THE SILENT POEM

 

In the beginning it must have been

that the Neanderthal

emerged from his cave

early one day

into a cold and ruthless world

 

and noticed for the first time

sun’s reflection glistening

upon lake serenity

between twin peaks

of a snow covered summit.

 

And speechless

as he might have been

for images never seen,

he fell to his knees,

stared mutely,

 

unable to excise

the swell in his soul,

and realized

each morning thereafter

would speak differently.

 

THIEF

 

Two days ago I dreamt that

the sun caught me stealing light

to illuminate a poem,

 

demanded restitution,

then reported me to Mother Nature

who posted my likeness about the land.

 

Soon, the ocean, forest, birds, flowers, et. al.

filed suit for substantial abuse

and complacent philandering without permission.

 

I pleaded guilty;

admitted taking breath from wind

for deliverance,

 

marshmallows from the sky to sweeten song,

and rage from the ocean

to instill a sense of urgency.

 

Convicted and confined to a windowless room,

no writing, visitation

or glimpses of stolen sights,

 

I was sentenced to imagine beauty

without embezzlement

and the wholesale exploitation of words.

 

DIVERSION

 

He lies awake

during the small hours of quiet

after midnight beyond disturbing dreams

and focuses upon

the husky rhythmic patterns of breath

which sustain her

in stark contrast

to the stillness of her soul

reflected on her face.

He wonders,

after sharing years of secure abandon,

about the first day he enters

this ritual of repose alone

should she render

to permanent slumber before him,

and realizes his ordinarily vivid imagination

dares not trespass

upon unfathomable ground.

Yet, he persists conjecture,

still unable to complete the thought

and as unnerving sensations invade his psyche,

he rises to write these lines

in hopeful diversion

to an inevitable confrontation

from his perspective or hers.

 

SEAMSTRESS

 

Having mended

delicate strands of loneliness

tangling my heart,

she kneels in prayer

upon the floor

with clusters of pins on her lips

ready to bond a cloth anatomy.

Hemming, cutting

and matching thread,

her needle attaches

bloodless seams in arcing lines

to invigorate a listless torso

with warmth.

Still,  I dream of her

completely unwoven.

 

WHEN NIGHT NO LONGER ENTICES SLEEP

 

The old man has bad dreams,

he sleeps so little.

Up from bed

he walks on bare feet

into the darkness

and leans, from memory,

on the furniture,

 

his heartbeat pulsates the room.

The window facing the street

is a blackboard,

the old man

squints for chalk lines

which delineate being

from being no more.

 

A rush of apprehension chills him

yet he continues

toward the bathroom

for relief

and another glass of water.

Standing silently at the threshold

he listens for raindrops,

 

mice in the walls,

or a passing car,

but hears only the raspy breath

of lengthening nights

and the footsteps

of dead relatives

shuffling in the kitchen.

 

THE BLIND POET

 

He is the blind poet,

painter of colorful phrases

and flowering images

which describe

the landscape of his soul

and the soul of man,

his mind’s eye,

a canvas to pictures

unmitigated by sight,

unseen by others,

an eye which constructs sounds

into visions,

into a language

built from dreams,

enriched with emotion

and gesture

to depict humanity,

inhumanity,

profound expressions,

unique impressions,

which challenge perceptions

of light.