hot july afternoon

July morning sun

sun is unfolding across my face
freckled and lined
by all those
ancient summers worn
by dust and seared green pines
fragrant sap sticky as preserved
amber of peaches
warm from the stove
stirred in the ancient black pot
of fore-mothers
and from their hands
this tongue
their song, sung in wordless
voice
murmuring incantations above
pots and babies and lovers bodies
asleep in the shade
of a hot July afternoon

summer night in the Ozarks

sweet water from the well
casts the evenings magic spell
as the fiddlers resin up their bows

mandolins court and spark
in early summers dark
lighting fireflies to twinkle and glow

its not every night but now
we sing and tell stories how
we lived and dreamed and truly loved

its not every night but when
we gather up to dance again
and music rises
to the summer moon above

so grab your partner
coo and dove
hug your friends and swing your love
cause all we have is the music
and the stars

its not every night but now
we are here and this is how
we celebrate the music
of our lives

sam and aly c
bo and the rebel hounds
<img
bob on his bday

I am longing for my friends and our summer nights filled with music and laughter.
This was written a few years ago and some of us have moved away and some have died. But this will always be my memory of our friendships and our love in a very specail place and time.

translation

I read translations of poetry, books
written in a language I do not understand
which become books of poetry
in my language, I do not understand

I wish I spoke another language.
All I have is this cursive inked stained
language, spoken to my dead parents
and brother when I read prayers and psalms
of a dead king in translation.

I do speak a bit of wildness, river song
and maybe old catfish dialect that no longer
is in fashion or wanted or needed.
But there are times when we sit together,
the small brown sparrows and I

and we can communicate in sign language,
no feeding the birds or stop
look and listen

tick

it is quiet
not quiet like completely silent
there are sounds of finches, a robin,
cooing doves, the rain

but quiet
away from cities and busyness and traffic
where I can hear my soul ticking like a tiny
alarm clock

the kind you used to see
sitting on the desk of your favorite aunt
or teacher
or your grandmothers vanity

I listen to that faint tick
and wonder if I have done enough
in my time
to bring peace
before the mechanism justs runs down

there are 36 righteous men in the world
holding our places to heaven
their foot in the door
keeping it wedged open
so we can slide in
no matter whether we listened to the
ticking
and did our best
to find quiet
and peace in this fraught world

panting at the door

Night of the Cold Moon

the door was ajar
open to the night
and its calls
and untraceable
sounds, rustling in the wind
wildness panting at the door

the masks they wear
loud mouths painted
and eyes covered
shielded from glare of sun
and moon
unselfconscious in their fury
wildness panting at the door

more than anything
wandering in the dark
they are what I fear

Spring, in the year of….

close up of leaf

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

be still
my heart flutters and
I wonder if I have forgotten my medication

my heart flutters
like a small butterfly wafting
against the cool morning breeze

there are no symptoms
of anything other than Spring
just Spring and all that goes with it

my heart flutters
Spring in the year of the plague

the sincerity of light

May sunrise

the sincerity of light
as the sun moves
from its morning to afternoon shade
its good natured
as nature most times can be
resting easy on the shoulders of old oaks
and old women
gently easing chilled worries and tender buds
from winters long ill-ease

its the goodfaith
of spring sunlight
as it sometimes hides behind gray clouds
or buildings, dark and shuttered,
the faith that its light will shine out
even if its in the face
of the April egg moon

And you can see in its earnestness
in the warmth of setting
blazes
scarlet and gold
gold enough to hold in your hand
to hold tightly in your hand
until the next mornings light

hymns

Early Spring Morning 2

I write you from the edge of things
the corners of rooms
and margins of old atlases
where dragons live
and sea monsters swim

It is here where I marvel at each dawn
and wonder if you are well
and sleeping
and have enough to eat
enough to dream

I write to you from the center
of the universe as I know it
the tiny corner of space
where you used to live
and where your voice sang hymns
of praise and restoration