Brilliant stars kiss the sky.
Fevered ocean steams.
I picture amore’s caramel eyes,
and listen for secret embrace.
Cheating dog, so long.
Velvet smoke almost gone.
Somber, I will heal, then fly.
love sinks — magnetic poetry
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Category Archives: poetry
world afire
Had we only raked the forest floors
we could have stopped the fires.
If we built a higher wall,
tear gas wouldn’t cross the border.
There is no global warming;
can’t you feel the cold rain
falling on the fallen?
Anger rakes across my senses,
fire ravages my gut.
Walls can’t contain the pain
or hold back the tears.
The earth burns with desperation
as hearts grow ever colder.
And all the while, it is snowing in Russia.
The Big Reveal
It is weeks in the making. First the design is conceived, drawn and copied for a pattern to attach to the worktable. Glass is selected by color, texture, opacity… or sometimes simply availability and affordability. The glass is cut, ground and sized until each piece fits perfectly into the pattern. Individual pieces are wrapped with leading, lead joints soldered together, then putty is worked under the lead for stability and waterproofing. Cleaning is done in place with a bristle brush and whiting powder. Then, the wait.
The putty takes three days to set. Twice daily the artisan cleans off any putty that seeps from beneath the lead. She notices where she applied too much solder. Or too little. She guiltily surveys a piece she had cut too small but used anyway, knowing she could fudge with lead or putty to hide the gap. She second-guesses her glass choices. Will the colors compliment or contrast as she intended? Will the nuances of the design come across as planned?
When the putty is set, it’s time. The artisan lifts the stained glass panel, wipes it clean and rests it gently on a windowsill. She backs away and for the first time gazes upon the completed work. The critical eye judges workmanship, mercilessly and exacting. The artistic eye must wait ‘til the critic quiets. And lastly, the cautious heart will weigh in on the worthiness of the piece. The verdict? We’ll have to wait and see.
patience takes patience
minutes take sixty seconds
waiting takes its time
“Hammer Shattering Glass Shattering Hammer” stained glass panel by Maggie C.
unplayed – magnetic poetry
I decided to experiment with magnetic poetry. Don’t know if there are any rules other than use the words/letters you draw. If so, someone can tell me.
I sing with drunk tongue,
with breast crushed by need
to share music we had
not yet played.
You sleep as time drips.
backward glance
pause in quietude
answer held in gentle mind
the question will come
Insider
Your conspiratorial wink
seeks my complicit nod.
A pact, an inside joke
among us privileged.
What’s the punch line today?
Racism? Xenophobia? Homophobia?
Today the tacit agreement ends.
I will look you in the eye – unflinchingly –
and say, “No more!”
Straight. Into. The. Mirror.
A Sketchy Story
Once upon a stormy night,
it was a dark and dreary time.
Did you hear the one about…
You’re not going to believe this rhyme.
It all begins on Halloween,
this scary tale I’ve yet to weave.
I do not know the ending yet;
it took so long, the start to leave.
I’m sure there’re bats and witch’s brew,
lightning crackling in the sky,
the mournful howls of shrouded souls,
an icy breeze when ghosts glide by.
Something frightening will occur,
a horrid nightmare come to life.
We must escape impending doom.
A curse? a ghoul? a bloodied knife?
Though terror strikes, Good will prevail.
Ghosts disappear with dawn’s first light.
We’ll be forewarned of danger still
in shadows deep on stormy nights.
And so it ends, as all tales do.
The rest is history as they say.
We all live happily ever more.
We live to fight another day.
The details of this scary tale —
as sketchy as they seem to be —
are yours to conjure in your mind
and fill the blanks in as you please.
If any moral lies herein,
I leave that point for you to hone.
The yarns I spin unravel fast.
Collect the threads and weave your own.
Old but New
I don’t know when the original hardwood flooring was covered with carpet. Times change. Tastes change. A beautiful, gleaming oak floor in the mid-fifties came – over time – to be seen as an outdated, cold, hard to maintain surface. Carpets – with so many shades and textures to choose from, so warm to the feet on cold mornings, so… modern! – were slapped down right over the top of the oak floors. Adding insult to injury, no one even bothered to use drop cloths when they spray-textured and painted the walls before laying the carpet.
Times change. Tastes change. When I discovered the oak floor beneath the tacky, cheap, outdated carpet, I was delighted! Scratches, minor water stains, tack and staple holes give it charm and character to my eye. I will not revive it to its pristine 1955 condition. I will clean it up and let it blend in with the industrial chic vibe of other rooms in the house.
Times change. Tastes change. A new homeowner will come along some day. They won’t see the hardwood floors as the treasure that I do. They’ll likely wonder why I exposed the cold, outdated eyesore of distressed wood flooring. They’ll cover it with god-only-knows what. Hopefully, as the transition from trend to trend and back again continues, the stalwart wood will at least be given the courtesy of a drop cloth. Is that too much to ask?
autumn turns to fall
transitioning to itself
changed yet unchanging
The Visit
“You’re early!” she complains.
“Better early than late, right?” I smile.
“Better early than never, I suppose.”
I’m not so sure.
Too late for never, though.
“I’ll go,” I say.
She scowls. “And come back when?”
Never say never, I’m reminded.
“Soon,” I lie.
morning stirs
The clock shows six a.m. Maybe. My eyes don’t quite focus first thing in the morning. My dog Chules has awakened me with his gentle “woof” from halfway down the hall. I don’t know how he expects me to hear such soft greetings, but I do hear them, almost every time. I rise and make my way down the hall to the front door where Chules now waits. “What kind of day do you suppose it is today?” I ask. Chules answers as usual with a generous tail wag and an expectant smile. He doesn’t prejudge days. He’s very Zen about that kind of thing.
I prop the door open with my Himalayan salt crystal. The lamp inside broke some time ago, but it’s quite heavy and makes a perfect door stop, so there it sits. Chules steps out to the porch and plops down on the cool cement. The lyrics from a Dan Fogelberg song enter my head.
Yes it’s going to be a day // There is really no way to say no // To the morning.
Chules’ eyes meet mine. Does he hear the song, too? In my imagination, I hear us both saying, “Yes.” A most hearty yes to the morning.
morning stirs awake
day unfolds to greet the sun
petals of summer
What Rhymes with Stanza? 