The Wind Trees Keep

 [Poetry], Sonnets, The Timid Leaper  Comments Off on The Wind Trees Keep
Aug 312011

Trees that have it in them to be a wood
Gather dark thoughts where bare hilltop stood.
Branch to branch entreats, and root goes out to root
Entangling dirt with movement deliberate
As worms, and mix their living sinews
With cold dead earth, its coldness to renew
And above the burning hilltop bring
A shadowy wing never alighting.
Starless night hovers where noon once reigned
And exiles grass, and laughing feet detains
With extricating minuets of wait
And then pass on,-- a guardless garden gate
Forever shuddering in the wind trees keep,
Murmuring night-long while the world's asleep.

Something Put

 [Poetry], Sonnets, The Timid Leaper  Comments Off on Something Put
Aug 312011

Like the flower near at hand I grow
Upwards by light into all I know;
Buried in ignorant dirt by a downward thumb
I bend dumb beneath rain into what may come.
Like a flower in summer now I grow tall,
Concentrate a seed out of all I've been,
Put half my something into that seed to fall,
Drop it unseen on wide ground, and then
Name that something put my all.
Is that something put experience gathered in?
Or is ignorance all when any all begins?
My ignorance decides me-- I cannot tell
What seed, in growing there, may yet become
Besides new ignorance beneath the sun.

The Poverty of Motherhood

 [Poetry], Burning Byzantium  Comments Off on The Poverty of Motherhood
Aug 272011

Raised from the proveless dust
Like a shrouded bird into the sight
And set tumbling with the rest,
I daily give wet suck to one
That is a barbing brat
Tangled in my skirts;

I'll not bother to raise him right
Lost in the indifferent dust
Under sky as bruised as that
Tumultuous spot that got him;
But I daily give him suck
Because he's the nearer dirt.

To rob a grave not yet stuffed

 [Poetry], The Departed Friend  Comments Off on To rob a grave not yet stuffed
Aug 212011
To rob a grave not yet stuffed
	 With friendship, only full of woe
	 For one no longer friend or foe
Or anything, though breath still puffs

And somewhere past horizons dim
	 He lives on like a mute reproach
	 In caustic quiet, silently loath
To burst with bounty I need from him.

Unanswering wall, unhuman hate
	 --Or so I paint him, as I must,
	 Who have no knowing from old trust,
As though Christ transfigured my Greek fate.

I stand before the empty hole
	 I lay myself within the dirt
	 I say a prayer for my hurt
To maggots, and my breath is stale.

If I were all of misery made
	 And could confound my final hour
	 With a tear, then no more power
Would he have than a shade.

Instead there's lodged the sovereign sting
	 Of hope betrayed, hope that will not
	 Die, though hope's death and gory rot
Would stop the hole of my being.