April 18, 2014

In this room, filled with quiet,

I am the happy victim of myself,

recalling the pink and orange of last light.

It’s a good place to remember,

to picture that scattering of gold,

buttercups in their brief witness;

to recall a trio of vultures

swinging along the mountain tops,

happy in their April thermals;

to hear again those words, large and small,

exchanged with the people I love,

to know once more that I am;

and give thanks for this day,

gathering all the goodness I call God.

Keys

I had never been superstitious,

never worried on the 13th floor;

unable to discern meaning

in broken mirrors or black cats;

but at some point it seemed

a bad idea to throw away keys,

not knowing what they might open,

what might be closed forever.

They were filed and forgotten,

but finding them one day,

I found no conceivable purpose,

and determined to reclaim reason,

I gathered them up on rings

and gave them to a small boy,

memories of old cars and houses

finding new life in the Batcave.

Dreams

In dreams as I know them,

there are no conclusions:

meetings never take place,

and trains are never caught.

It’s a maze of staircases,

a labyrinth of hallways

which never reach the room,

endless paths and no arrivals.

At the least hint of completion,

there’s a need to turn back,

something lost or left behind,

another round of wandering,

meeting people I think I know,

mismatched faces and voices,

whose advice leads to the next corner

only to turn into another.

All this must be about home,

that place, near and elusive,

so familiar and yet unknown,

the place we yearn to be;

and then at last, at dawn

some bird begins to sing,

and I die to wake,

back where I belong.

April 10, 2011

Call them my birds of spring,

the kestrel and the meadowlark,

each reigning from its perch;

one silent and sharp,

a study in vigilance,

the other seeming heedless,

whose song rolls on without end,

but likely no less watchful;

both reading all the notes

about to burst across a field

poised to leave winter behind,

ready for the work of eternity.

April 4, 2011

I’m outside again,

after five long months,

cleaning up winter’s debris;

its memory a few patches

of elderly snow, sure to die
in the next south wind.

Daffodils and iris,

hardy early season souls,

are poking up in green poses,

and near the garage,

despite clouds, wind and sleet,

the phoebe shouts his love.