Matrix of the Dawn

She stands above the globe, belly distended,

Wondering what this new birth will bring forth.

Pregnant with possibilities; with good intended,

Humankind has another day to spend on Earth.

Each dawn begins a new opportunity,

To make amends; to bring peace; to heal hearts.

She groans in pain over men's disunity

And prays her newborn will bring a fresh start.

The eastern horizon becomes aglow,

Her head is crowned with glorious gold,

The child's head is crowning, too and she knows,

The night is far spent. It's tired and old.

With one agonizing push, a day is born,

And the beauty of it brings tears to her eyes.

She watches, but soon with sadness and forlorn,

Her hopes and aspirations wither and die.

This precious gift she willingly released below,

Yet the recipients yawn as though it's mundane.

They do not treasure it and don't even know,

Why it's here or care the least why it came.

They go through the motions seeing no wonder,

This day holds no enchantment; it's a bust,

So they fight, murder, rape, lie, and plunder.

The day is soon lost again. Her hopes turn to dust.

Wisdom is the exalted name of renown she holds,

But those clothed in flesh were too proud to inquire.

The quest for knowledge became their lofty goal,

Yet souls without wisdom are destined for the fire.

She weeps until she can produce not one more tear,

Yet she won't give up on these that are Earthbound.

She wills to try again, but her heart is fraught with fear,

For time is now ended. There's no grace to be found.

The Maker of All has brought All to an end.

He gave them every chance to change, to repent,

Even to His blood atonement their sin to transcend.

With eternity waiting, still they would'nt relent.

  

   

 

 

Perfection

Coffee perks in a red Speckleware pot.

The old Timberline provides the flame.

It's early morning peaceful solitude,

Outside the sky is looking like rain.

There's a longing, a deep seated yearning

To quell the quiet with a lilting tune,

To compose a brilliant joyful melody,

Something rippling with life, yet rough hewn.

Hands gnarly as limbs on an old Jack Pine,

Take down the fiddle and rosin the bow.

Rain falls pattering against dusty panes,

As the music takes form in ebbs and flows.

At last, the mood subsides, gone as it came.

He fills a mug marveling at the blend,

Inhales the aroma, and takes a sip.

Perfect coffee, perfect song, perfect end.

Cat's Feet Fog

Fog creeps in quietly as on cat's feet,

Or as the rustling of a maiden's veil.

Rain falls softly like silk stockings on the floor.

Shadows know a truth the soul won't tell.

Within the safety of the darkest walls,

An unbidden memory struggles to give birth.

Outside, in the open, where things may live,

A sudden downpour quenches the earth's thirst. 

Lightning sharp as a knife stabs the eyes,

As thunder shakes to the very foundation.

Another clap sounds like a smashing dish,

Or the music of a celestial chaos celebration.

Sleeplessly, I toss and turn and think.

An alarm sounds with a tone alien to human ears.

Perhaps the fog was whisked away on the wind,

But no, it lingers on and on. It's still here.

 

Lothario

His whisper, soft as silk, so seductive.

His touch, so tender, so titillating.

He leans ever closer to kiss her cheek.

She blushes; his charm is scintillating.

His gaze is direct and disconcerting.

He is a master at casting the spell.

Each endearment is but a stepping stone.

Where it will lead only this night shall tell.

A smile plays at his lips. He seems sincere.

She yearns to believe him. Her heart quivers,

In her breast as bird wings against a cage.

His breath is sweet on her neck. She shivers.

O' Lothario, you are deceitful,

In all of your ways you prove yourself false.

You promise her your love everlasting.

Yet you share just one night, one rose, one waltz.

The dawn brings regret and abandonment.

Tears, tangled sheets, a tortured soul remains.

He vanished as did love into the mist.

Love like youth is illusion, fleeting, vain.

United Against the Gods

A waxing moon shines on new fallen snow.

In late March, it's a manic magic,

A chimera, a dirty little trick,

Perpetrated by the caprice of gods

Moving pieces on a cosmic chessboard

In an attempt to win, to scuttle Spring.

With the rosy break of dawn comes the sun

Radiating warmth. A south breeze whispers,

"United we will foil the foolish gods.

Spring will arrive; it is unstoppable.

If only human hearts would learn from us."

Thanksgiving and Dad

Peeling vegetables

Thoughts sweep in like tidal waves

You're not here to help

I brush it aside

There's just too much to be done

Food won't cook itself

The table is set

The food done to perfection

They take their places

Each gives unique thanks

From the youngest to the oldest

Someone is missing

Then I realize

You are never really gone

You shine through faces

You live on in us

I hear you in their voices

You are in their smiles

Thank God I knew you

Thanksgiving is still all right

You're here after all

The No Apology Tour

I am me,

as impossible as I can be.

I thrive on repartee.

I’m just me.

I am free.

I’ll continue to be,

just whatever I decree.

I bask in liberty.

I am me,

and that’s the key,

that unlocks my destiny.

I must be me.

I am me.

I don’t like the third degree.

I won’t change so you’ll like me.

I’m always me.

I’ll make no plea,

no begging on one knee,

so think what you will of me.

I’ll tell it like I see.

I am me.

I won’t be what you want me to be.

I make no apology.

I’ll be me.

Big Buts

We all have a big but.

Not behinds, in front ofs,

so don’t look in the mirror.

You won’t find it there

and it’s not in the rear view.

I’m not talking about butts.

I am talking about buts.

You have at least one.

Come on; admit it to yourself.

That’s half of the battle.

Everyone has at least one big one.

How do I know?

Because I have some of my own.

I would make it, but…

I could succeed, but…

I’d write a book, but…

I go on a trip, but…

My life would've been great, but…

I’d forgive and let it go, but…

Fill in the blanks with your own poison.

Excuses, excuses, excuses, we all have them.

Don’t let a three letter word stop you.

Quit it; Exercise; get rid of that big but.

It might seem tough; you can do it.

No ifs, ands or buts about it.

The Spring Show

Lilacs bloom outside the open window.

Their fragrance wafts on the gentle breezes

and seems to try to overpower you

in waves akin to the sea on the shore,

but you pay no heed. You are too lost in self.

You mourn for days that have gone like a mist,

days best left as bittersweet memories.

Hummingbirds flit to a bougainvillea

and insert their beaks in scarlet trumpets.

They drink deeply of the sweetest nectar.

Yet you think the good times are far behind,

the future is too frightening to contemplate,

and the present is a day to endure.

Bees are bobbing about the dandelions.

They move quickly from head to fuzzy head.

From stately white birches birds are singing

as they hop amidst the now verdant leaves.

All around life buzzes, hums, flits, and sings.

Creation puts on a show; the creator applauds.

The day closes in splendiferous glory

with a sunset unique, day’s finale.

The show now over, night’s curtain falls,

but you missed the entire performance.

By longing for what can never be regained

and fearing tomorrow you wasted today.

The Earthen Vessel

An earthen vessel on a dusty shelf

stands empty, unused, and all by itself.

Once it pleased the owner, but not these days

because of the cracks and chips in its glaze.

Inside it is serviceable and good.

It longs to hold oil as it knows it should.

Although its splendor is now faded and marred,

it’s precious, in part, because of its scars.

It remembers each nick around its rim,

and the pain it felt again and again,

but those marks that seemed like cruel injuries,

became some of its sweetest memories.

Wounded by the hands of a careless child,

eager to grab, now, brings only a smile.

That serpentine crack that looks like a vein,

it wears with great pride and would bear it again.

It knows that what it’s endured made it strong,

and prays that the owner sees before long.

It is, despite its flaws, tested and true,

and it is, in truth, an image of  you. 

The Call

I call, “Come to me; lay your troubles at my feet.

I alone am equipped to advise you.

Recline on my breast. Forget your defeat.

I give rest to weary minds through and through.

You toil with many difficult questions.

Ask and I will freely answer them all.

Decisions are tough. I have suggestions.

Lean on them. Do the right thing. You won’t fall.

Many doubts nag, erode your peace away.

I will ease them, if you will just listen.

Hear my soft voice and I will come to stay,

as gently as dew on a rose glistens.

Take my hand, human. Let me lead you on.

I long to be your lifelong friend and guide.

I ever remain when others have gone,

and I shall stay close by your lonely side.

You ask, “Who are you and why do you care?”

“It is my job and Wisdom is my given name.

I freely give to those who ask. I share.

I am here to remove all fear and shame.

Though, I call your name, I won’t linger long.

Others will accept this offer I make.

I see potential in you to be strong.

Am I a risk you are willing to take?

Did you nod yes? Is that a tear I see?

Thank you. We shall accomplish wondrous things,

as long as you learn to listen to me.

I’m happy”, the Spirit of Wisdom sings.

The Calendar Says What?

Spring arrived in name on the calendar.

It didn't come in actuality.

Instead snow came; bitter cold invaded.

Sharp winds prevailed with a kind of madness,

that cut through layers of clothes to the bone.

It felt like a scene from a slasher movie.

White caps were whipped like meringue on the sea,

but this was no sweet dessert, no special treat,

only a prank on the winter weary,

a sick joke Mainers see all too often.

The first day of Spring in Maine should be in May.

It would prove a much better bet than March.

We shall wait it out to buds and green grass

with our usual Yankee stoic grit.

That’s right; determination’s our motto.

Spring will arrive, when it’s damned good and ready.

Spirit of Stupidity

A spirit shot one flaming arrow.

A spell fell upon the land.

As though cursed great minds became narrow,

and spoke trite words out of hand.

Maybe the attack was one small sign,

of a mile marker ignored,

or maybe it was by some design,

a mortal wound from the sword.

The mental landscape was badly scorched,

for miles to infinity.

Creativity was victimized, torched,

to burn out its destiny.

The distant chiming of a lone bell,

like a death toll sadly rings.

Is it really over? Who can tell?

A foul spirit claps and sings.

Guitar Strings and Grit

This poem is part of a healing process, so please bear with me. I hope you enjoy it. The photo is from a couple of years back when my grandsons performed at the Sweet Chariot Music and Art Festival. They've grown a lot since then in many ways and so has their music.

You stand there, the height of Stoicism,

at the graveside of your great grandfather,

as two Zenos of Athens with guitars.

Tears are hidden beneath a cool veneer.

You’re there to sing; you will to stay focused.

Words you hardly hear are being spoken

about your great grandpa, your biggest fan.

You remember the visits to his house,

when you’d arrive carrying your cases.

His face lit up every time you walked in.

There would be a brief pretense of small talk.

Then you’d crack open those guitar cases,

to play and sing his favorite country songs.

You’d field requests like true professionals.

It seemed like he was content to listen,

no matter how long you decided to play.

He’d always want to hear I Saw the Light.

After he’d say, “Hank never did it any better.”

Then he’d smile big with real pride and bias.

It didn’t matter that Hank Williams wrote it,

when he was in full Luke the Drifter mode,

or that his execution was flawless.

He loved your version of Wildwood Flower,

Amazing Grace and I’ll Fly Away, too.

Then you’d sing Johnny Cash and Willie Nelson

to a captivated audience of one.

As you wrapped up that last visit at his house,

he hated to see you go, but he said,

“You boys sing better than those guys on TV.

Don’t you ever give up on your music.”

I’m glad you went to sing that day,

because he couldn’t hear after that.

But today he’s somewhere and he can hear,

as you sing songs for him one last time.

You play here without amplification.

You’ve figured out how to make it ring loud.

You raise your voices in I Saw the Light,

while those gathered for this tribute listen.

Many shed tears as you sing and they wonder

how two boys so young can sing on this day.

They don’t know how you manage to do it.

Some know how; we know what you are made of.

You’re held together by guitar strings and grit,

 and your great grandpa was right all along.

Hank never did it any better.

Too Many Westerns

As laconic with words as John Wayne,

a frame lean as Randolph Scott,

he sits in the open, clear and plain,

back to the wall like it or not.

The onlookers can’t help but wonder

at his clever James Garner smile,

as he rakes in the chips like plunder

in flashy Brett Maverick style.

Pulling sarcasm like a six gun,

he cuts opponents down to size

with wit, not bullets; it’s all in fun,

as bystanders marvel, surmise.

Some guess at his weakness, his one flaw,

his own brand of Achilles heel,

but not one man has the guts to draw

against those eyes of Eastwood steel.

He leaves the joint cool as Steve McQueen.

The ladies watch; hearts beating fast.

All the men are glad he’s left the scene,

and hope they've seen of him the last.

No one knew his name; they didn't ask.

Fear kept the question tamped down tight.

He stole the money with no mask.

They won’t forget him or that night.

  

The Empty Chair

The sight of that empty wooden chair

strikes up a sad chord deep within my soul.

No more shall you sit across the table

to share a tale or tidbit of wisdom

while enjoying a meal or some coffee.

When I look at that chair, I still see you,

if only in my mind’s eye. I see your smile

and that mischievous twinkle in your eye.

I can hear your laugh as you tease me,

well, almost, but not quite.

My imagination isn't that big.

Sometimes, the chair haunts me.

Its emptiness taunts me.

It declares the obvious. You are gone.

Still I can’t bring myself to put it away,

so I wonder if I’ll get accustomed to it,

the empty chair, I mean. I don’t think so.

I don’t want to.

It would mean your memory is fading.

I won’t let that happen, ever.

As long as a glance at that empty chair

hits me hard like a dagger through the heart,

it will keep memories of you alive.

Unwelcome Visitors

A visitor rapped at the door one day.

He was unwelcome; I sent him away.

He came back again. Sorrow did return

as a persistent caller that I'd spurn.

Sorrow tapped softly at the window pane,

as tears filled my eyes and fell like the rain.

He stood outside with an umbrella in hand,

as though mocking my lack of self-command.

Each day Sorrow came back; He wore me down,

erased my smile, and changed it to a frown.

Soon Sorrow brought along another friend.

Bitterness knocked and I let him come in.

After that Sorrow eased off; he called less.

Yet Bitterness stayed and I was depressed.

Then a sweet voice spoke and tugged at my heart,

“Together we can make him depart.

You must choose. Is it Bitterness or me?

I possess power to set captives free.”

I knew it was time, so I chose to move on.

I chose God and soon Bitterness was gone.

  

  

The Showdown

They tossed a ball back and forth for hours,

as they waited for the signal.

The wait seemed like an eternity

to the two hombres; it was dismal.

The smaller of the two stood on the spot

marked with a big bold looking X.

He thrust his hands in his jeans pockets

and stared as though casting a hex.

That X was where the fight should begin

and with a craw full of grit Gil stood.

He was ready with guns slung down low

to face all them worthless no-goods.   

Big Joe said, “They ain't coming out, Gil.

We been a waitin’ here too long.

They've plumb give up; let’s ride on out.

I got a thirst that’s powerful strong.

That Jones Gang is a pack of cowards.

They didn't show their ugly mugs.

No bullets are gonna fly today,

so let’s go have us a slug."

They meandered on to the corral.

It was clear there’d be no showdown,

not today, maybe tomorrow.

For now, they would get out of town.

They headed off into the sunset,

as all real cowpokes tend to do.

Their eyes scanned the darkening horizon

in search of bad guys that they knew.

Gil and Big Joe rode their stick horses

as though they heard thundering hooves

and felt the wind whipping their faces.

Soon they’d be safe under their roofs.

They alit in front of Gil’s saloon.

Gil’s mom took their guns right at the door.

She gave them some cookies and milk

and warned them not to track up the floor.