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.