Transfigured

Days draw near
when the meadow’s laced with buttercups
and daisies nod their pretty heads
in rhythm with the wind.

May we never weary
in our delight of seasons: the changing skies;
the golden rays. O! blessèd
is The Painter’s hand

that makes the flowers bloom
and blessèd are Spring’s promises
that bear the hopes and birth the faith
of ordinary man.

Blooming Branches

Kites are flying high on the mall.
The rotunda grows even more rotund
as branches around it begin their budding.
Legislative, executive and judicial:
Seems every branch is cursed with asps.

Caligula would clap his hands
with glee at the success bought with a sense
of intense need and a proclamation of Divine Right.
And we blindly buy futures in a twisted version
of the dolce vita .

Brand new and as old as antiquity,
history is rewritten daily. The pendulum
swings, the trees bloom and man dreams.
Time cycles through good and evil, through
wealth and dearth, and through it all

there is the faith that sustains us
as Winter gives way to Spring.

Fake Snow

A pale sun on a thin frost,
Winter was weak willed this year.
More than cynical, this season
that has seen it all and descended
into entropy.

As if bored with the whole deal
and sick of its own children,
Winter shunned January,
turned its back on February,
and waits now to pounce

on March, to pinch crocus
and daffodil at the first hint
of bud.  Disgruntled with doing
the expected, breezes blew warm
when there should have been wind.

It’s all a precursor of more gray,
I have no doubt. Even so, April
will turn its face toward May
and flowers will bloom.
There is no denying Spring.

Time Is the Longest Distance…

“Parting is such sweet sorrow…”
Will wrote, and he was right.
Alas, I, too,
must take my leave but unlike R and J,
I shall return refreshed and ready to catch up .
No sluggard, I, but duty calls me to away,
no far off destination, no exotic isle,
just mundane chores demanding of attention.
O, woe is me! Prithee, fellow bloggers,
I shall return…less than a fortnight
more than a week, I think.
Too soon to tell the span so causing
of consternation, but return I shall.
On a more modern note,
as MacArthur said,
I will be back.

See you in a week or so.

The Widower’s Valentine

In vestiges of dream, you are here again
beside me on this counterpane of down.
O Love, that tyrant, Time, has lost its wings.
Ever young, you are here again to read to me
a sonnet from the Portuguese’s pen.

Your golden curls cascade as they did then,
ringlets twined and coiled escape their pins.
Rosebuds, shy but proud to be laced within
such radiant locks, glow with pleasure
at their lot.

My Valentine from heaven, may dawn be slow
in its arriving. Slumber, you will keep; this is no time
for sleeping.  The nightingale has just begun to sing.
Tomorrow, (he continued) I’ll awaken from this dream,
but for now, My Dear, you are here again.

Come morning, beside the cast off clay
where the widower had been,
there was a weightless feather
from an angel’s wing and a single
silken petal, new from a rosebud’s bloom.

 

Let Your Light Shine

For the sake of love
and love alone,
no  other aim,
agape
in its celebration,

there is a spark
that does not die
nor fade to ember,
nor rise to flame.

Such is
the gentle force within,
the peace
when war surrounds,
the hope

of human hearts,
the warmth
of each beat’s breath,
Such is the saving grace
of man.