Friends

Some are like curtains in a southern home:
        they change with every season, patterns altered by the passing of the days
Some are like walls in an old home:
        solid fixtures that never change (until a remodeling removes them entire)
Some are like revolving doors:
        they stand still as you dance in and out of their embrace time and again
Some are like stained glass windows:
        pictures painted by the light that shines through their many hued outlines
Some are like mildewed carpet:
        they are an unmovable, however unwanted fixture of your life, too costly to change
Some are like foundation walls:
        they are the firm pillars that uphold you in wind and storm and sorrow.

And every one is precious:
        they are the fixtures of these homes that give shape to our existence.

Sunrise

red sun
slowly creeping molten
over horizon’s rolling rim, pouring
light                       through ragged tears in clouds draped                              
like gray blankets            over the world; trees backlit, hills trimmed                                 with
gold—the black and gray monochrome of night flaming into greens, browns, yellows, blues, violets:
day comes sprinting into being, the tempo an accelerando toward dusk’s end and the passion of life

Precipitation

The brook leaps sparkling from the heights
        shining under spring-blue skies
                wisped with high white streaks of cloud
        cavorting through aspen, pine and meadow
                filled with song and the dance of dragonflies
        bearing winter snow from rocky peaks
                thrust starkly white toward the heavens

The river rushes sparkling in its course
        glowing under summer-blue skies
                painted with dark gray puffs of thunder
        turning through forests and earth-brown fields
                tilled and planted with apples and wheat
        carrying rain from the brinks of granite bluffs
                worn to mere jutting rounded prominences

The ocean tumbles sparkling on the shore
        glimmering under autumn-blue skies
                draped in pale sere curtains of rain
        heaving though the great expanse
                made colorful by fish and bird and mystery
        embracing sky-dropped depths from every mount
                carved to rugged muscled shoulders of the earth

a wracked, a shattered world

I gaze upon a wracked, a shattered world
        where ruin rampant runs among the lives
       of men whose burdens, labors, toils wear
       them thin and ragged, hopeless.
                                                           Glances show
       no light above, nor goal below to drive
       them onward with a sense of purpose.
                                                                    They
       (and we) do struggle through the cold, dark night
       before the long awaited eschaton.

I gaze upon a rose that drips to match
       the sodden, dreary sky, its petals now
       unfurling red as blood.
                                           The heartbeat of
       a dying world is loud indeed, more full
       of noisome spectacle and gnashing teeth
       than I could dare believe.
                                                “Not made for this!”
       it loudly cries; “A better world was I
       and better could be still,” it mournful wails.

I gaze upon the hope of all, his form
       now battered, bruised and crushed.
                                                               He hangs
       upon a twisted tree and bears the weight
       of all our human scorn.
                                            This death is death
       of death—of burdens, ruin, hopelessness.
       The earth unchained from groaning burdens sings;
       unbrokenness has broken in, has brok-
       en all despair.
                              He waits—
                                                He yearns—
                                                                     He comes!

If all my verses were complete—
      if never another poem dripped from this electronic pen
      if every drop of creativity were exhausted and
            my mind were drained of everything it had to offer
And no one read a word
And no one missed what they had not heard
Would it matter still?

I scribble for millions
I scribble for one
I scribble for three-in-one
What is my poetic destination?

If all my music came undone—
      if never another note flowed on this artificial page
      if every ounce of genius were drained away and
            my heart were wrung dry of all it had to offer
And no one ever heard
And no one missed what they had not learned
Would it matter still?

I echo for millions
I echo for one
I echo for three-in-one
Why this my musical inclination?

If all my life’s deeds faded to an end—
      if never another word poured from these effusive lips
      if every breath had fled my lungs at last and
            my soul were dried of all it had to offer
And no one ever tear’d
And no one missed him they had not neared
Would I matter still?

I live for millions
I live for one
I live for three-in-one
Where is my eternal destination?