November Morning

Its not withstanding the urgency
of breath and feeling,
molding into those things which
we say and do within our masks,
hiding in each moment.
But there are times,
when letting guards down,
we recognize our real faces
and wings unfurl
in the cold light of a November morning.
Wedge of deep silver
shadowed against the breast
of stone and water
opening isthmus arms
crux of land and sky
embracing water, earth deep,
bronze and gold, russet, indigo.
And leaving the warmth of bed and nights embrace,
I stretch toward the dark dawn,
aware of all mortality and grace
and the singular thought of ones life.
This too shall pass and like the meadow grasses
separating grain from chaff,
my soul will someday join the autumn wind
and sing shining into the cold morning.

today

 
is this the day we feared
shadows have fallen
and taken us by surprise
though we saw the storm on the horizon
 
we were happy in the sun
carefree and senseless
drunk with the goodness and bounty
of the riches bestowed
 
is now the time when winter
comes roaring and the last
of our provisions are meted
out of time and warmth
 
is this the day we feared
are the wolves not at our door
but already feeding on our young

early afternoon in july

last summers evening 3

the fragility of the day holds fast
in the light of early afternoon
in a year heavy
with veiled feelings
in the eyes of passers by

wands of dried grasses
tasseled in gold
and magic
seem to wave over our worries

look how sparrows glean the field
how lilies gild the meadow
rain falls on us all,
the just and unjust,
criminal and saint

we are all alive
under this fragile light
of early afternoon
in july

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.

careless

I have become careless
in this lockdown time
as if this time was out of regular old normal time

This morning, I reached in for blueberries and found them already molded, gone gray
and lettuce wilted to slime
I have become careless with the food someone else gathered from shelves and plunked down in my car trunk
only to be thrown out just after the weekly garbage pick up.

I have become careless with friendships and relations
Calls early on in March and April were tinged with panic and overwrought sentiment
Now most maskless and tired of all the worry,
they have moved on,
leaving me behind closed doors and silent phones.

Squandering these moments,
I have become careless with time itself
as if these hoarded hours will be added on
to the end of my days-
a bonus for being good and careful