Romantic Clap-Trap

The bees are dying—

Beauty and Truth of Nature?

Who can save us now?

(October 25, 2019)

An Early Spring Day in Paris, 1984

The Seine flows

endlessly

around us.

We sit on the tip

of the Ile de la Cite

as if on a boat’s bow,

sailing up the river.

The sun shines,

like a promise,

after days of cold rain.

We drink a decent Bordeaux,

eat fresh pate smeared

across chunks of ubiquitous baguette.

Notre Dame looms

darkly behind

in its medieval bulk.

We are in love, as we

are still forty years later.

Nearby,

above a former morgue,

is a memorial

to the two hundred thousand martyrs

handed over to the Nazis by the Vichy

for deportation to the camps

forty years before we sat happily

oblivious to all but the beauty

of that one Parisian afternoon.

(September 19, 2019)

Enthusiasm

from “Renditions of Change” a work in progress

Music plays under the earth;

its poetry delights,

like fireflies.

(February 8, 2019)

Solstice Haiku

The moon through tree’s lace

Illuminates the cracked night

A winter solstice

(December 25, 2018)

Step Out

Above all the clouds—

almost a full moon:

look up from your life.

(November 25, 2018)

October Night

waning-crescent-moon

 

The moon pulls a bit

of infinite dark

over her cold pale shoulder.

 

(October 5, 2018)

Unconditional

 

 

Red-Cedar-Trunk 

The tree grabs the light tight

against its lithe branches,

a quick embrace, then release

into the slow evening air,

like a child running to her mother,

hugging her in affirmation,

then dancing away in delight.

 

(May 10, 2018)

with you always

kaleidoscope

 

Beauty laughs beatifically at us

who pass by obsessed with desire

and fear for the next distraction,

unaware of each moment’s

kaleidoscope rippling, like an eye

opening, toward a new horizon

in each hesitant step we take.

 

I open my hand as an offering

to the life we are becoming

inside this present we are in.

Beauty lives here or nowhere:

a dust mote swirls in sunlight

spilling through an open window

into this singular Sunday morning.

 

(February 18, 2018)

Balance

red-rose-droplets-flower-plain

 

With a voice inflected

Like morning light,

You whisper in my ear.

 

Edges are so near;

One’s well past,

Then notices.

 

The rose unfolds,

Then falls.

There is never enough time.

 

On the verge of tears,

I hold you

In this moment:

 

Precarious,

Yet whole.

 

(December 4, 2017)

eros in retrospect

on the bed asleep
she lies face down
early-evening’s
half-light filters
through the blinds
lacing her bare skin
with a cool sheen
he cannot describe

(October 10, 2017)