
Urgent warnings...
Danger lies beneath
In the shadows of its wings.

Don’t get carried away
By the promise
Of your sweet song
Or fly with eyes closed
Listening to morning rising.
Fly below black wings
And cool, damp shadows
Will weigh you down.
Passions older
More potent
Will break your song
And instincts older
More potent
Will bring the crow
Closer.

Visitation

The moon has melted
Around the pines
In outlines
Of silver hues
And ice
Outside is the night

The only warmth lies within
The heart and mind
Impassioned
Discarded garments
Other times
Cold, metallic light
Lose their hold and fade
Beneath the sight
Of love
And far away
Into day
Other memories
Wait to stay
The night.

Catching a Moonbeam

Some have never known a home
only have run in the wilderness...
rested awhile among the branches
and brambles
before retreating farther
into the shadows
running from a moon
that throws light too soon
upon heaving shoulders.

Somewhere
sounds
echo through the stillness
fall
to lie dead
among the branches and brambles
overtaken
by songs of the morning coming
too soon
upon passions staged
by the light of the moon.

Charity

Daggers of ice
hearts of stone
form in the valley
where the cold winds blow
where even the smallest of openings
fills and freezes beneath the long, naked shadows
of the sycamore trees
Where limbs are caught
twisted and numb
grasping for the moon
the pale-white sun
Where those who walk
walk alone
welcoming the desolation
that deepens their own...
Passions stir
beat and pound
cracking the coldness
with their piercing sound
pulsating
with the intimacy found
in nature’s charity
the purity of her pain
her sympathetic silence...
the hard, winter
rain.

Drawing a Conclusion

By shading in the shadows
Sketching
Around the light
The object emerges
Somewhere in between
The day and the night...
To understand the form Is to understand the source
And by drawing somewhere
In between
The black and the white.

Indecision

Dawn is wavering
not breaking
undecided... caught between night and day.
A pale grayness defines the black leaves
rustling to the rhythm of the rain.
Black sparrows are awake, are singing halfhearted
their bringing in of day.
Is it really morning outside my window?
Light lost to fogginess
shadows lost to silhouette
for dawn is not breaking
only sidestepping, uncommitted
to the rhythm of the pale-gray rain
the quiet, steady sound
of the unending
summer
rain.

City Lights

Impatient, not waiting
for the first rays of dawn
The Masters Of The Universe
rise breaking upon the night
in surges of power
waves of blazing, bluish light.
Hot, metallic nerves crackle
to distant extremities
electrifying the dreams of those
still asleep... waking, jumping
to their senses in whimpers and
twitches...With hair bristling
eyes all misty, they pace uneasy
into the first golden rays
of morning
unaware of the forces behind
their waking...
unaware
of their
Masters’ making.

Mission

Tiptoed through the tulips
slow death beneath the tread
red, red petals that never bled
upon the path of velvet and perfume.

Six tulips wide
lined with tulips crowded
swaying on either side
to a single vision
rising straight ahead
a blood-red path
that could not turn back
could only yield
to the killing
of the field.

Claustrophobia

The sun sets
bleeding into the horizon
Silhouettes form
along the edge
Shadows emerge
spread
are bled together
to become the darkness
What was so green
becomes
a single
overwhelming presence
The fear of the darkness
spread
bled into you
to become
the night.

The Calling

Geese flying low
calling overhead
shocking the silence
of thoughts moving ahead.
Make-shift walls
protected hearts
shaking
cracking
coming apart at the window.
The following with eyes
suddenly dreamy
smiling for awhile
remembering the wild.

Geese flying low
wings dipped deep in shadows.
Pale moon ahead
rising silvery and dead
with the learning lost
to other callings.
Songs from the morning
falling
slipping from wings
into shadows below.
Songs we once knew...callings
we can only follow for awhile
suddenly dreaming
smiling remembering
the wild.

Visions

The hills echo the sounds
In the hills can be found
The spirit of all those songs
Buried beneath the earth
Visions of its birth
Old before
Older now
The remains of humanity
And hills echo the sounds
Of finalities
Sought and found
Songs of the dreamers.
Songs of the underground.

Humility

(Tanka)

Rain on the blossoms
not heard beneath the thunder
centered in the storm
… hearts
now stilled and listening
to sounds gentle and distanced.

Sweet Realities

The romance of the flowers
is not their own.
Lovely colors fade so soon
in the sun
wither and fall –
For the flowers
that is all
remaining free
of self-imposed
imagery
bitter disillusionment.

Flowers fill the air
with the illusions
of others
and the innocent essence
of sweet perfume.

In Passing

In the moment of flowering
Petals begin to fade
Color is drained
Shadows fall... petals already passing
Into their moment of pain.
Echoes fall upon those
Who know they can’t listen
For the pain is reminiscent
Of their own...

Of flowers gathered
Into garlands
Pinned to stuffy, humid rooms
Stifled, momentarily
In their moment of passing
Limp... browning
Where hands have lingered absently
In their moment of pain...
In passing

THe Gardener

In the garden
The gardener
Has a special touch
Something about the flowers
Teaches him gentleness
Confidence
His hands are no longer
Strangers
To sweet caresses
He knows of loving vigilance
Something about delicate petals
Their soft openess
Their patient waiting
For his footsteps
Allows him to forget for awhile
That outside the garden
He loses his gentleness
To the loneliness
Of imagined caresses.
That outside the garden

He loses his confidence
To those who will never wait
Patiently
For his footsteps.

After Words

No need to place flowers
on my grave
rant and rave about why.
Just think of me
on some autumn day
when the sun is still warm
on the blossoms.
Or, perhaps
in the spring
plant something
in memory of me
and water it well
allowing the tears
that run
to moisten the smile
that comes
whenever you tend
the flowers.

(For Donald)

Another Ending

Rain hits on the pond
Circles spread ever wider
Clouds break in the sky
The sun glimmers on calm waters.
Gone the particular moment
Dispersed
Rain on the water
And...
“Some say the world will end in fire,”*
For so many
It ends in desires
Gone a particular way
Fire burning within closed walls
Finally taking our breath away.
“Some say in ice.”*
For so many
It ends in hate
Gone a particular way
Nature turning on itself
The earth becoming a permanent frost.
For many
It’s through indifference.
Gone the particular moment
The beginning to an end
Motions not actions...
Rain
On the water.

* From FIRE AND ICE by Robert Frost

Relations

There are straight lines
but, straight lines are always curved
simply by the passing of time
through the light of day.
The earth moves
through morning mist rising
up and over the circling horizon.
Paths run parallel: attracted to
or repulsed... or they cross in collision
driven by forces stronger than matters lost
to old causes.
New courses are drawn, curved
by spaces always expanding:
time moving away from yesterday
...in phases.
The earth spins, evolves.
Night gives way to the glorious dawning
of the day as wonderous as the first
...newly defined.
Relationships measured by space and time
limited by beginnings and ends
by that which must change.
The earth spins
passing away...
the time of day

(Inspired by Stephen W. Hawking’s A Brief History of Time)

High Noon

Over the land of the afternoon sun
Surviving shadows
ride the sky
clinging beneath the wings
of birds too distracted
to feel the weight of their riders
...Vultures soar
black, ragged wings
slice through the light
slice through the heat
in silent waiting

The sun will waste
heat will escape
birds will close in on their wings
in silent waiting.
Shadows will grow long and lean
over the land of the setting sun.

Bird Bones

What becomes of tiny bird bones?
So fine, so fine
They become delicate morsels
For those who like to dine
On those delicacies that are difficult
Costly to find.

Tiny bird bones
So fine, so fine
They become food for the indiscriminate
Taking what they can find
Not even tasted
Or noticed just inside.

Tiny bird bones
So fine, so light
Becoming so soon
Gone from the sight
Of tiny bird wings
Broken in their flight.

Making Contact

The yellow eye of the crow
looks past you
not at you.
Sounds rise in its throat
as it watches steam rising behind you
from hot asphalt after the cool
summer rain –
past you
into the moment of warm blood flowing
out from dark passages into the cool
evening air.
Sounds rise in its throat
at the image of jagged wings
fanning steaming flesh...

The yellow eye becomes two
as the crow turns slightly
to stare straight at you
only as you look away.

Emphasis

The first snow... a sudden storm
now settled
has the crows flying low, unsteady
black wings wet, heavy
shuddering as they hover over, huddle under
the shadows
of roses still in bloom
preferring the airy coolness of deep blues
and purples
to the sticky velvet of stiff petals
loosening in the sunlight.

And, so, the crows go... calling
loud, brash, feeding
until the evening has them flying home
(shadows now merged with twilight.)
Wings dried, they rise to their nests
settling to digest all the emptiness of day
still hungry, unsatisfied, high above
the sweet perfume rising from pink folds
of petals retiring to inner rooms...
closing in from the cold night
the heat received
from roses... open
to sunlight.

White Bench

No view of paradise
No angelic wings of white
Fluttering to rhythms
From horns of plenty
No devilish grins
To tempt hearts away
From open gates.
Only the view
From a single, white bench
Placed facing a grassy field
And a single path
Rising and falling
With the many hills.
One voice split
Into countless soundings
Echoing from the valleys
And hillsides.
One view
Split into countless images
The view of paradise
Lost
So soon
For those who need to see.
No angels, no demons
No heaven’s gate
Paradise has been fragmented
Into countless fates
Visible only to the unreasoning
Those not seeking the view
Of paradise ... never left behind.

On the Rise

What is love?
A moment here
a moment there
when the mind can see clear
to the horizon...
An inert figure
watching
a single image rising
straight from the heart.

(For Ken)

Beach House

Summer by the sea...
waves hit, climax
against the shore
dissipate as the sea recedes
leaving the sand stirred, opened
gurgling for more.
Days by the sea...
the air undulates erotically
now heated by the sun – heavy, sultry
now cooled by winds gently blowing
across wide waters.
Lovers by the sea...
sexuality unsated, but too lazy
too sleepy for passion –
They caress easily, lightly,
nerves exposed, sensitive
to fingertips barely touching.
Hearts beat quickly. Lovers wait
for the cool of the evening.
Summer by the sea...
the beach house stands
almost always empty.

Sea Barb

It stiffens... relaxes
surrounds the intruder.
Salty foam is spent
in the fever of creation.
Life covers for itself
against the certainty of enemies...
The oyster
oozes
cloudy saliva
into the sea
settles back into its murky bed
of tangled weeds
sheets of sand
spent
in softening the penetration ...
spent imprisoning
the intruder
within the walls
of a pearl.

Carvings

Hearts touched
and held within the chancing
Choices made less by choice
than by energies advancing
Insensitive steps taken
towards loneliness
To enter and not know some regret
a world of curious involvement
Innocence carved into sycamore trees
of hearts now responsible for their meanings
New symbols over the old or redefined
of paths opening to years behind
Secrets told and bodies claimed
among the oaks and ashes
Garlands made absently
to vows among the dreams and flowers
Rings of water glimmering clear
spreading out and disappearing
Sincerities exchanged beneath the pines
groaning over forest lost to open arms
Responsibilities not all their own
close out the day and distances
between choices made
Carved, wooden boxes finished
to carry home the remains
of our innocence.

First Song

First come the mornings
fresh with their dew
ancient is the dawn
and ever new...
Then come the shadows
uncertain and blue
ancient is the darkness
and ever new.

First come the rhythms
simple and few
ancient is the pulse
and ever new...
Then come the voices
spirits are moved
ancient is the word
and ever new.

First come the psalms
flowers are strewn
ancient is the praise
and ever new...
Then come the elegies
and hearts subdued
ancient is the grave
and ever new.

First come the love songs
sweet is their Muse
ancient is the passion
and ever new...
Then come the lullabies
in soft, pale hues
ancient is the cradle and ever new...

First come the mornings
fresh with their dew
ancient is the dawn
and ever new...

The Only Sign That Mattered

Johnny became a soldier
and a soldier became his life
...a young boy full of passions
becoming an old man with a single love
asking his niece a favor: to mend
the patch of stars and stripes, once again
coming away from his shirt sleeve –
something
the Home wasn’t authorized to secure –
the emblem of an old soldier’s pride
his loyalty
the object of his attentions
fading, fraying
the only sign, for him, of time moving
times changing
Johnny became a soldier
was a soldier all his life
saluting those in uniform
unauthorized
to raise their hands in salutation
to a well-trained man
home long ago from his war
a crazy, old man.

A Little War

Endless days and screaming nights
As you were can never be
Purple hearts going home
To purple-mountain majesty.
Flags that wave against the grain
In rhythm to such distant songs
Sorry images that will remain
No glorious moments to sustain

A flag folded tricornered
White stars against the evening light
With tears falling from a few
Good-by, good-by to all of you.
Love is fleeting, shadowy blue
Love is fleeting and shadowy blue.

Stony days and screaming nights
As you were can never be
Regiments of shadows stretched
Deep purple and ultramarine.
Forgotten, so easily wronged:
Those who loved but not in return
Those who will never again belong
And those who’ve died with no sweet song.

A flag folded tricornered
Red carnations on a snowy field
With tears falling from a few
Good-by, good-by to all of you
Love is fleeting, shadowy blue
Love is fleeting and shadowy blue.

(For Uncle Johnny)

The Nature of Things

Where the wild things grow
beneath dark, wet earth
up from the fall, the decadence
spiral the impulses of birth.
Pushing, stubborn
tunneling
passions distracted
funneling into single needs.
and the soft, fertile earth
is overcome by green
and the nature of things.

Where the wild things grow –
just beyond the edge
of any conscious caring –
eyes are caught staring
fearing... daring dreams
those schemes of successful entry.
Realities tortured, fantasies compressed
and the heavy, stilled air hangs limp
captured there in the entangled world
in the steaming essence of wild things.

Where the wild things grow
tension feeds low
on the residue of autumn
and evaporating snows.
Emerging, barely visible
from no uncertain yesterdays
with no certain tomorrows
from single, bursting needs
buried deep
flowers blossom
through the green
and the nature of things.

(For Linda)

Dark Wings

Morning is breaking in
on the seduction of your dreams.
(Night had slowly entered
entertained you with your screams.)
Sing, little sparrows; break the spell.
Sweet heat of the morning
breathe in the night’s dew, dampness entangled
wet covering on wet covering wrapped all around you.
Dark wings stretched
slicing up the moon, hovering,
beating over you.
Blade on blade, blood oozing black and thickening –
horrible fascination ... painless response
for pain can’t be remembered, can’t enter
a world only as real as your dreams...
as vivid as your imaginings.
Feathers so delicate, intimate ...caressing
you’re starting to accept, you’re taken
or you’re overcome with fear –
It enters so easily... won’t let you forget.
Talons pressing deeper
curling...circling in your flesh, and another fear is rising
just as real as you can imagine...
Your body
dragged along the concrete
for instincts can overestimate.
Now, through the tops of stiff pines
for dreams are always weightless...
you’re screaming, but you’re voiceless
dropped in your struggling, starting to awake
falling to the sound of wings beating in the distance.

Morning is breaking in
on the seduction of your dreams.
It’s only the sparrows singing, bringing it in
and the crows calling and laughing
just laughing.

Words Left Unsaid

In the woods, now
Strange and forever
The crow has the voice, now
And it’s calling
No words to come
Not spoken or written
The crow has the voice, now
And it’s calling.

Words left behind
Too long unsaid
In the woods, now
And too late for lessons learned
Words yet to be spoken or read
Secrets once too delicate for substance
Obscured... hovering within
Have found a form
Have heard the call... are coming out
In the woods, now
All hesitation gone
At once, the world made beautiful
One passionate song.

Blackness glimmers
And then disappears
Pure and ominous the shadows
And getting nearer
The crow is calling
And it’s getting louder
Likes some passion
And emotions have risen
Pecked from a throat...opened and red
And the crow has the voice, now
For words left unsaid
And it’s calling
Strong and forever
In the woods, now, echoing... forever.

Highway

Secrets to be guarded
Are secrets to be known
Power dispels the magic
Rising to the throne
Something in the learning
Something not to be said
Traces of a silver substance
Might have been bled
Through the yearning of the moon
In rebellion against her course
Hiding behind the clouds –
Her sisterly recourse
At the same time beneath her
Not too far below
The concrete is traced... a viscid flow
The trailings of a slug
Traveling, erratic... slow
Moving through the dampness
Moving in the dark
Laughing at the moon
Leaving sticky, silver marks...
But, it might have been
Her way of coming
To caution, to remind
You once were children, babies of mine
You once were innocent
Easily beguiled
You once believed in the darkness
You once believed in the wild
There once was this magic
There once were myths
And I am the one that keeps you
Young and restless
For all of your learnings
I will remain a mystery
Leaving my silver netting
For you who dare to see.

Once Emerged from a Paul Klee Show

Bright-yellow bird
black fields for eyes
staring out beyond our eyes
hopping and hanging
from a garden of stiff, white spears
deep blues, and greens flowering
and deep, deep reds bled beneath the brush
in deliberate formations, calculated coloration
capturing us visually.
A strangely-familiar theme, a dream holding us
fascinating us literally.

Stiff wings, stiff legs
yellow bird hops, yellow bird hangs
abstracted, distracted, unable to fly...
a vision of light
in a garden balanced and dancing within our sight.
A bird with wings unable to fly
without a voice to tell us why
only a dream composed of choices
posing possibilities through the reality
of its images...
suggestions... a larger, more intricate pattern
emerging, deliberate while we look for answers.

Emotions colliding, colors harmonizing
a reaction forming and rising
bright-yellow bird
black fields for eyes
caught and hanging between angry clouds
dark, dark sky...
yellow bird winged, unable to fly from the garden
dancing
rigid
intense
alive.

The Holding

Beneath the cover
of impressive, icy forms
the leaf lies lost
covered in crystal flakings of frost.
Incarcerated on the bough
caught in the act of dying
caught before the fall
not quite into the act of flying.
Now, it’s just waiting for Spring
to thaw... to feel some warmth, again
the sweet scent of perfume
the scent of the living
pulsating and wet
to cut the smell of a lingering death
to see the light
less magnified, less intense
the burning sense of frozen heat.
Images now distorted, rubbery, contorted...
The world viewed through thick, layered glass.

Spring does come.
The leaf does thaw
vulnerable, slowed
older now and drier
can only wrap around itself.
Clogged, brittle veins twitch and snap
can’t take in the sap pulsating below
can’t rejuvenate itself
and drops
that’s all.
One glorious moment of free fall
with the earth waiting below
a belated, untimely show of colors...
The tree has let go
its hold.

Ruby Moon

I see the moon come dancing
Not a straight path
Nor going home
Cutting through the solidity of night
All concerns and hesitation
With piercing, gleaming light...
Through those eyes laughing
And come dancing
Or is it only the glow of my own desires
Being reflected by a ruby moon?
Too soon... too soon
The air has just rid itself of day
Life caught by surprise, again
Hearts made afraid and going home.

Or, is the moon losing its glow...
Bloated and fallen too low in the sky
Too far below the nearest star...
Paling and in need, gone looking
Disguised behind two gleaming eyes?
Those eyes... they’re staring
Distracting me
And I’m warming, heating
To their promise of potency...
My name ... someone keeps calling my name
Whispering with such sweet intensity
And I’m asking him to move beneath the pines
Into the shadows where the moon can’t follow...
I need to know... we could lie there all night
Laughing, grasping at fading beams
Greet the dawn with a radiance of our own.

But, so soon... so soon
In the moment of turning
In the shadow of a pine
The night air... I’m burning
Those eyes... those gleaming eyes
There is only darkness and all around
Old, grotesque pines hanging
Catching the sound of the ruby moon
Laughing and come dancing
Finding me, again, flushed and so soon
That bewitching, harvest moon, paling
and in need, coming to take the light
Still gleaming in my eyes.
Emotions caught by surprise, again
All alone, disillusioned
And going home... going home.

Madonna on the Lawn

Someone has painted her
Layered her in white.
Ornamental Madonna
Has lost all her color.
Royal Blue shows through only in the folds
Of her ghostly robe covering her slender body.
The spiritual further removed from the physical –
Madonna is looking even less like a mother.

Her chiseled lips are now bloodless
Her smoothly-sanded cheeks hold
No blush... but, what could possibly rush
From a heart cast in stone?
She stands stationary
Posed with arms outstretched
Among the geraniums and impatiens
But, arms that can’t enfold
Can’t console, can’t relieve
The fear of thunder.
Those tears gathered in her eyes
Fell first from turbulent skies
Only rainy days can make her cry
Softening her rigid face
And, for awhile, she gazes in sorrow
Upon the flowers bent... broken in the rain.

Poor Madonna, what does she do on sunny days?
Her child grown and gone ... leaving her
Standing there posed all alone...
Is she there to remind us of lessons learned?
To bless the guests?
Forgive the trespassing?
Protect the home... scatter the birds?
Become a convenient reference for dogs
Keen on possession?
Madonna no longer blushes.

Yet, as I pass her
Standing pale in the rain
I’m deeply touched.
Her earthiness forgotten for a stony symbol.
Virginity separated from a young lady
Purity isolated, standing on its own...
Though rainy days still make her cry.
Something inside of me has stirred Is taking its time, waiting
For one too many rainy days
When layers of white are drained
When colors... imperfections strain at her stiffness
And with tears falling from our eyes
She bends to kiss me.

Mary

You were told, Mary
Star licks aren’t for everyone
You’re too fragile for space travel
Your tongue will get burnt
And without a taste for life
You’ll lose interest too soon after birth
Guarding yourself against
Further hurt, numbing yourself to matters
That make a difference
Like the little drummer boy
Who refused to grow.

Slow, slow, Mary
It takes forever
Matters follow their own courses
Hurry and you could become a stranger
To yourself, alienated from your own forces
Lost in your own space and time.
You were told, Mary, and yet
Some matters have a time, a language
All their own
Developing anyway
Old habits and stubbornness
Can’t deny them their way.

You’ve touched a certain star, Mary
Burned and scarred
Moving beyond the feathery visions
Of freedom on high
You’re falling far to the other side
Falling fast, reaching out.
Stars race by
Go ahead
Grab another
Your hands are already numb
Lick away the color
Heaven’s breath isn’t cool enough
To blow away the heat
Fire spreads through your senses
The outer realm is never reached
The inner realm ceases.

You’re falling, Mary
Terrified, speechless
Still reaching out
Your hands full of burned-out pieces
But, you’ve licked a certain star
You’re falling in a certain direction
And some matters have a time
A language all their own
Developing anyway
Oblivious
Impervious to the heat.

Black Violets

Bending down, stepping light
Moving always but only slight
Beneath the branches where shadows go
Breaking the quiet... beckoning low
Come with us not far below

Footsteps stop... hesitate
Voices cry they will not wait
Day is done; day has gone
There can be no right without a wrong
Follow us and amuse our song

Do not worry... you need not stay
The full of the moon will show the way
Shadowy strangers are waiting near
To take you down where darkness fears
To warm your body, lick your tears

There is no night; there is no day
Or memories that try to gray
Black violets to drink not far
Passionate touches that can never scar
Pinned to your breast, a burning star

Lay your head on cool, smooth stones
Grains of sand have all been blown
Towards the sea, going home
Only the pine trees singing overhead
To lift your fever, make your bed

Press your belly against the earth
There is no death; there is no birth
Close your eyes... black becomes white
The moon seeks refuge within your sight
Peace will settle over the night

Why aren’t you moving this way
Your heart is heavy from the day
Is it some other or do you know
Without some star’s burning glow
Black violets still will grow

Are your senses hungry, so unclear
Black violets are blowing near
Come feel their breath upon your ear
No heaven’s gate, no eternal doom
Feed upon their heady perfume

You’re just not sure, why walk away
Perhaps some sage, silver-green and gray
Could soothe your desires, have you stay
You’ve grabbed your thoughts...walking straight
Black violets must sleep upon your fate.

Aunt Mary

Mary reminded me of the crow.
Black was the only color she wore
And what it did for the crow, it did for Mary
Bringing out the yellow gleam in her eyes
As she jabbed at the darkness all excited
By the evil hiding in the shadows...
Her twin sister, Ruth.

Ruth wore the same.
Mary came often to visit, but Ruth never came –
No one ever met her; no one mentioned her name.
Ruth, she said, was out there doing bad things
Pretending she was Mary. Mary took the blame.
Mary was always good – It was Ruth who was evil.
Strange remarks even for a child to hear.
Remarks that inspired fascination, fear
But no questions for an aunt who got very angry
Wore only black, worshipped the sun
And big cats (clawing along with them on TV...
In photographs), carried everything she owned
In a big, black handbag... spending most of her time
Most of her money traveling alone
Dressed in black, all black, like a crow.

And as the crow flies, conspicuous... noisy
So did Mary when she could get the money
(Mary was poor but Mary was witty)
Flying often, always to New York City.
New York was the only city she really loved
The only city big enough to lose her shadow
Moving even blacker below, not noticed...
Her twin sister, Ruth.

Aunt Mary in New York City...walking, enjoying
The crowded avenues where shadows converge
Are submerged beneath the blur of humanity
Hurrying in the streets.
Mary enjoyed her anonymity, her freedom from Ruth
The excitement of a city too massive to control
All the life it holds in its limits.
All those towering buildings, those lights
Bouncing off her gleaming, yellow eyes...
The possibilities of New York City.
Strutting noisy, dressed in black, just like a crow
Not noticing her shadow following... always
Just behind... gliding across those gleaming buildings.

And, I followed always just behind
In my mind, my imaginings
Vivid scenes, vague situations... Aunt Mary
In New York City. Always waiting, curious about Ruth
Learning, later, as I slipped, fell into the shadows
Lay in the darkness... black, all black
Yellow eyes gleaming, not looking at all like Ruth
A crow staring... potent... pure
The beautiful lure of evil gleaming.
Poor Aunt Mary – she just couldn’t accept or refuse
That darker side... those natural inclinations
Seductions by gleaming, constantly gleaming
Temptations.

...And the crow has an eye for things that shine
Catches the gleam occasionally rising from the
Hot shadows of summertime: pieces of metal, broken
Glass, foil wrappers and bottle caps tossed or
Swept into corners... Aunt Mary’s glowing eyes. The
Crow swoops low to snatch some tangled tinsel still
Clinging to the wall of a tall building –
Static electricity... Aunt Mary in
New York City.

Thomas

You’re old and you depend
on others to take you out
to linger among the shadows
of the towering, brick building
to feed pigeons bits and pieces
of stale, green bread
kept hidden from the others
and if you’ve been good
to look forward to an occasional trip
to the countryside to add some color
to your paleness.
...But, this time, you’ve been left alone
probably an oversight
to face the terrifying woods
and those crows moving closer.
You know by the look in their eyes
the way they’re circling in
they aren’t coming to take you back
to that building, to that silence unbroken
in the long, winding hallways
leading to your room.
No, deep into the shadows you’ll go
where familiar dreams and reminisces wait
to take you home again, sweet home.

In your panic, you’ve misplaced your stale bread
your offering of appeasement.
Your only defense remains in your knowing
what was so eloquently written,
“You can’t go home again”
But, now, you’re not certain
and the crows are very near, calling out
...laughing:

"There’s something you couldn’t possibly know
until this moment... you left behind for us crows.
We haven’t come to eat your bits of bread...
food for the sparrow. We’re hungry
for those delicacies saved and going stale
in your head... memories to be stripped one by one
taking you far back to a time
when you were too young for defenses, too young
for fear, laughing easily with the crows.

We will lift you on our wings
out from recent yesterdays and empty
winding halls, lonely rooms
to view unclouded the joyful immediacy
of childhood... all the simple, lovely mysteries
and you will go not screaming
but, in peaceful acquiescence.
We will take you home, again, painlessly
in small bits and pieces
with you smiling
numbed by nature’s kindness.”

My Father Drank … She Once Said

“Purple is the color,” she said
of black wings gleaming in the light
blinding me, protecting me
from the sight of the crow’s head
getting so close to my throat
wanting to dress my naked neck
with pretty violets collected
growing just below in the shadows of its nest.”

“Purple is the color,” she said
“of black violets in the light
making me dizzy, such a strong scent
heating in the sun, a sickening sweetness
numbing my senses, filling my head with
dreamy images of a lover bent, concentrating
trying to make a perfect ring of violets
to ease my tension, accent my nakedness.
But, between the placing of petals
sharp pricks against my neck...wetness
his sweat or my own running over my breast?
And, between the petals, words garbled, slurred...
promises? I can’t hear; they’re coming
from so far away and feathers are noisy
in my ears, all tangled in my hair.
Then the crow disappears and I’m falling.
Then the crow is near, again
with more petals caught in its beak.”

“Purple is the color,” she said
“of the earth spinning, darkness coming in.
I reach to grab hold, but for some reason
I grab my neck, my body, instead.
Pale fingers sticking together, all red
flowers limp with my own scent...
the crow staring off somewhere, not focused...
a strange, crooked look. I push him away
and I hit over and over with a rock.
I leave him there stunned... too confused to feel
much pain... crying with violets smeared all over
his face and floating on his tears.

“That’s why,” she said, “I hate violets with a passion
and yet, such a haunting fragrance
a frail innocence... I would love to step
on every one, but, they grow wild in the woods
where I’m afraid to go – the crow will be calling
and it knows my name. I’m afraid of what
I’ll answer, whose name I’ll say. You see...
purple is the color of a young girl’s passions
pulsating, still dreamy, confused by a flower...
He drank... that name... words have the power
to cause great pain... – She stopped talking.
I nodded, too stunned to speak. Then, we both
just looked away... nothing more for us to say.

Inspiration

You stopped to watch that gypsy, again
You shouldn’t have, you know
Leaving your lady sitting there alone
Staring at the Mozart record spinning
And spinning.
A little night music to set the mood
You two at home, alone, with violins serenading.
But, then, your voice was trailing off
Your hands were midway in a gesture
Your mind absent... your eyes staring
Off in the distance... the room fading
You were being led
A sudden inspiration, that gypsy dancing
Dancing in your head
Down to a meadow moonlit and inviting
The sound of violins rising, cascading from
Leaf to leaf
Pine needles reverberating... music almost settling
Quiet, almost lulling you to sleep
Then, suddenly rising so passionate.
But, it was that gypsy dancing
Who had you mesmerized
Red, red lips... fiery eyes
Desires rising from beneath the drone
Of violins distanced, rising from beneath
Her feet pounding bare upon the stones
Turning, turning, golden earrings whirling
Bracelets clanging out the crescendo.

Is that when she stole your heart, or later
When she took your naked body
Wrapped it with stars and moonlight?
Passion sated, your fever relieved
By hands quickly cooling.
The gypsy was already going
And in the morning she would be gone
But, she rocked you to sleep, singing you a song.
And, now, you’re awake in your room all alone
A gypsy never keeps all she steals for her own.
She left you intact, keeping your heart and soul
Wants to keep you following always faithful.
A little dark magic to complete the mood
A fire... blazing in the darkest hours of night
She couldn’t take them with her
A gypsy travels light.

So, play your serenata; follow the violins
Down to the meadow still smoldering
Ashes cascading from leaf to leaf
Falling on the wings of crows gathering
Around the embers still brightly glowing
And wait for that gypsy
To dance, again, in your head
To keep your dream from wavering, fading
To keep you from the dead.

Kathleen

Days all the same, only getting longer
Quiet, so quiet
The sun holds them in with heavy, glaring light
So stay, just stay the night.
Shadows once frightening to wide eyes
To the most delicate of pastels
Now are softly focused, steadied on your dreams
Steadied on your life
So stay, just stay the night.

Indifferent, easy... loves us all the same
A shoulder to lean on, faceless
The night holds no names.
Slow songs and whispers moving all around
Wrap around you
And you’re falling with the night.
Shadows once threatening
Now reaching out, soothing...
Your new friends promise not to leave you
And they don’t like you leaving them.

Days that promise so little
Not much more than their end
And another day is fading... night is coming in
Asking nothing of you, nothing you must prove
Only wants your sincerity, only wants your life
To give to the shadows
Now reaching out, spreading...
Your good friends don’t want you
To leave them, again.

...Dawn breaks upon the night
Glimmering, splendid light
Apple blossoms on the breeze, Kathy
Lilacs at your window.
Morning is looking for you
Enters your room, shines on your stillness
Clammy and cold
Shines on the flowers
In the painting above your head
Golden daisies... promises of summer
Slowly moving in.
And a promise kept – your friends still with you
Empty containers scattered, rolled beneath your bed.
You stayed too long with the night
And your friends just wouldn’t let you
Leave them, again.

Apple blossoms on the breeze, Kathy
Glimmering, splendid light
Lilacs at your window...
Morning is looking, listening
For your laughter
But, you stayed too long with the night.

(For my sister)

Displacement

I can place burning candles on the bough
Flames alive and dancing in the night
In celebration of the light born and born again
The sun now pale and distant.
I can hang ripened apples where acorns hung
The tree heavy and noisy with their falling
But, I can’t adorn a sacred tree... no,
I must hang them, now, from some oak or evergreen
These gifts to Christianity lately come to me.

Golden apples turned to red
But, I eat this fruit self-consciously
Voices speak from within my head
The world viewed so differently.
I have to leave the garden
The magic circle of the grove is spiraling
And I’m not sure which way I’m faced
Yearnings, now, desires... burning are taking me away.

One by one, trees to fell
A sanctuary raised plank upon plank
And once inside, candles lit
Shadows alive and dancing on the walls.
Innocence this once made pure
And locked within new mystery
The stars so pale and distant
Against the Light Everlasting.

Gone, now, the oak leaf’s magic
No bloody sacrifices to fertility
My will freed but not my needs
Appeasement replaced with responsibilities.
Magic replaced with miracles
And I’m to be buried with my cross.
From wood to wood ashes spread
My soul rising from the dying field
Destiny never to be my own
Reason always at odds with the mystical.

Savagery never really gone
Violence displaced by discovery
The execution of ideas... beliefs upheld
And bloodied – the Original Sin forgiven...
Never to be forgotten.
I’m not sure I understand
Beyond this vague familiarity
But, there is no going back
Love is already deepening.

But, why is it, that I cry out... though silently
My faith confused by questions never answered?
The only sounds I hear are from the branches
Outside the tinted windows so close and scratching
Shadows dancing, still answering, but I can no
Longer understand... only some trees, now
Oaks and evergreens... or is it You, reaching
Trying to take my hand? Love is surely deepening...
And there is no going back.

Iron Sky

Silent the hawk and then it screams
tender are the songs it can’t possess
soft feathers surround its cry
powerful wings shield its weakness

Rigid the body until it controls
desired the flesh that won’t be caught
feathers freed and floating off
heavy the gain, heavy the loss

Shadows on fire... cold, clinging hands
noisy heavens, quiet lands
sucked-in breath, no outlet
stiff, heavy wings
no voice to sing

Insane the moment of hesitation
nervous eyes distracted by the wind
feathers blow and block the view
lost... the time to begin

So close the distance in a flawless sky
great the matter when it moves alone
feathers fall on feathery shadows
easy the dreams here and gone

Potent the screams in a shakened heart
terror of the hawk lost to a starless night
feathers gathered to nest under sand
forgotten the moment out of sight

Shadows on fire... cold, clinging hands
noisy heavens, quiet lands
sucked-in breath, no outlet
stiff, heavy wings
no voice to sing.

All Over Again

Somehow, I just stopped listening
slowly forgot about that voice so softly speaking.
Unnoticed, it was made silent
by my own voice made certain.
Softly speaking, now, not in words
but, in silence always changing...
Through that which came before, now gone:
Love posed and broken in such sweet repose
bones shrinking, powdered and going home, once more.
Stones, worn... faulted and fallen
rolling to the rhythm of the earth opening and closing
of spaces filling... soft mosses heated
and steaming... Life hissing and on the rise
in sunlight and pain.
Somehow, I must learn to listen all over, again.

Too many nights overwhelmed
by the sound of only my heart beating.
The sound of my voice speaking, made uncertain
through tears rolled and scattered
over moments lost to silence always changing.
Life fed and on the rise
before and behind my closed eyes.
Somehow, I must learn to listen
all over, again... to the sound
of the earth stirring, born once more
on the fragrance of Spring sweetly whispering.
Blossoms and clouds gathering on the wind
to the rhythm of a storm moving in –
the sky darkened, now, the mood always changing.
Water muddied and going down
to the sound of the earth opening
taking in... Life fed and on the rise
continuing into the golden dawn
reflected, joyous in another’s eyes.
Sunlight and pain... love silently speaking
and, I’m learning how to listen, again
to that silence always changing

But, I Do …

Sometimes, I wish that I, too, could say
That I didn’t care anymore.
Then, this love I still feel
Wouldn’t be causing me such great... pain.

Sometimes, in walking deep into the woods
I’m startled by the sudden presence
Of a single, overwhelming scent
Coming in on the wind.
Spilling out of nowhere...
Perhaps, to have marked a way
Through unfamiliar places
Or to have reassured the senses of being there
A confirmation of the solidity
The reality... of air.
Or a trail left behind to carry on
What had mattered ... or, to have mattered
Perhaps, it’s simply some exotic perfume
Flowers of the field
Exhaling their heated breath
Countless, lovely essences
Dissolved into a single scent
As vulnerable as the previous scent, as final.
Overtaken momentarily, dissipated
By a later presence
Coming in strong on the wind
Making its way
Along the same path.
And in this dissolving, this becoming of one
With all the other ones
The solitary essence is gone
And so is the loneliness, so is the pain.

But, I do care; I still want to love.
I don’t want to be, not yet
A fading scent
On someone else’s breath.

Crow Dance

A feather found and in my hand
loosely held as I’m walking down
a path, quickly moving while I listen,
or I feel, the hum of a feather vibrating
in the wind, spreading over and through my skin –
I begin ... to fly:

Wings are spread, gliding, graceful
gleaming black against all the green and blue.
Wind, the wind blowing through my feathers
a thousand strings plucked and humming
disturbing drone... distracting, distant
almost inaudible, shaking, rattling, moving through
spaces between my heart and the tips of my wings.
Overwhelmed, feathers in my beak, plucked
and dropped from the bough where I cling
the humming stopped, the song is done
I have flown; I have danced and sung
or was I only dying, moaning, jerking, limp
falling from the sky...
watching, now, feathers float
falling silently on the path below.

I’m walking home along a path, slowly moving
a feather found and sticking
to my hand, tightly held against my side
silent, now, hidden from the wind.

Spiritine

Somehow, always songs to sing
balanced dancing on soft, bird wings
all the sweetness of the new morning
elusive, spiritine
still waiting for some sparrow’s voicing
throats reverberating with other passions
always songs to sing still waiting.

Too dazzling the sun heating
too intricate the melody
and fragile
off balance, falling
beneath beating bird wings
beneath the angry insensibility
of sparrows screeching...
Shakened and waiting for the new moon
rising.
Songs to sing
somehow
always
rising.

Graphic Design: Kenneth L. Shipley
Typography: Bohme Typographic Arts
Printing: Lake City Litho

Published by:
Dragonseed Poetry Association
15965 York Road
Cleveland, Ohio 44133

Special thanks:
To my husband, Ken, for his kindness and his help in the production of this book; to Arno O. Bohme, Jr. for his generous contribution; to Kathy and Joan, of Butterfly Court, for their friendship and patience; and to my good friend, Tom Simon, for his encouragement and advice.

Some of the poems in this book originally appeared in:
Odessa Poetry Review, Propane-1, Midwest Poetry Review, Prophetic Voices, Toad Comes To Cleveland, and Parnassus Literary Journal.

Books by the author:
Little Words
In Other Words
Crow Dance
Ideas Of Their Own
Cherry Red
Wilds of the Heart

Jul 4 CROW DANCE . Joyce Guion Shipley