Thanksgiving Poem

This poem was written by my partner and lover of 9 years, Ralf. Though english is not his first language, he always had a way with words. (he is German) His spirit taught me so much about attitude and perseverance. He is an old soul. Though we are no longer together, I believe we still have a connection. I am honored and gratified to have been his lover. Thank you, Ralf. With love, David

Happy Thanksgiving to all my friends out there. I hope you have warm, smiling eyes to gaze into and laugh with as you break bread together on this most universal of holidays.

Thanksgiving is a moment to remember
How little we can do to move the stars.
All we are and have we must surrender,
Nor is Earth less inscrutable than Mars.
Knowing this, we know the need for friends
Sharing both our pleasures and our pain,
Giving, though it may not serve their ends,
In joy the love that will our love sustain.
Very much like water in a lake,
In sum we serve as mirrors to the sky.
No one alone can heaven’s picture take.
Given friends, we know the reason why.

by Ralf

power of words

After reading this poem by Antonia at Reluctant Painter, I wrote this:

the throat has no subtle strangulation
when met by rhythms such as those
beating hearts that slip off
the page into my porcelain soul

i take my leave
midst the course palpitations,
check my vigil at the door
and wisp myself away

on the words you leave me with
while going about your day
unconcerned with my fate,
my formidable challenge

Summerness: Robin Chorus at Dawn

Night brings out the muse, usually late.

Last night I went to bed early, giving in to deep relaxed fatigue, layered weights dragging me down the more I relaxed. I awoke way too early, 4:30 AM, not happy about sleepus interruptus, while ruminating mind began planning chores. NO, not now! In a rare appearance these days, my old friend spontaneity came to the rescue. “Get up” s’he said. “Go out and listen to the dawn. Follow the Robins dream. Spiral through the shift from night to day.” So, I got up an went out back to sit on the step and feel the dawn.

Sing robins, sing-
Gossip of angels,
lone voices call
across treetops
(lofty reaches)
in jazzy, lilting riffs.
Each outdoes the other-
point, counterpoint
development, refrain, repeat.
(chorus spinning)
Each answers gurgling trills
in telephonic circulation,
answers and calls,
(leave a message)
conversations which
rise in pitch
to feverish conniptions.

Sing, robins, sing-
thrilling chorus,
bid the light appear as
still air chills and flows in whispers.
The page begins to turn
(huge and gentle)
nudging oceans of molecules to dance.
Shadows barely hint as
the garden broaches the dark pitch.
Bones of structure
rise to the surface,
pale ghost forms
of architecture,
soon to be resurrected,
as night acquiesces.

Sing, robins, sing
for me, when I am gone.
Tell me how the book began
how the story will end.
Tell me why I fear to hear
what you can only sing,
a truth I will never understand.
But tell me yet, for perhaps
I can know as you know,
know in the singing.

I hear, I hear and it’s gone.

Rhythms of the Seasons

The rhythms of the season hypnotize us
as they go ’round and ’round and ’round,
faster each year as we age,
building to some distant, palpable climax
while receding from another, ancient past.

Faster they spin, compelling us to fill fleeting days
with meaningful events.
(love may deepen,
hate grow brittle,
poetry more necessary)

To and fro, light to dark, the pendulum swings
stupendously, irrevocable across the map, throbbing
in every molecule with its unabashed preponderance.

No sooner sweet Summer arrives
in her full sensual glory
and vapid dissipation,
then be the slightest incline, the longest day tipped,
we start the slow, poignant slide
to the depths of
Winter.
Thus we arrive again at this valley
of Yin,
whose darkness and gravity turns us inward
to our sweetest, softest, most delicate
center.

As if by sheer will (and hope and need)
we nudge the gyration
back toward light,
we indulge in glitter and compassion.
We reward love needed and given
with earnest countenance.
We search our souls for cheerful ways
to decorate the days.
We celebrate the counterpoints of our lives,
barely pausing to reflect
over the abyss which lies beneath
the fragile music we make.

This was one of Barbara’s favorite of my poems.

Night Flower

The pale cirrus flower glows by night
under a platinum moon. It shines
as my sleepless sighs exhale anguished air
across its feathered wings, fluttering
grief over the evaporated dream of your love.
Briefly, the ghostly bloom grows a follicle
filled with fresh pomegranate juice,
whose ripe, succulent, mouthwatering
kisses fade in dawn’s cool light.