Bombs Bursting in Air

The windows shatter,
Shards of yesterday spill out
like pieces of a puzzle
jumbled and mismatched,

Fingers bleed
from trying to set the picture straight;
splattered fragments
hold visions of tomorrow.

I beg for answers
but prophets avoiding my eyes
stroke their scraggly beards
with bony fingers

and offer wise toned murmurings,
something about this being a season of paradox.
We wear the soothsayers’ doom
like a ragged blanket.

Too far removed from its time,
we speak of war as if it were the answer.
The keeper of truth is history;
it must be tired of the repetition.

3:00 a.m.

The chimes are silent,
Beams break and spark
across abalone and glass.
Somewhere the sea strews bits
like these up on the shore,
whispers, hums a moving tune.

Here, there is no song.
There is no wind.
Happy hour has come and gone.
We are entombed in our own truths.

Before birds’ whistles burst again
across the dawn and this perfect silence
is broken, turn your face to the moon
and pillow your head
with dreams.

Rumors of Light

Moonbeams spill over the lawn
Hornets are sleeping
Bare limbs in the orchard
Are keeping their promises hidden

An old owl is sharing his wisdom
The creatures of the forest understand
But I am just a mere human
Their secrets elude me

Still, I am soothed
Morning’s light is a whisper
Too distant to comprehend
This night is made for dreaming.

Pieces of Dream

moonlight lacing the pines
magnolia branch heavy with bloom
scenting the dew

ten million stars afloat on the pond
where an ancient stone wall
falls into moss

the whisper of a heart shaped leaf
skittering in soft breeze
like a page turned by a gentle hand

an owl call from high up in the limbs
the sound of an old song
tracing its way through the mind

let me linger here
in the bliss of such peace,
in the gratitude of being

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.