Something in the Air

Heiroglyphic stars
spark indecipherable messages
on a stone sky,

Ancient eyes understand
that time is tangible, O! to be young again
and not foolish,

The sapling bends with the wind,
By the time the will is strong
the song has faded,

We should be as cats,
They never keep track
of how close they are to nine,

Wisdom, I’ve heard, is whispered on the wind,
I stand bewildered as it whistles past,
mere echo to my slow ears.

Easing into a New Day

Dissolving with the darkness,
last night’s dream eludes my recall.
Was there a storm?
I have a sense of wonder
but whatever it was,
it is gone. I only hope
it was not a poem.

The trees have leafed out now.
I no longer see the town
from this hill. The sky, flushed pink
with promises of dawn,
keeps its secrets about my dream,
guarding memories of the night
as if it wrote the script.

Flute music time travels into my mind
from hinterland – maybe
from a symphony unheard on Earth.
I might not be awake yet, but if I am
the day is new enough to escape
the parameters of that proverbial box.
This waking up – it’s quite the thing!

A Daisy a Day

At a little café
on a side street
of the Pittsburgh Strip

sidewalk tables, wrought iron chairs
sprayed white with curlicues to match,
the houses, old but proud,
wore wrought iron railing
on balconies that sported
red geraniums in terracotta pots,

you bought me daisies.

We sipped lattes
and pretended it was Paris
in April.  The rainbow slicked puddle
 was the Seine
— until a taxi splashed by
and stained my dress with runoff
from Alcoa. Reality
had no respect for dreams.

Just before Dawn

Soaked in dew and moonbeams,
free from clocks
and all but gravity,
I wrap myself in the wind’s song,
drinking sweet elixir
of a new day promised.

The extravagant light of morning
edges in, turning gold to pink
as the melody
of a hermit thrush
assures me that the music
has not died.

Chokeberry and Hawthorn

Across the river
a span of rubble,
a row of cement piers
staggering to keep their feet
beneath the twisted iron
with broken will.

The art of lattice work
fallen with the tower
into the river, a water
weary of the refuse
from a dying town.
The bridge has fallen.

Just one more broken connection,
no animosity intended.
It was a job, a paying one.
Plant the charges, light the fuse
then run… Run… away
from the humiliation.

The river, sleepless,
ever winding, perhaps dreaming
of the sea.  Along its banks
Chokeberry and Hawthorn
are beginning to bloom
as the barges lumber past.

Rich Roach Inducted into the Wordflair Poets’ Hall of Fame

We are pleased to announce that the poetry of Rich Roach
is now being featured at Wordflair Community of Poets and Writers.
He was recently inducted into the Poets’ Hall of Fame.

You will find his pages at:

Rich Roach on Wordflair

Please send your own work for consideration for the Featured Poets
section.  You will find the guidelines at

You will find links to all our featured poets

Time Marches

Mid March,
summer warm, then snow,
There is something in the air.

Poems, pollen, ultimatum,
the garden waiting,
its emptiness a demand.

The heady scents of herbs,
their need for room to flower;
when planting seed

one must keep in mind
the dreams of tarragon and thyme.
In the changing light

the clock works its wonders.
I embrace it
with a sigh.