In the Shadow of Monarchs…the truth and the timing.


I once thought it would be cool
to winter in Mexico, to move
tribal toward a warmer climate,
to huddle together with myriad
cousins, but dwindling census
suggests that the time for that
has passed.

It was the shadows that turned my mind
in a different direction…nothing as astute
as Plato’s Cave, Just a vision of wings fluttering,
morphing into a hand holding a pen.  We are all
somewhat chained to a wall, like Plato’s people.
Maybe the pen is our wings and a feeble imagination
is our chain.

Maybe the metaphysics of monarchs
is the fittest reflection of truth and timing,
or maybe the first crocus born of a new spring
is just a lesson in faith and not really an intent of proof
for the poet or the purveyor of pens.  Maybe it is true
that in time all poets will shed their chains
and grow wings.


God made us in his image
and yet, somehow we stray.
That he doesn’t throw his hands up
and quit...that is a miracle.

In the kitchen and in the glen,
all is innocence.
A flower blooms and dies
and is born again.

How entirely human to think
of grafting to make a bigger bloom,
a sweeter perfume and in the thready
atmosphere of need,

to turn the task to feeding the starving.
Yes!  In the force field of the cosmos,
there is a greater God than greed.
If evil is a trait of man, so too, is good.

Both theoretical and empirical,
It is not man’s faith in God
but God’s faith in man,
that is the miracle.

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.

A Hare in My Eye

It hurts less
but still it is scratched,
this eye
that has seen too much.

Flecked with sunshine
and sorrows, lined
with lashes and more
than a hint of crow’s feet,

there is no denying
the damage done.
Massive, that machete
or maybe  the trunk

of a large tree—
branches, bird’s nest
and all.
Probably an oak,

but No,  said the doc,
It’s just a hare
(That’s what I heard.)
and all wounds heal in time.

A Poet’s Sun

A poet’s sun this morning,
this light that turns
bare trees baroque.

In rotation with the seasons,
the harvest safely in,
faith is a sure thing.

Earth wears the sun
like a hat
that says Imagine.

Some will say we’re dreamers
and maybe that is so.
I just know it’s easy

to see the world as one
in the hush of early morning
with a liturgy of sun.


with thanks to John Lennon
for his inspiring song “Imagine”

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.