September Haiku

September suns rays
slice across verdant gardens.
Cold nights chill my toes.

—

Summer emptied.
I use days up as they come.
Silk breeze on my thigh.

—

Kitchen counter full.
Fall bounty clogs big pots.
Earth oars down the clock.

—

Rake dreams with windows open.
Kaleidescope trees.
Leaves need many big bags filled.

—

Pace this day’s flight with tastes
of Summer’s ripe bounty.
Pesto’s delight greens my mouth.

—

Morning mist weighs down dawn
Between Summer and Fall.
Coffee tastes better in cold weather.

Technorati Tags: September, short poems, haiku

Desire

I am warped by desire
(yearning for love or power)

I cling to need
desire to desire
desire to feel
feel its grip
and let it go

The wind’s honesty
humbles me
(gently brushing my cheek)

The weeds grow.

Chamber of Peace

The phrase “chamber of peace” was coined by a friend, Orbella, during a discussion of methods and meditations on balance and spirit. We all need a place of safety and peace to which we can retreat, either from the world or, in some cases, from our own doubts and insecurities.

Amid the clutter of pots and pans
clanging in the kitchen, caked with dried
leftover soups and liver paté,
leaving rough, raw hands…

Amid brassy pitches
of out of tune bands clamoring
for attention, strident dissonances
shorting the circuits of all switches…

Despite snags and tears,
bleeding cuts and bruises
on body and skin from shards
of bitter thoughts and cares,

paralyzed by leaden fears, clogged
emotions stuck half way
up the pipes, trembling,
wheezing through the fog,

daring not to stare too long
at heavy, brown clouds,
daring not to covet their rain
for its fresh, cleansing songs…

Within these brambles,
these thorned villages
cramped along thin rails,
barely seen amid the shambles,

there resides a place,
cool and hidden, reposed
within the cacophony,
filled with grace.

When feelings become impermeable and stuttered
we can resort to this floating chamber,
retreat to its valleys of peace
and breathe deep, clear air, unfettered.

Signage and whistles
retreat to the distance,
snares and hissing cymbals
are barely missed.

Here the quiet music is sweet,
while vistas of a rising moon
browse over murmuring fields
singing with golden wheat.

Pastel petals of fragrant gardenias
fall from the sky, brush our cheeks,
crave the pain from it’s
wretched peaks.

Ravaged skin is smoothed with creams,
burned vision is soothed with drops
of moist, sweet oils
from the purest dreams.

If fear preys yet again
with curling shadows,
talons spread in quivering threat,
it is allowed to pass clear through us,

for we are transparent
through every cell, invisible,
quenched of thirst, unfurled
heart filled with love inherent.

Skin sheds boundaries,
wounds heal as pain dissolves.
Never tired, never trembling
we claim our inner country.

Within this purposeful place,
we find our heart’s intentions.
Cleansed, free and infinite,
we reveal Spirit’s delight.

Seasonal Poems to Warm the Soul

Happy Winter Solstice! I may not be religious in the traditional sense, but I understand and cherish the importance of the “spirit of the season”.

As many of you know, Jesus wasn’t born in December, but his birthday was placed near the pagan Roman holiday of Saturnalia by Constantine to encourage pagans to join the church. The celebration of light and rebirth appeals to all.

Over the years I’ve written various poems for the season. Some are just ruminations on the mood, some are about the solstice, but all, I think convey universal sentiments. I’ve linked to some and printed others in a list here. Enjoy.

—
Rhythms of the Seasons
—
Noël
—
Sacrificial Tree (two poems)
—
Jingle Ironies
—
A Simple Gift
—

Inspire Beauty

Beauty calls and yearns for your attention,
it gives rise and dimension to your soul,
a reflection of your truest goals.

Lest we forget, our hearts are fueled
by a love enduring beyond our lives.
And beauty is its chaperon,
a spark through the dark nights
on the long walk
to the light of the mountain top.

All we have is each other.

May the comfort of love be with you.

Torn Scraps

Torn strips of silk flutter
in a light breeze, ’cause
someone left the freezer open
while scrounging late at night
for ice cream, shuffling the Samba
in a sprouted pink Teri-Cloth robe.
Cha cha cha, the lone curled figure
danced to scraps of dreams,
skin peels, Ephedra tonics, red satin
chiffon dresses, with a black lace slip
underneath, just in case.
The papers promised fame,
tuxedoed men lined the stage,
careful not to give names. But
floodlights fizzled, headlines
blurred with spilled champagne,
scratched records became static.
Muffled jazz could almost be heard
as the cold, dry air sifted
past the smiling face glowing
in the spotlight
while ice crackled
impatiently in the background.