Advent 2019- Joy

Angels of Childhood
Joy leapt up
Like a hare in the meadow
Like a quail on the wing
Like a fish in the sea.

Joy leapt up
And ran and jumped and skipped
And fell into my lap.

Joy said
Did you see it?
A song bright as a candle.
A light sweet as a song.
A star strong as a heartbeat.

Joy leapt up
And twirled about the room
About the earth
About the sky

Joy leapt up
From a promise
From a Word
From a womb.

Joy leapt up!

— This is a poem written many years ago and I love to share it each Christmas season – may you and yours be surrounded by joy every day. K

Advent 2019 – We Were Walking

Angels of Childhood

We were walking with friends
behind their Minnesota farmhouse,
fields of cornstubble stretching to the winter gray horizon.

Suddenly from under our feet-
a heart stopping flash –
all feathers and noise and wings,
a vision of gold calling in alarm.
With our pulses pounding,
we watched the pheasant disappear.

We laughed at our fear
and marveled at the beauty and wonder
of what we had seen.

This must be what the shepherds felt
in a field a long time ago,
when they flushed
a covey of angels.

***This is a poem written many years ago but still one of my favorites. May you be surprised by joy and wonder during this Christmas season – K

Persephone basks

bradford-inn.jpg
Its warm,
an uncommon day in November,
the sun seeps honey and languorous
across the deep autumn landscape.

Trees fold inward, their somber winter
slumbers await.
Birds chitter and sing as if a spring day
while small furred creatures busy themselves
with the important matters of survival
and hunger.

Ice begins tonight.

Persephone basks
for one more day.

sometimes autumn

Wild geese

Springs cacophonous din of birdsong and early morning sun
has broken in two
leaving a drought poor fall
in shades of millet
and wheat, left to dry tattered in forgotten fields.
Leaves restless for wind,
skitter along the dusty path
running in packs of legless creatures
only to pause and hide
in shadowy dens against stone and steps.

Autumn brings its own season of light-
lusterless
sometimes with bright blue sky
sometimes with harsh ice
sometimes with fog filled rain
sometimes with wild song
and
strands of skeined geese
in determined flight.

Fall back

November Sunset

I work backwards
Trying to refine the confection of this day to the next.
Measuring each mote in dribs and drafts
Texturing silences with pauses and sighs
Or wringing each towel sopped with stale dregs
Dry, hanging across the scattered lines
Of words plagiarized from some old thesaurus
and soliloquy.

Now the day pours forth like honey,
Liquid amber clasping the emotions to its sticky breast.
What bee will boast of this light sweetness?
Not I, waspish and thorny,
A rose pierced to the heart with its own sword.
I relinquish the darkness that one hour holds
And cling to the ever present sunset
As dawn.