After the Harvest

In spring, buried seeds sprout

in time to grow and bear

fruit and flower.

Arc of light widens horizons as

earth weaves its tapestry of days

and nights around our star.

Light rises ever higher

till all is crescendo, abundant, wild,

and somehow overgrown.

In time, sun and light

fade to seek another angle.

Decay sets in with surety.

Seed husks and weed-clotted soil

dry to be gathered.

It will rise in time

but it must die 

to silt in,
adding to life.

Darkness and cold come, and

the days lack the warming promise 

of spring’s sun-kissed cool.

Back then we knew it 

illuminated the path ahead.

We may return in time again

but not before we discard and

welcome the decay to cultivate

renewed soil from the harvest.

The Seeds of Grievance

Bitter seeds appear in the spring soil:

The askew look, the late arrival,

Or the icy response to a question.

You allow them to germinate.

Ignored, they yield more seeds
That scatter in the the wind.

Days, weeks, years pile up.

Kids, dogs, bills, jobs, car repairs,

Bathroom renovations silt in.

The weeds keep taking root,

Birds come, eat the seeds, fly away,

Shit them out around the yard.

Soon, weeds poke up everywhere,

Choking the flower beds,

Denying their inherent elegance.

No need to pull and cultivate.

You have too much pride and hurt

To do that — until one day everywhere

Flourish weeds, weeds, weeds!

And the flower beds vanish, memories

Lost under Time’s soil, forever.

This Poem Sucks

I know, I know,

The title gives it away,

But I felt like writing it anyway.

It is just that I like to type sometimes

And forget about the internal rhymes,

Or the meaning of the words,

Or the futile stabs at the ineffable.

Forget about all that,

And just let me write

A poem that sucks.

Let me simply add adverbs

And adjectives willy-nilly,

And abandon the grounded nouns

And verbs with verve that vivify.

It's hot outside. It's summertime.

Let it suck, and suck badly, and let me

Cop out and see what happens.

Let me lower my standards,

Not that I had any to begin with.

Blah, blah, blah.

This poem really, really sucks.

And here’s the three-line kicker 

(which in and of itself also sucks):

I enjoyed writing this poem.

Dead Brother in a Dream

You visited me again last night

In a dream — still suffering and dying,
But not yet gone, the way it always feels.

You told me how Jesus himself

Had pressed his body to your
Chest and whispered in you ear:

“Kindness, love, and understanding are

The highest forms of human consciousness.”

I knew precisely what you meant.

When I reached out to hug you,

It was like air grasping at air: You were there

And you were gone, the way it always feels.

Isle to Isle

The best of us comes in the morning:

Fresh and awake, everything new,

Blessed, we head into the day.

Sun and coffee. God, give us a kiss.

Turn the wheel one more time,

Make plans, and hope for the best.

Three deer stand in the meadow below.

Dew clings to their hooves and tails flit.

They scatter at the first negative charge.

I have not spent much time in this part

Of myself, buried under so much rubble,

Beneath tumbled skyscrapers, silting in.

We head to an island, beyond ourselves,

And yet somehow our own. The painted

Green of mind and spirit mimics the trees.

I cannot count the times and passages,

Dreamt up in some bigger dream itself,

Out of earlier selves and people now gone.

Evergreen mind, come back to us in 

The eternal, tumbling, June evening air.

Fill my brimming heart about to break.

Riverhearts

I see it as a river,

flowing to the sea.

Eddies and currents whorl,

Easing us along our way.

Stir in the tawny, the green,
The birdsong and salt air,

Twirl the whirlpools to reveal
 Unexpected magnitudes below.

If I know just one thing it is this:
The river moves and rises in me.

These colors and feelings
Swirl in my world.

Join me on the river,

alongside me, in its flow.

Let it carry us until one day 

We will kiss and embrace the sea.

Dark Below, Light Above

I
We race through cloud-enshrouded streets,
Caught at stop lights, ensnared by ticking clocks,
Rushed evening meals, and late arrivals.
He eats alone, sour sustenance, the family no more.
The rains. Days of rain. Weeks of rain.
Endless drops from clouds, soaking, unabsorbed,
Muddying the waters, sending rivulets through the garden,
Sweeping away last autumn's dead flowers
Down the driveway into the gaps of the waffle-covered
Storm drain that spills into the sea,
To be eaten by a crab who discards a starfish
And then is consumed by a seagull
When the waves draw back.

II
We know it exists above that gray ceiling,
Intuitively know, if we look but do not think:
An eternal sunny day without horizon,
As important in the loftiness of air as within
The soft, subtle chambers of our tender hearts.
Let the blue find its ways into its darker regions
To unburden us, unchain us.
What could matter more?
We should feel that it shines always up there,
Even on this dark day, an enduring and enchanting blue.
And yet we get caught up in the mind's indifference,
The incessant back and forth, the ups and downs,
Missing the moment when the sun splays the clouds.