I am a published writer and a retired musician. At present, I am a member and an on-line Forum Moderator at 'The Critical Poet'. I also author and moderate a Forum at 'The Backroom--Poet's Hangout' (branch of The Critical Poet...re: Marie e1).
Eye of Cloud
The sparrow, dead, in feathered shroud,
so stark and still, its spirit gone,
with crippled claw and eye of cloud,
had claimed its grave, green summer lawn.
So stark and still, its spirit gone,
it shimmered in the morning dew;
had claimed its grave, green summer lawn,
and left the sky to empty blue.
It shimmered in the morning dew
beside a hole dug with a spoon,
and left the sky to empty blue,
that clear and shining day in June.
The small girl knew the bird had died,
with crippled claw and eye of cloud,
now buried by a child who cried
for sparrow, dead, in feathered shroud.
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The Food
The blackened fruit,
somewhere,
in the back of the fridge,
lends its derelict aroma
to the intrepid cheese,
blue with neglect
and crumbling with age.
The eggs deceive;
hide in their ivory shells,
sulfuric and flaccid.
The milk, long curdled,
clings, yellow, to the spout
of its waxen box.
Bread sleeps in a plastic bag,
wears a fuzzy green robe
that threatens to enfold
the rack beneath its bulk.
And there, in a pretty bowl,
the unknown lingers
beneath a bubbled skin.
The food, alienated
from its purpose,
evolved in darkness
in the depths
of sanctuary.
Food does this, when neglected,
when left to its own devices,
when not needed,
when unloved.
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A Strange Rain (Ronsardian Ode)
She trembles and I tell her it's all right.
"Just the rain, Mom."
Wind rattles windows. Lightning slices night.
Soon, she will hum,
and rock herself, while clinging to my hand.
"Bind the drops," she says, "with a rubber band."
Her rain is now
twisted, somehow,
in ways I cannot understand.
I hold her and sing, "rain, rain, go away.
Sing with me, Mom."
She croons, "rain go away, another day."
Then, asks how come
the milkman no longer visits the house,
and yesterday, she thought she saw a mouse,
and she might go
to Mexico,
and where was her favorite blouse...
A medley of decades cling to a mind
wrenched from reason.
She whispers, "I like the red and white kind."
A rare season
has descended upon her, and a blight
bands the fruit of waning self, curled up tight,
in a strange rain.
Rocking again.
Trembling. Lightning slices night.
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A Trey of Blues and Reds (Rondelet stanzas)
My brother, blind,
will say he feels the cool of blues.
My brother, blind,
can taste the shades of red. His mind
rebels, remakes the ghostly hues
to suit, and black cannot confuse
my brother, blind.
The roses weep,
when summer yields to blues of frost.
The roses weep
their end of vibrant reds, and sleep
a faded death, their beauty lost
to brittle nights. Gone black and tossed,
the roses weep.
Violent skies,
thick with thunder blues, roll and seethe.
Violent skies
crush the sunset reds. The loon flies
into the gale. It cannot breathe
the black wall of wind. Its cries wreathe
violent skies.
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Last Leaf
By itself, it strokes
time, fluttering suns and moons
into short dark days.
Autumn kissed, it longs
to waltz star-breezes into
soft, pink-edged mornings.
Sad shred of summer
clings to brittle limb. The birds
avoid its last breath.
North winds howl across
its senescent face; sing its
death grip with ice-song.
As winter threatens
the once tender bough, the tree
waits for tomorrow,
not for the last leaf,
locked into a green warm past,
dancing, by itself.
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The Whisper (Triversen)
In his words there hung a whisper,
succulent and fattened
like a plum about to fall.
Then his quick and busy chatter
relieved itself with endings
and a starkly pleading gaze.
The shadowed room grew smaller,
pulling up its corners,
engorged with waning day.
In the street, below the window,
the traffic hummed and hurried
through the fully ripened moment.
Soon he would be leaving
and the silence spilled a knowing
that trickled resignation,
and when he spoke again,
the whisper fell between us
and split into good-bye.
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This Thing of Autumn
This thing of Autumn
is filled with long good-byes
to flowers, with whom I speak,
on my way to the corner store.
They're not talking much, anymore,
neither bobbing in a gentle breeze, nor
twisting to follow the sun.
The frost has iced their tenuous grips
on summer days,
somewhat like my fingertips,
sweet warmth has come undone.
Their beaten heads, bowed in disarray,
cannot respond to what I do or say,
but I stroke one or two,
and sigh the natural course of their demise.
Gone the velvet kiss to touch
and done, the glory, in grateful eyes-
so near the end.
Once, a tall one grazed the ground,
so profound its bend. I straightened
its buckled back and tucked it in
betwixt its fellows, once again,
a complete chorus of pinks
and yellows, but now it is dead.
The gardener had lopped off its head.
Betrayed by nature; murdered by a busy hand,
the deed is borne upon shrinking days
and I mourn.
Soon the others will ride the blow
of the turning seasons and tumble
to the storm.
The Earth grows fragrance-poor
and beauty-numb as flowers quickly
fade. I must accept their fates
and helplessly succumb
to this sad and long parade
of gasping, gentle beauty...
to this thing of Autumn.
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The Wicked Dreams of Henrietta Brown
Beneath the quilt of down and wool she dreams.
All through the night she travels back in time.
The guises of the day become sublime,
And float among the secrets she redeems.
Her scarlet life is hidden in the seams
Of daily teas and sipping lemon-lime,
And talk of lunch, and sons, and rising crime.
Her ninety years do not betray her schemes.
Instead of playing cards she'll reminisce
Of lovers oft reflected in her tears.
She wishes that they all were still around.
Within her soul she still can taste a kiss,
Defined in lust and nurtured through the years
In wicked dreams of Henrietta Brown.
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Quantum Thoughts
I stood on the bridge in Oliver,
and watched the lazy Okanagan,
pregnant with salmon,
strain at its grassy banks.
I thought of deaf prophetic fish
and mulled them into nuclei.
I felt like a s.i.n.g.u.l.a.r.i.t.y
and considered my reality,
weighing the question of life
and death against the logic
of riddles.
I saw the sky stretch past a mountain,
and embrace the void beyond.
It all belonged to something else.
I cherished it!
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Table of Contents
Letter to the Editor:
Cherie Staples SkyEarth1@aol.com