Fragile Flight

Blissfully wandering,

drifting and driven,

a butterfly.

Hopelessly homeless,

unbridled, insisting

on flying high.

A carefree kaleidoscope

flutter-dance striving

to touch the sky.

Hey, you - I forgot I'd forgotten you.

Threatening, ominous

brooding, insidious,

a thundercloud.
Hooded night-monster,

devious accoster

tall, dark and proud.

Bloated and burgeoning,

casting off raindrops

to the ground.

Hey, you - I forgot I'd forgotten you.

Sunlight returning,

golden eye burning

up in the sky.

Glittering in gladness,

the world is a pageant

of colors bright.

But in the grass is that a flower

all broken and battered?

No, it's a butterfly!

Hey, you - I forgot I'd forgotten you.

In the failing light of autumn

The sweet scent of dying
leaves. The wind has sifted
through them all: the shriveled
ashen brittle papers, the dusty
wisps of withered parchments,
blown and scattered, caressed
and battered, by the frigid sighs
of grieving, in the failing light
of autumn, lost in shadows
and tomorrow forgotten.

Carathor uth Benethan

[Devoutly staring at the Sun]

Translation of words found carved on the hermitage wall of the heretical "prophet" Al-Pheraezin the Blind [d. 1087 A.D.] Revered as a sacred text by his devotees "the Solarists" until the demise of their sect in the early 16th century. The source of their central mantra: "Cara. Cara. Utha Cara" ["The Light. The Light. The Light is All"]. Solemnly intoned during their initiation ritual "Ul-Carathul" or "Burning Wisdom" wherein new inductees sacrificed their visual faculties to attain to an alleged spiritual "enlightenment." Their territory in Northern Azerbaijan was easily vanquished in 1502 by the marauding Qizilbash army due to the blindness they all held in common.

The Sun. Luminescent lotus of the heavens.

A piercing revelation. In full bloom.

Receptive eyes held open to see.
The golden searching searing Light.
Magnificent and radiant fire.
Resplendent auras. Angel-glories.
Wings of light caressing the soul.
The flowing waters of joy. The martyr-pain.
The Light. The Light. The Light is All.
Ecstatic awareness. Steady attentiveness.
The reception of the All in All.

The deep and serene and abiding Peace.

Illumination fading. Shadows growing.
Dark eclipsing of the rapturous vision.

Bright and holy Wisdom received. The Sun.

Outside all circles

Outside all circles, revolving crowds

and conversations, attentions directed
elsewhere, the spiraling weight of constant
gravity, of magnets never touching, repelled
at the polarities, quiet cushions of atmosphere,
the stars of closest galaxies, the cold and frail light
reaching patient planets, orbs cloaked in serene
darkness and the ever-present silence of thought.

What pure maidens

What pure maidens, what fair essences

of guileless joy, what diminutive frames

bearing the iconography of original innocence,

what divine splendor burning within these

fragrant and holy gardens, where the sheen

of Eternity and lost effulgence of Eden shine

unsullied upon sweet and unfurrowed brows.

Night and Day

"How sad," whispers Venus from behind the veil
of soft and tattered silkworm lace,
"the quivering starlight must now fail
and Diana must withdraw the fair moon face.
For behold! Apollo now ascends the sky
on his chariot pulled by ten great stallions:
immersed in golden flames they fly
towards the summit of heaven on high
while night-joys fade away with a sigh
with none to mourn them when they die."

"How glad!" shouts Apollo from within the fire
that brings warm light to the world at last.
"On, good steed, now take us higher -
the melancholy shadow of night is past!
No more will this land be hidden by grey -
no more the sad and weary gloom. 
Be cheered! The blithe and golden ray
upon the waking world I lay
casting grim darkness far away
to impart to the living another day!"

Forbid, forbid

Forbid, forbid the trees to dance,
the birds to sing, the horse to prance.
Forbid in each new circumstance
the semblance of mirth.

Set the geese in throngs to fly,
the light to wane, the leaves to die,
the wind to breathe a mournful sigh
across the weary earth.

Forget the golden summer days,
the gladsome bloom, the warming rays.
Forget the robin's merry ways
in this time of dearth.

Alpínid

The rush of gentle waves over sloping sands,
the great press of sorrow - always tomorrow.
A full breath of sunlight, the sea-sky is full
of scattered islands, the Hebrides of old.
Daily they offer prayers for me on Iona -
over the tomb of King Cináed mac Ailpín.
The sun is radiant behind them: a heaven
of halos shining down on Rèilig Odhrain.

State Highway 31

The Sally Mann landscape, sepia-skies

and chemical burns, sunlight overexposed

over a nameless creek, the thunderstorm ravaged

and passed on, left filthy rags overhead, a soft horizon,

dark vignetting, seeping shadows around the edges,

the highway bisects tattered fields, dry and forsaken,

a lone pine toppled over in the middle, dying,

an out-of-focus crossroads town, frowning faces

outside a gas station, overalls and greasy hands,

two shirtless boys precarious on one bicycle,

girls in dirty dresses, jumping rope, braids bouncing,

all is lost in Gaussian blur, passing through

Upon Argent Eyrie

High silver-draped ancient crags

slip down to an ink-nectar sea

that reaches up with foam-fingers

toward the peaks at even-tide.

The sullen hoar-frost hermit moon

shakes his round curmudgeon head

and turns away with a silent scowl

while the frigid but laughing stars

dare to cajole the falcon-kindred

nesting secure upon Argent Eyrie.

Through sleepy-slits, the raptor young

peer out from within a dream-stupor

upon a multitude of glittering eyes

leering down from the night-darkness,

rodent-spectres come to haunt them

in their slumbering, or so it seems

to the little ones who, with bellies full,

shudder under the privileged warmth

of maternal-wings, and hidden there

close tight their bright and tender eyes.

Ennui

The murmur of conversations

between white walls, the

half-second silent pauses,

the bland delicacies, the opening

and shutting of eating mouths,

the subconsciously audible

breathing and much shuffling of

feet, the eyes puffy under harsh

light, the burst of outrageous

laughter over some half-hearted

humor, the still and vapid air,

the sighs.

Late Morning

A withered woman sweeping the floor.

      An open window full of autumn light.

The distant ringing of many bells.

      Dry leaves rattling on crooked limbs.

Eggshells in mud outside the door.

      Crows squabbling over a slice of bread.

A cool wind bending tall grasses.

      A glimpse of grey in the western sky.

Foreign Land

[From The Songbook of Sgt. Robert Jameson, RAF c. 1920]

Waves upon the sand.
Don't be such a foreign land.
You speak but I don't understand.
Waves upon the sand.

I look into your eyes.
I see diamonds fall from summer skies.
Above the waves a seagull flies.
I look into your eyes.

And it's so beautiful to me.
It's all so beautiful to me.

Something has begun.
Underneath a golden sun.
Rivers to the ocean run.
Something has begun.

And it's so beautiful to me.
It's all so beautiful to me.

You take me by the hand
and lead me to a foreign land.
You speak and now I understand.
You take me by the hand.

And it's so beautiful to me.
It's all so beautiful to me.

O what dark wind

O what dark wind worries these funeral leaves

and sets them rattling under a scowling moon?

The most withered and aged tremble and fall

when touched by the cold wraiths of autumn

who drift unseen through the shuddering weeds

to bring fragrant sighs from the dying world

and to wail with banshee voices in the night.

She-Willow

Her willow-wires, brown and battered,
reach, in confused and tangled masses,
through vacant airs, grasping nothing,
while leaves whisper with softened voices:
"Shhhhh...she sees, though she be blind;
she shades in shadows from scorching sun;
she sighs, she weeps, she seeks to find
her spouse...be hushed, she be undone."
And so, hanging over quivering waters
which she augments yet with dewy tears,
she waits and heaves in warmest breezes
that pass through her and fade away.

Oversleeping

The adolescent day is sulking.

Smoke-clouds hide the reticent sun.

The feeble light is scarcely able

to pierce the brittle windowpane

and bestir the sleeper from a dream

that he will not recall upon waking.

Ingénue

She reminds me

of a graveside funeral

I once attended

when spring sunlight

arrived to brighten

little drops of dew

lingering on the grass

that had been mown

earlier that morning.

Winter in June

Snowfall is covering the flowers bright,

a chill wind is blowing through golden light.

Robins are warbling an icy tune,

sorrowful over this winter in June.

Green leaves are stiff and voiceless now,

the fruit falls frozen from the bough.

Squirrels shiver in their nests at noon,

sorrowful over this winter in June.

Warmth is fleeing far from here,

the setting sun is weak and drear.

Night-eyes behold a brittle moon,

sorrowful over this winter in June.

Smoke Break

Lucille sat behind the warehouse in a contemplative mood.

She stared down at what was left of the cigarette between her fingers as if it contained the answers to all the mysteries of the universe.

She slowly brought it to her wrinkled mouth and took one last drag.

The tobacco-incense she exhaled drifted away across the heavy morning traffic.

She flicked the butt onto the pavement as she stood to go back inside.

Forgetting How to Fall Asleep

A train wails at the edge of night.
What sleep have I had? Very little...
Okay, concentrate, lie very still,
think of nothing at all, not even sleep.
But the day is swirling, my heart is racing,
my breathing is under my conscious control
(such a fragile feeling) - Okay, hear I go...
No, still wide awake...this isn't so easy.
I'll try maybe coming up with some rhymes:
Was it the tea or the chocolate cake?
Whatever it was, I'm still wide awake...
No, that didn't help -
The tree-shadows quiver, the rabbit-moon shines,
there are words on the ceiling in the crooked lines...
That's awful -
Every solar flare is rightfully named
after the one who first saw it, and had it framed -
Was that a half-dream? Now at last...
That's how I know that I'm fading fast:
nonsense thoughts intruding in,
there it is again:
something about horses
eating steaks with knives and forkses
from square leather plates...
the soft darkness around my face,
breathing dark light, it won't...be long...

A little orphan tear

A little orphan tear
slipped quietly out
from the asylum
of the eye
that beheld
such tender
and exquisite joy -
and fled swiftly away.

A Cautionary Tale

It was purposely and without remorse,

and with the aid of a reluctant horse,

that all the children out in the yard

pushed on the Old Wall very hard

until it toppled over with a crash.

Then Oliver, who was always brash,

surmounted in glee the pile of rubble

and said at last it would be no trouble

for them to come and go as they please,

they could even walk out among the trees

that surrounded the village on every side,

beyond the wall they had all decried.

But dusk was falling and light grew dim,

so Oliver, smiling, said unto them:

"Now off to bed - I will show you tomorrow

that being closed-in has been our only sorrow."

So each to their pillows and blankets withdrew

and dreamed of a world so wide and so new.

But in the night, the werewolves crept

from the forest and devoured them as they slept.

To sleep again

I must return to sleep again,
where all was starlight-snow
falling soft upon velvet-moss,
where the air was filled
with the music of mint-roses
and the silver shadows melted
under a tattered organdy moon.
Our fingertips touched,
and the words we whispered
took flight as paper moths
and fluttered in the water-wind
that shimmered and shuddered as it flowed
towards the distant waves of hills
quietly crashing in the tender twilight.

The Lewis Carroll Scholar

One afternoon under golden sun,

I took a stroll through Regent Park

and, with the term of lectures done,

I stepped spry, feeling free as a lark.

I had in mind my leisure to take

and wandered down to Boating Lake.

At the water's edge upon the grass,

sat a well-dressed enchanting girl

who was reading Through the Looking-Glass

and I could see her brow begin to furl.

"Dear child," said I, "do you understand

what you are reading of Looking-Glass Land?"

She looked up towards me with a grin

and said, "I understand most every word

and the story is interesting, but then again

Alice's adventures seem quite absurd."

"Please," she continued with an eager look,

"explain, if you can, the meaning of this book."

And then I, being a tenured Oxford don

who had studied this author for thirty years,

straightened up tall like a true paragon

who is rightly admired by all his peers.

I opened my mouth to impart the teaching

for which this young girl was beseeching.

Yet the words I spoke were not what I intended

and they poured forth quite in spite of myself:

"Twas brillig, and the slithy wended

did gyre and gimble in the welf!"

At this, the immensity of my surprise

did not surpass the same in that girl's eyes.

Cygnus Sorrow

With such fair grace, the amber light

had filled the chalice-sky of spring

and touched the swan as she took wing,

departing in serene and stoic flight.

But why leave just as the warmer clime

had settled in and expelled the cold,

when all is a dazzle of green and gold,

a triumph over the wintertime?

Yet there she goes with graceful head

pointed towards the northern hills,

to pursue the lingering winter-chills

that from the joys of spring had fled.

Like fire, but colder

Like fire, but colder,
like a whisper, but bolder,
she laid her head upon my shoulder
and succumbed to the gentleness of sleep.

The flames began to smolder,
still young, but getting older,
I put my arm around to hold her
and then I myself fell asleep.

Like darkness, but brighter,
like iron, but lighter,
in my dreams I held her tighter
as we breathed together in sleep.

Morning-fire

Morning-fire, the open sky,
a brilliant blossom passes by
with blazing heat that burned away
the shadow-cowl at break of day.

The celestial cup begins to brim
with golden-wine, as a glad hymn
is intoned by clans of feathered-kin
who rejoice that day has come again.

The obsidian-velvet night descends

The obsidian-velvet night descends
as the dying-candle daylight ends.
The last among the brilliant slivers
of golden dusk, like gilded rivers,
shudder not as they cast off life
but in grace depart without any strife.

When endless caverns above the world
are fully revealed, the stars are unfurled
which, along with the moon that soon will appear,
will shine through the darkness to quell every fear
and to rouse night-insects from daytime-dreaming
to sing shrill with joy under silver-lights gleaming.

Lucid in Sleep

[Composed by the late William T. Moore (d. 1974) and found among the many boxes of treasured items kept by his wife Claire (d. 2011). It was handwritten on the back of a utility bill dated November 15th, 1956.] 

I am awake now, Claire, after hearing you say:
Tomorrow will bring but another day.
You uttered these words from where you lay
with eyes open wide to see.

Before I could respond, you fell back asleep
(if indeed you had even emerged from sleep)
leaving me wakeful, my vigil to keep
with eyes open wide to see.

I am thinking of what I had wanted to say:

that each morning brings us a better day,
but I see from your face you are now far away

without eyes open wide to see.

You are sleepwalking through the halls of your mind,

through twilight and shadows, hoping to find

something you lost for which you have pined,
keeping eyes open wide to see.

The shadow-shapes shift across these walls

as the bright round moon quietly crawls
across the sky, with a light that falls
on my eyes open wide to see.

You, in your slumber, are now quiet and still;
I remove my vigil to the windowsill.
Tonight, whether I want to or not, I will
have eyes open wide to see.

The grey light of dawn will soon stir you awake

and furnish us with gifts of time we can take.

But stay lucid in sleep this night for your sake

as I keep eyes open wide to see.

The Shadow-fall

The shadow-fall, the nettle-weed,
the petal-pile, the settled-seed,
the sleeping-trees, the lucid-leaves,
the mirror-stream and spangled-eaves.
The nectar-winds from fields afar
breathe bashful under moon and star
and pass this way in whisper-drifts
to bring the dewy darkness gifts
of brittle kisses and solitude
and, finding the night in pleasant mood,
joins half the world in gentle shade
and caresses every leaf and blade.

Driving

The weather brings us fitting justice;
its hopes are full of rain and thunder.
But first, the air turns sideways
and stirs up leaves and loaves,
fishes and toads.
Was I indeed dreaming just then?

We take two-lane highways
that pass through tiny towns
as quiet as the dreams of trees.
The bricks of those elderly buildings
are remembering the days when they were young.

The night-wind blows through my window.
The droning of the engine 
and our own whispered words
are the only other sounds.
I lay my head back and breathe.

Winter Hopes

Wherein what is DEAD is brought to LIFE

[This piece incorporates the solution to a "doublet" or "word ladder" word puzzle, in which one word is changed into another by successive steps of altering one letter at a time. Each intermediate step must also be an actual word. The original concept was invented by Lewis Carroll in the 1800's. The DEAD/LIFE pairing is my own. I thought I would attempt to make the solution into a poem. You may want to try to solve it yourself before reading my poem, which gives one of several possible solutions. The original rules, as given by Carroll, involve competing to come up with the fewest number of steps. My solution has 23 steps, and so there are 24 lines in the poem. Technically, the steps in lines 11 and 21 are not needed but I included them for the structure of the piece. There is an alternate solution with only 18 steps.]

O DEAD world, will you heed my call?

Are you DEAF, can you hear me at all?

The LEAF is brown, the year is old,

the horse is LEAN, the weather cold.

The summer months called in their LOAN,

the LOON gives one last mournful moan.

LOOK! The geese are flying away,

the black-cloaked ROOK alone will stay.

As hard as ROCK this earth will be

and stay a while under LOCK and key.

Good LUCK to all, and may all take heed

who enter this time of LACK and need.

Queen Anne's LACE will not grow there

along the swift RACE of waters fair.

When the RAKE has gathered leaves,

a WAKE is held and each tree grieves

and waits cold months until a WAVE

of blessëd warmth returns to SAVE

this world from the CAVE of winter drear

and brings us all into a COVE of cheer.

In trees will be heard the coos of the DOVE

and lilies will nod in zephyrs of LOVE.

The robins will sing because they LIVE,

as the earth springs forth with LIFE to give.

The Picnic of 1919

[From the diary of Sgt. Robert Jameson, RAF]

We had before us the entire day
and went, with picnic baskets in hand,
to Bristol Park in jubilant May.
The sunshine was bright and grand
and all of the merry birds and squirrels
took notice of our troupe's arrival there.

It was I, my sister Rose, and her three girls;
my young nieces proved to be company fair:
Catherine, age twelve, was tallest and oldest;
Sarah was a pretty and lively ten.
Their youngest sister Emily was, by far, the boldest;
at just six she faced danger with a grin.

After a fine lunch of roasted chicken and salad,
we ate strawberries and laughed as Emily chased a bunny.
I then sang "Forget-me-not-never," a light-hearted ballad
about a soldier in love, which my nieces thought was funny.
We all played a few rounds of "Fox and Hound,"
a chasing game of which the girls were fond,
until little Emily was unable to be found.

At last, near dusk, we located her beside the pond,
sobbing, for her new white dress was dripping wet.
She had tried to pet a swan and fell headlong into the water.
Laughing, we wrapped her up with the picnic blanket
and walked to their home at Ashby and Potter.

I was to leave again for bleak Berlin the next day
and much hardship and sorrow I would afterwards endure,
but the glad memories I had of that little picnic in May
gave me, in those dark days, much solace simple and pure.

In Edith's Room at Nightfall

Her face pale in the mirror,
       a vase of dry roses,
a half-eaten pear,
       a painting of Moses
in anger overturning
       the calf made of gold,
The Complete Works of Tennyson,
       some bread growing mold,
a dust-covered photograph
       of a young bride and groom,
a large cobweb hanging
       in one corner of the room,
thin curtains blowing
       over letters on the floor,
Edith brushing her gold hair
       and whispering: nevermore.

Ocean Reverie

Heavy waves of blue-green tears
are falling with fury and rushing away
beneath a noisy flock of seers
who, with their screeching voices, say:

Come away! Come from this shore!
From shifting sands and fading sky!
From lands that soon will be no more!
Come with us now! Come with us fly!

I awakened then where I had slept
and dried the tears that I had wept.

The sky was bare; the gulls were gone.
The evening had grown swiftly chill.
Sunset was dwindling drear and wan,
but the darkened water was heaving still.

Heaving and bringing up to my feet
dead seagrass and broken shells,
all the things the ocean beat
and scoured clean within its swells.

Then over the tide flew one last bird
but silent as death it spoke not a word.

A gentle cyclone of pigeons

Spurning all weight of gravity,
a gentle cyclone of pigeons
revolves in hushed frenzy
up towards the ghost-grey sky
then back down, over and under,
round about, in hypnotic splendor, 
a flight of flights, a dizzy clockwork
orbiting with tattered wings,
with axis tilting, the gears
meshing in the soft machinery,
free to soar, but going nowhere,
making a spectacle of small circles
then retreating back to familiar roosts
underneath the dark and filthy overpass.

Laudable the hours

Laudable the hours wasted here

and valuable every squandered year

underneath the spell of solitude

renewed by draughts of quietude.

Evening is heaven to famished eyes

nourished by feasts of starry skies

as fragrant moonflowers slowly bloom

and nightingales serenade the gloom.

Down stony paths go weary feet

rewards of sleeplessness to meet:

each winking star and trembling leaf

will assuage the heart in every grief.

The Summer Day

Down the way she ran to play

with happy friends who loved to stay

abroad in summer sun all day

in the zenith of their youth.

While golden light was shining bright

and all the blessëd world seemed right,

the children played with all their might

in the zenith of their youth.

But when the day grew old and grey

she hurried home along the way

wishing they all could stay and play

in the zenith of their youth.

Seaside Study

Mingled with these waves are voices of the ages:
laughter, weeping, the discourse of sages,
the turning, turning, turning of pages
filled with foam-words fleeing away.

White heralds above proclaim the news
with lovely but coarse and wistful mews
from their lofty and wind-tossed views
over shimmering salt seaspray.

The pink sun is leaving, the wind is sighing;
a single great blue heron is flying
close to the water while the day is dying
and while golden shores are turning to grey.

Never such somber joy

Never such somber joy, such pitiful
happy brilliant aches. Never such
bright impressive sorrow, such raging
exuberant blessëd peace. Never such
beautiful jarring light, such wistful
fragrant deafening song. Never such
consuming brittle solace, such abiding
quiet forgotten innocence. Never such
simple impoverished wisdom, such blithe
solitude, such sweet and somber somber joy.

Mr. Edgar McMillan lectures his nephew while walking through a festive crowd.

[A follow-up to "Disturbed by Spring."]

“Nephew,” said Edgar, “look around this place,

such happy expressions are on each face.

But behind each smile is a grinning skull

and upon this sober thought I mull

when beaming faces shine at me

so bright that I can scarcely see.

The expressive skin but covers bones

as cold and rigid as senseless stones.

All I see here are skeletal frights,

and I cannot abide such loathsome sights!

Such masks, such lies, such vain display!

Let us take our leave, we shall not stay!"

"But Uncle," said John, "you are too severe.

Let us partake of the revelry here!

For life is short, you must surmise,

and to spend it thus methinks unwise:

To see the bad in every good

to spoil the world, as if you could

steal the sheen from the golden sun

and shame these good folk in their fun.

The heart inside your very chest

still beats, I bet, and will attest

against your will, to the good desire

for human love, and for the blazing fire

of the Creator's Love, which you reject,

but rejects you not as you expect.

So banish every morbid thought

and embrace the goodness you have fought!"

And said the angered McMillan then:

"I cannot abide this foolish din!

Such empty speech of life and love,

of some benign divinity up above.

Boy! No goodness is to be found

and your hopes for such will hit the ground

when they topple from such platitudes.

No! Stay such nauseous attitudes!

Come - this gathering has made you bold

and made you forget the things I told

that little boy who came to me

when both his parents perished at sea,

on some frivolous trip they took

forsaking my good advice - oh, look!

that old couple there slovenly dancing

and all the crowd behind them prancing

like wild deerlings, around the square

as if they had not a single care.
I pity their foolish deluded joy,

mark me well - but where are you, boy?"

Then he saw among the reveling crowd

John dancing there and laughing loud.