The Black Pony

 [Poetry], Sonnets, The Timid Leaper  Comments Off on The Black Pony
Aug 312011

A pony came whose coat was black as pitch,
Whose blood was broody as water in a ditch.
Her eyes were saucers of red command,
Her teeth grew square on the taste of hands.
Wildflowers grew more wild at her passing scent;
Like nerves through skin she raced where she went.
There was more than strangeness in what made her so.
There was more of night in her hooves than men know.
Proud, unobeying breed of tameless hills,
Storm of strength with a godless guideless will.
What light burned behind her being may 
Not have been heaven sent, but burned to stay.
An inner star served as her only lamp:
None took her, none kept her, none triumphed. 

When a wandering impulse from Heaven

 [Poetry], Nobody Poems  Comments Off on When a wandering impulse from Heaven
Aug 282011
When a wandering impulse from heaven
Visits the daily mind of man, lending
Some alien hatchling who eyes up the sun,
Our faithfulness is born in ignorance.
A wetted shadow robs us of rest,
Knowing neither the mystery of birth
Nor the disappearing gulf into which we're poured.
Our dying height is but the eagle's nest.

Round landscapes of strangers

 [Poetry], Nobody Poems  Comments Off on Round landscapes of strangers
Aug 282011
Pinned to minutes and the clock gone mad,
Round and round its stranger's face,
Round the hours sane as grace,
Round landscapes of strangers,
I go ghosted and gone in the flying dark
And this strangeness has no end.
I'd be lost if I could be found,
If found unlost at last I'd nail the heart
Home with the hammer of the soul.
But no nail shines, no hammer moves,
No home comes kissing from a cloud.
Strip the gilding from the stars,
Let hands tear down the dark dim griefs
That moored the heaven-faring lights;
Let hands build chapels as they move,
Wanderers wide round stranger and sky
In this strangeness that has no end.
Now I wander through cool body's shroud
Distant as touch in a statue's hand
A blownback bit without sail or keel;
No nail glows, no hammer moves.
Hands were made to fashion as they feel.


I sing of him whose heart had hung

 [Poetry], The Departed Friend  Comments Off on I sing of him whose heart had hung
Aug 212011
I sing of him whose heart had hung
	 Above all struggle or wonder
	 Of our broken woes. Far oh far
Beyond our little lays he'd sung.

Yet here's no death, no reason, and
	 No loss. No loss? No loss but less
	 Of friendship than I'd lief confess,
A faded castle, fallen sand

Built up upon imperfect hope
	 Toward another sky. Lost, the dream;
	 Lost the meaning once deemed more firm,
The promise more than swami's rope.

We'd had heaven's ascent held fast:
	 What we'd reared in reckless dawn
	 As though God's own brave secret shown,
Looms a gibbet now dawn is past

And sunless exile welcomes me.

But, yet, I’ve reconciled such loss

 [Poetry], The Departed Friend  Comments Off on But, yet, I’ve reconciled such loss
Aug 212011
But, yet, I've reconciled such loss,
	 Made grief my dish and my dessert,
	 And lived to love again and cry hurt,
Heedless of my passive loss.

The hearse triumphal in the rain
	 And heaven all one weltered bruise
	 That threatens tears, nor offers dews,
Takes hope from throats, gives hymns of pain.

The author's pen cannot note the deed
	 That seared the author into ash;
	 He only sings how feels the lash:
The sting, the wet, the heat, the need.