Breathe
Nostrils flare in anticipation
as earthy caramel smells sift
past heady cavities, past
gates which open up to lift
eyeballs and ear tips tingly,
chilly red and awake. Brain
swoons soft by the glow
of fresh air flow, rushing in and down,
as chest and rib cage expand out,
extrude on an excursion to full balloon.
Neck, spine and cartilage joints gather
to allow room. Liquid xylophone bones
bloom as body soaks in tipsy
nourishing oxygen lessons,
rush of ancient, instinctive motions
learned, zillions of times churned,
practiced measures, yet new and vital
with each sumptuous breath.
Now exhale slow, soft thoughts as
your spine elongates toward the sky.
Breathe. Repeat.
Through the Alexander Technique, I’ve learned, again, how to breathe, to really breathe, without tension, without clenched neck, stressed chest or anxious eyes. Letting my body breathe as it has learned for millions of years, is like being reborn with each breath.
Poem for Tim
I love you
more than I can stand,
less than I need.
Where is the bed,
the sweet sheets
to hide our shame
and our ineptitude?
Are the stars enough,
the milky blanket
which shields us nightly?
I am numb, paralyzed
until you touch me.
Kiss me,
Unleash the flood.
let me pour
over you,
through you
into you.
Tell Tell, These Bells
Tell tell, these bells ring in clamorous mimes,
golden light ripening dusk’s rhymes.
Their wavy peals knock senseless all will
with intoxicating smells. Sweet frilly trills of
velvet curl ’round minds weak thoughts.
Trumpets blare orange, their mute shots
grip deeply, but mildly, spreading moments apart.
Move not a muscle! You only think you start.
Alien udders, teats, voluptuous, alluring
spew marvelous gas, earthward procuring.
Honey, clover, sweet oil scented plasma
fumes night’s clicking air with hypnotic miasma.
Take their milk, succor its careless troth
of sun, summer’s blare distilled for the moth
whose wings, hummingbird style, blur eerily
as it darts near these towering tubes, haunting warily.
These chants of vertical cornos, aiming skyward ho
blast off, pushing earth and you, flyward, singing so.
These cantalope colored carillons urge time away
to let your mind wander, let love to love stray.
The grand, momentous, earthward hanging trumpets of Brugmansia are blooming ecstatically and prolifically on an eight foot potted plant I have in my back yard. There are now 26 huge flowers flopping carelessly down from the tree like form. (which started as a 1 foot stump in June) This nightshade family plant is also related to Datura, whose up facing trumpets carry hallucinogenic oils, giving them mystical powers over human minds.
Technorati tags- poems, poetry, Brugmansia, flowers
Another Year
This poem was written by my grandfather on my father’s side, the Welsh side. He was a coal miner in Wales until the age of 21, when he asked his beloved to marry him, then shipped off to the land of opportunity. The year was 1921.
He forged an impressive career in the US, working his way up the ranks of a fairly large shipping business in Philadelphia. He eventually became chief engineer. He was a wizard at building things. He often made toys for me and my sister. During the last decade of his life, he was king of the retirement community’s workshop; he had to instruct others in the use of the lathe, a complex and delicate wood cutting instrument. I still have numerous finely lathed lamps around my house.
His charming Welsh accent never left him. He always had a smile on his face and a joke to tell. I don’t know now many times he asked me “So, are you going to become a genius… (which he pronounced geniASS with emphasis on the Ass!)”
He sang in choirs all through his life. He is the reason my mother was able to continue her musical career after marrying my father. He is one of the reasons, indirectly, why I am a musician, along with my sister.
He often wrote beautiful, poem like notes to us. This poem was probably written in the early 1980’s. He was a gentle, upstanding American citizen. He died in 1985.
Another year has reached an end.
‘Tis Christmas time in gray December
With thoughts of giving, as we spend,
of bad times past we rare remember.
Throughout the world a spell is cast
And thoughts of love and peace takes hold.
As we hear again as in the the past
The greatest story ever told.
True, greed and hate will still abound.
In hardened hearts who have no creed.
They specialize the year around
Using God to state their greed.
But thanks to Him, a son was born,
And Father, son and Holy Ghost,
Though many laugh and many scorn
The spirit of God is worth the most.
The atom bomb, the power of man
To most of us, has caused much fear.
These threats of hate, since they began
Have plagued us all the year.
But bombs and threats have gone to pot.
The day of days is here again.
When the power of man is soon forgot
And the King of Kings, once more will reign.
The yearly log will close with cheer,
Another chapter in life’s great tome.
a merry Christmas and a Happy New Year
I hope you have one in your home.