Weather Report

Judging by the wind
it must be a wicked storm;
shadows dance with trees bending low
to kiss the ground
or in deference to the missing sun,
I do not know.

A light flittered by the window,
perhaps a broken star,
the storm might be really mild
where we are and raging
worse in heaven.
I do not know.

Five warm days in a row
in January; that is gift
enough. I’ve seen colder days
in April, but now tonight
there might be snow.
I do not know.

A Voice for Small Victories

If I write only what I know
I’ll save my ink for autumn,
No longer am I summer’s child,

Spring,  I welcome it,
but only as a spectator,
I watch it and smile fondly
for I have been there.

Winter is a concept
I’m not yet ready
to embrace.

September through November
is my intimacy, Early on
the flowers still in bloom,
and at the end, snowflakes are falling.

Bless these things
 that call my pen to action,
but what about this hunger
to make peace more
than mere abstraction?

Is it poverty of language
or fault of culture that leaves me
 searching for the perfect elocution
of my dreams?

 Look past these words and imagine
beyond the fields of blood,
past all occluded vision
past the generals’ perverted missions

and see the peace
that can exist, that must exist,
first in the minds of poets
then flowing from their pens.

Imagine the constancy of water
changing rock  and celebrate quietly
these small and deathless victories
that lead to peace.

A Warm Day in January

In a slow game of hide and seek,
The wind, turned gentle breeze,
peeks its head into every crevice,
whispers along the river bank
and ruffles the boughs of pines
like a grandfather’s hand
ruffling his grandson’s hair.

Here, there, then gone so quietly
it is hard to believe it’s not a dream,
That playful wind must be part imp,
Warm as the noonday sun, it touches
the skin in a laughing caress,
then skitters along the garden hedge,
edging the boxwood with rippled stems,

and I, feeling wild as a new spring colt,
try to chase it down, but alas, I can
only see where it’s been
and by the time I get there it is gone.
As if making sure I won’t lose track,
it circles back and whispers,
“Catch me if you can.”

For the poets who ply their pen for peace

Gentle poet, purveyor of peace,
what sorrows slip unnoticed
by crass crowds; what thirst
thrives unquenched within your soul?
What dreams lie quietly but
will not die? Your page is dressed
with tranquil metaphor, with grandeur
of the bards of old,
while I, mere mortal with a love of word
drink of your wine as warrior
takes to sword, like seedling set
where soon a flower grows,
or a single drop of dew
seeks out its rose.

Moonbeams on Snow

No witness
to this waltzing with the moon.
The stars in heaven are quiet tonight,
sleep spangled in their eyes.

Snow swept the fields
with a natural rhythm
             not yet named,

just a gentle perfection
humming in God’s head
                 like Creation
    before He made man.