I skip across the night
on moonlit lily pads
the copse of willow trees
lithe, and twisting
urging forth each step
beyond this path
lies all else, ethereal
ten thousand moaning
terrors, which upon the dawn
dissolve, awaiting their own
inevitable return.
In verdant decay
the woods lie low, now
and wait for those that crawl
in humble obscurity
to give them new life
Some may fall with panache
shaking the forest floor
their final, primal scream
Others dissolve
giving one last gift
to their kin
and the countless
who’ve yet to sprout.
In warm loam the seedlings stow
Waiting for the spring to grow
Their time will come, I know, I know
Each new spring ray does coax
A new vine among kinfolks
Until from gravity, unyokes
The stem grows tall
A tree of beauty that can enthrall
So it stands, above it all.
Cold does not see class.
Nor race, religion –
Where you come from,
where you are now
and where you plan to go in the future.
Cold is egalitarian.
Cold is just.
When the trees wake up in a panic
wondering where their rust-hued hair
has gone –
they stand
side by side
with the children, waddling penguins in their parkas
as the school bus is late again.
With a single seed
virgin tendris give way to
a trunk grown stout, then
turned gnarled and stooped with wisdom
squinting at its younger kin
If you read all the poetry posted on this blog, you’ll notice a running theme- the interplay of nature and time. Though I also write verse that doubles as social commentary, I find those bits can feel a bit stilted and preachy.
The grass, lilting amidst speckled sun and steady breeze;
Laughs and puts forth its vibrant color for the world to see;
Amidst the knotted trees whiling away their closing years;
Children of the melting snow, knowing only ever-brightening days;
Each blade knows not the history, the joy, the tragedy;
That fields long dead were witness to;
Covered in petals, spring snows, the checkered picnic blanket;
The bare feet of men new to this world;
And the boots of a dying man, laid to rest with his bayonet;
Oaks sag with the weight of history, and;
Gaze upon the young grass that will soon wither;
As a thousand fields have done before their arching branches;
It is best to leave them to their play;
Unspoken Politics 