Artist's Way

It writes itself,
and I set it free --
to be proven not
by what eye can see;
impressions with innate
geometry,
instinct's sketches
with their own right
to be.

Gathering Pebbles

Newfound understanding,
and the water runs smooth,
no ripples . . .
precious pebble of insight --
pick it up before anyone can
kick it away,
and -- quick -- run! 
Bury it in the safest place,
so as never to lose it;
and, when times are uncertain,
when doubt taunts with misgivings,
go, go to that treasure,
to that place
where mind can rest
and assure itself,
"This -- this, at least,
I know."

Flowers, Leaning

Never underestimate
the beauty of the small --
those little things in passing,
flowers leaning on a wall . . . 
simple words for simple things,
most eloquent of all.

Velvet

Silent bloom of black velvet,
whispering starlight
to the eyes,
lucent moonsong
lulling the ears . . . 
as spirit listens
and breathes.

Heart of Pain

Armenia,
comfort and cradle
of the wounded,
you know what it is
to be esteemed as dirt:  
to be mocked, starved,
and tortured,
ground underfoot into blood
and dust. 
Yet, still you rise,
face to the sun;
your bloodied soil, healing salve,
gift of martyrs and weeping Rachels. 
What wound, then,
would the unction
of your monstrous suffering
not be able to heal?

P.S.  On behalf of the Armenian priest, Father Michael Kayal, kidnapped in Syria on February 9, 2013:
Father Michael Kayal

Aloft

The atmosphere said,
"Let me give you a lift!" 
It bore me aloft,
and I coasted a bit,
feeling the breeze
gently pat my soul,
movement and freedom
eclipsing control . . . 
Freedom to what, and to where,
and why? 
I don't have the answers,
but I'll look toward the sky.

Finest Linen

Sky,
fragrant with rain
unspoken,
exhales peace,
linen whiteness enveloping all,
as though unfolding
into the gentlest of hands
a treasure of trust.

Light Remembers

Dazzling rays,
you remembered --
as the violins swelled,
bypassing my heart,
speaking only to my soul. 
You remembered,
as the earth lit up through the trees,
lake bathed in misty light;
and I felt the old sweetness
enter, not with a voice
no longer here,
but through my eyes,
through light familiar;
youth bursting through
the death that has been
mine,
new path strewn with rays
glistening;
finest straws of blown glass
mingling
with sound sublime.

Grieg - Holberg Suite, Op. 40 - Part 2/5
Grieg - Holberg Suite, Op. 40 - Part 3/5 
Grieg - Holberg Suite, Op. 40 - Part 4/5

Expectancy

Lilies and hyacinths
air's sweet refrain 
Hope's fragrance exudes
from earth once again.

Season of Birds and Roses

Patter of small feet
on a city street;
buildings brick
but ambience ever green --
far, far better than any dream. 
The passage of time can take its toll
but it cannot obscure this: 
mother and young grandmother --
childhood's Springtime kiss.

Streaming Skies

Write, write,
write into the sun
until all is bathed in light;
and then weep, weep
like thunder and lightning
and wind,
tornadoes of grief
spinning 'round
hailstones pelting
the silent soil,
until sky's fire is spent
and the fury of ice
melts.

The Desert

Syria is shorn,
the mideast is aflame,
while bare cathedrals,
empty cradles,
weep.

Caught

"I've caught your cold
[suddenly],"
I tell her,
blinking wet eyes;
and little one gives me
an orange.

Name

Meaning,
for those who see;
layers deep,
whole unfathomable
self;
nearly unutterable
but for a
whisper,
reverent;
trust,
knowing: 
Name.

Keeping Warm

Truth -- a firm
and rigorous thing
needing steel, at times,
to utter . . .
but with an undercurrent
of love. 
The hurts along the way
I cast back
with an open heart
to the gentle breezes that blow
to be cleansed in the sunshine,
always the sunshine;
for though truth can be hard,
the heart must stay warm.

Morn

Meet the morn: 
new eyes,
refreshed;
sunburst lending
joy's colors
to the periphery;
vision warmed
by the inexplicable;
fear --
palpable, trembling,
shimmering icicle
on the verge of
melting,
melting
away.

Signature

A name is a name,
or a cloak, or a shawl --
the letter image
by which we call
a being, unique -- 
drawn in sound and lines;
word shape to express
what most defines 
a person, or shade
of identity,
at present or only
for future to see.

Inner Mentor

Writer,
dig deep into the soil
barehanded,
fingers unafraid,
and scrape up
whatever stones
and sinewy weeds
lie beneath
the surface.

She and I (young scholar and author)

I write: 

Motion
after dormancy,
stretch the legs,
feet run free . . . 

She writes: 

Humerus 

Ulna 

Patella (the knee) 

I say: 

"Must concentrate now,
on this poem I've begun . . ." 

She says (re:  Anatomy): 

"I'm having FUN!" 

I ponder some words: 

"Now, let me see . ." 

She exclaims with glee, 

"This is easy!" 

Eating grape leaves, I comment, 

"Ooh, this is spicy!" 

Nose in book, she asks,

"The poetry?"

Dream Days

To expand with the wild
like nature's child
and read the breeze
on dusty knees;
the eternal, lingering on a summer's day . . .
warmer winds not far away.

Sun

Hope . . . hope . . .
in the unrevealed,
the unthought of,
in what we cannot see
or imagine
this moment,
future unknown --
in this all are
equal. 
But if our faces are
uplifted,
how can the sun
go wrong?

Standing on the Wind

Standing on the wind,
I hold on, as before;
losing hat, losing scarf,
but facing forward,
once more. 
Standing on the wind, 
I weep at the chill,
yet my eyes open wide
o'er plunging valley;
steep hill. 
Standing on the wind,
I flinch; skin burns
with the cold heat of flight: 
flesh endures; soul learns.

Drifts

I sense a freedom,
like fresh, new snow,
clean, powdery drifts,
dusting high and low --
white, mystical glow. 
Each snowflake whole,
sweet symmetry;
starshine's crystal
clarity.

Delirium

Fatigue of earthen clay so deep --
battle waged: 
Evil,
hemorrhage of hatred,
claiming its hour
again
and again
and again;
Rachel's tears
pouring down,
swelling oceans --
but not enough
for earth fevered with
sorrow monstrous. 
And the birds,
little ones --
they try to tell us,
their tiny voices pealing into a world
where the little perish
as nothing,
making the earth
shudder.

Dewdrops on the Dust

A luminous thought pushed its way
through the parched, fractured clay,
casting dewdrops on the dust. 
Wan and weary seedlings,
revived by taste of rain,
shot up --
for bloom they must.

Incipient Beauty

The poem, please,

but not the story. 

Please, no -- 

not the story! 

The poem: 

literature's ballet,

form controlled,

area finite,

at times elegant, 

exquisite . . .

but the story: 

more crude, even wanton, in form,

delving into the sordid,

the rampantly uncontrolled,

the backstabbed hearts

and the beastly flaws. 

Still,

without the raw and bleeding story,

seedbed of beauty and glory,

we would have nothing from which

to rise 

with the ravishingly triumphant 

poem.

                                                                                            Written December 31, 2011

Sunset Blue

Blue air, tinged with lavender,
embraces winding road,
mountain's shades dimming,
dimming, closing down
the Indian peaks
and valleys,
wild things scurrying to shelter,
sketchy silver skylight
dissolving.

Fluidity

Insight unleashed,
light poured in,
tension ebbed;
and mirth regained
its rejuvenating power.

Glimmer

Truth
takes courage,
brings courage;
candle's glow,
small but steady,
sweetly defying
the dark.

Eventide

Calm, sweet calm
and blessed rest --
Heart has given
day its best.

By Degrees

Instinct shapes trust,
nestling in the crooks of its
acute angles,
flashing insight
into its empty spaces,
and softening its lines
until the stiffness
and sharp corners
have disappeared.

Truddi

Truddi,
face of the spilling tears,
tiny prey in hell's grasp
from your tenderest years;
rest now, brave Troops,
separate voices - 92,
allies unfailing
of varying hue. 
Self's division a reflex,
complexity true;
both laymen and priests
need to know about you.

Taking a Dip

Slotted spoon at funny angle
left on table -- clue to dangle. 
Melting brown and white congeals
in floor smears left by furtive heels. 
"An ice cream theft again, I see?" 
Response:  "Why are you asking me?" 
(Behold the calm, bland, rational look
of boyhood immersed in a book.) 
"Perhaps because the carton's dry --
not a drop to be seen by the naked eye."

Tug of War

I confront the blankness I discern,
words' remedy sought and fought in turn: 
must mold it, control it, lest it leap far from me
and become the stallion it was meant to be,
surging forth by force of its own poetry.