Jewels in the Sky

Glistening jewels coat
the tips of trees
which light the skies
with lofty ease.
Priceless Rubies, Topaz stones,
and Mandarin Garnets
in orange tones.

Each will be sold in silent bidding
with votes harnessed
from a passing crowd
of wide, uplifted eyes
whose currency, only fitting,
is to be pleased-
sometimes out loud!

Later these gems
whose fiery flames
burned without heat
and singed none but their stems,
these dazzling comets
will fade and fall
down to earthly feet
whose toes will curl
deep into the ground
and stoke the coals
for next years round.

A Mardarin Garnet.

Places Too Close

There are places he’d rather not go,
closets where clothes are too tight,
pants with belt buckles which still latch
to the shortest length, but now
he can’t hold his breath that long
anymore. He wants to be padded with
Pillsbury dough, something to grab
when hands are available to grope
his half century folds of skin
dessicated and pinched from too much sin.
His big heart chokes the tight collar.
He feels safer in the puppet theater, where
the extra strings keep him from floating
away from so much hot air.
Watch him standing in the sun, waiting
alone for the train north, not willing
to make eye contact for long.
Smile and lift him without saying
a word.

I wrote this after seeing the movie ‘Into the Wild’ by Sean Penn. The poem is not so much about the movie as how I related to it. It’s about frustration with social artifice and the strictures of decorum, within which one wonders how much real love and spontaneous feeling is lost. It’s about feeling limited by discomfort in that system and also about wanting to just fit in and be one’s self.

True Love, the Largest Spirit

A simple poem called True Love by Ron over at WonderingSoul, illuminates the idea of Great Spirit, or God, the ultimate freedom to love perfectly, to transcend our natural human limitations. For me, all poetic inspiration arises from the openly loving attitude of this mood.

True love is
neither physical,
nor romantic.
True love is
an acceptance
of all that is,
has been,
will be and
will not be.

This is the love of God, or Great Spirit of the Universe, or Gaia, or what ever name you give to the greatest spirit in your beliefs. This is the love I aspire to feel and to give, to share and to strive for.

Noël

Happy Winter Solstice!

technorati tags- Christmas poems, Winter Solstice poems, Noel, Winter garden poems

Poseidon’s Game (poem for New Orleans)

Poseidon is the Greek god of the sea. Demeter is the goddess of agriculture. Here is a summary from Wikipedia– “Poseidon once pursued Demeter, in her archaic form as a mare-goddess. She resisted Poseidon, but she could not disguise her divinity among the horses of King Onkios. Poseidon became a stallion and covered her. Demeter was literally furious at the assault, but washed away her anger in the River Ladon.”

Poseidon came to reclaim,
to take back the land
meekly shielded by Demeter,
who deigned to presume she
could hide from him.

He ripped the tether,
unleashed the reins
of his terrible force.
The beast came to consume,
to blithely rape and fill
with its cold, slimy juice
the body of New Orleans.

Her muffled screams at first fell silent
amid the torrent of violence.
Stunned and weak, gurgling beneath
she writhed under her conquerer.
But now she cries insanely,
ripping her own flesh from its
battered bones, picking at tender wounds
with misguided rage empty of dignity.

Her bloated form, a grotesque buoy,
life raft of death, now languishes
sickly among the splintered grid.
Internal organs have bruised and burst,
arteries clog and crust, the pulse
is weak, seeking a miracle
to revive her.

What fruitless glory she has endured.
Poseidon’s thrust has vanquished her for now.
But she will heal, she will endure.
The excruciating task will occur.
Perhaps her agony will field
a new body, a new hope, a new form.
Will she tremble at the waves’ whisper?
Yes, but she will forget,
slowly she will forgive.
She will revive and regrow,
cleansed by the healing
green river Ladon.
The body is destroyed,
but the spirit will rekindle.

Meanwhile
Poseidon lies asleep, gorged
with wasted lust, dripping
blood and grime, smothering
the spoils of his conquest with rot,
oblivious of his own sodden force.

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