A Voice for Small Victories

If I write only what I know
I will 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 milieu.  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.

Gremlin on the Loose

There is a culprit
on the loose;
it plays hide and seek
with me.
I think it is a gremlin,
though much too small to see.

It hid one
of my pair of shoes
and ate a single sock,
then stole pieces of my silver set
and turned my bread
to rock.

It burned my candle
at both ends
and set my hair aflame.
I am really getting tired
of these never-ending
games.

It climbed
into my closet,
I guess to take a rest,
I cannot begin
to tell you,  oh my,
there’s such a mess.

Now that it’s time
for company,
he’s nowhere to be
seen.  I bet
that little imp will try
to blame it all on me.

Stay

If we could say the word ‘Stay’
and make it happen, I fear
the scent of magnolias might become
cloying; the red, red rose might overtake
our vision.

O! Treasure the momentary, the brief,
the beautiful. Savor the aroma,
the color of clover, the taste
of new peaches ripe from the tree,
the sweetness.

These moments are just hints of forever,
a questing for paradise. Such rapture
too pure for mere mortal, too fragile
to endure but the power of faith
will sustain us

‘til we journey away to that place
where perfection blooms eternal,
there on that beautiful shore.

The Poem as Balm

we tumble and spin
caught in the wind
jet streams
and clothes dryers
fabric softeners
slate grey debris
fascination with friction
and static electricity
the planets are turning
soaking up sun
with a yearning
we choose
between jumping
and burning
think of poetry
as water
and net