Ghosts of Apparent Lies

Day, brother, turns into night.

This ancient creek thickens and foams,

Flowing on among boulders of a life;

Bearing witness to places I roam.

Ghosts of apparent lies visit me almost every night;

To the point, I am unable to hide.

Friends I once had, stand no longer in light.

The past, moments in time, now pushed aside.

Once gone,
What went before me has never much been.

Rail yard whistles blow.

Yet, I am deaf once they go.

Time is a faith as good as dumb sin.

Who made up the plot which haunts me?

In January, palms and thighs were mellow,

Followed by kisses, colder than December snow.

Coming Home

Oh, daughter of green crest and rising mist,

Let there be one with whom I share this kiss.

For, with the marking of time at season’s end,

There is little fight left in my soul to defend.

On shore wedged between river and sea,

I spy the smooth outline there waiting for me.

Oil lanterns blush echoes off waves,

As my rising chest heaves like the ship’s sodden staves.

Look there as we round the spithead and quay,

My eyes lock to the one who is there but for me.

Dimmed lights of Warfleet, Southtown, and above,

Cast a glow of devotion on the one that I love.

The Wisest Run

The wisest run is the way of error.

For with the pale view of the waning moon,

My tidy path through time is quenched too soon.

Passing clouds bid no study of my fear.

Wishing so hard to find a second peer,

I occupy a place of confusion.

This maze, but a stage to an empty room

Where I, the veiled actor, stifles a tear.

Take me home now, having traveled the night.

From unknown lands where unknown ways hold fast,

I sail this treacherous crossing with calm.

Faith, my tiller, gains hold of reason’s sight.

Chance tenders to season the life’s compass;

And fate, the vivid artwork, is my balm.

Ode to Hallertauer*

I went to deliberate at the green alter.

I found you there.

I wanted to find you there.

I appreciate the effort it took for you to come.

I could have easily taken a wrong turn along the way.

You struggled to escape the bitter soil.

You might not have shown at all.

Silence and slow time brought us together.

Tending a garden compels;

Compels us to discover passionate surprises.

When two forces collide,

There is attraction, repulsion,

Or something in between.

Hidden fruit has the most meaning.

* Hallertauer, a noble hop variety, grown principally in the the Hallertau section of Bavaria, is known for its earthy floral aroma, with a little spice. More energy is spent trying to grow this variety than any other hop. To get your hands on a true Hallertau is a challenge.

The Space Left Behind

BWI

July 25, 2010

I am devoted to solving puzzles with some of the pieces missing.

It is not like making chicken tikka without the chicken,

Nor linguine alla Bolgnese without fresh semolina dough.

It is more like sautéing pignoli in extra-virgin olive oil,

Without fresh oregano,

Or sharing coffee and a golden croissant without the dollop of crème fraiche.

Instead resorting to cream, clotted or otherwise.

Missing parts are a fact of this life today, and life always.

I am in the airport, now.

Missed flights, missed phone calls, missed appointments,

Missed relatives, missed opportunities,

Missed signals, missteps, missed places in line.

A gangling cluster of men in fatigues, joking and laughing,

About to be deployed to a war a half-world away,

Wondering, in the recesses of their minds,

Who among them will go missing, and when.

The Crusader, returning from Asia Minor

To his cold sod home in northern England,

Missing his left eye, which he left on a field of battle

Outside what we call Constantinople.

His submissive wife, missing both her man, who left her 6 years ago,

As well as missing her lover of 6 years,

The grist miller of the Saxon village,

Who gave her the freshest grain when she drew her Sunday water near the mill.

He himself missing 2 fingers on his non-dominant hand, lost when his heavy woolen coat

Caught the leather strapping of his draft horse on a cold night in England’s November.

And his dog, missing her back leg when his heavy, slow wagon slipped its wooden chock

Rolling down the nearly level but slightly sloping rough cobble path to the sod house.

What existence there is, we fill,

With downy feathers of measures and dealings,

To occupy the space left behind.

Recess

Hanover Thunder

July 21, 2010

Harness, so heavy on my neck;

That glare of light,

Wrongly bestows any sense of freedom.

Bareness, so empty is my cup.

That drop of rain,

Falsely slakes my thirst.

If not for unfinished business here,

Could I turn myself around?

In a world lit only by fire now,

Humanity scarcely makes a sound.

The words are no longer recognizable.

The purpose, no longer plausible.

The faces, cold and all alone;

This new and tranquil situation.

I was never good at interpreting dreams,

But a voice shares a part of another phase.

Between drops of rain weave the soft seams.

The garment makes sense now, the cloak of repose.

Fireflies Shining

Windham, VT

July 10, 2010

If light can somehow warm the sand,

Why is it so hard to penetrate

The layer of the tissue underlying?

If kinsman follow a different path,

Why is it so effortless

To replicate the myths that should be dying?

“I only follow orders,” she said,

Above the anguished cries;

Light multiplied like fireflies shining.

The truth,

The truth does hurt.

It injures like a thousand darts,

Multiplied into a million points of light.

It can cut you like a saber,

Clear cuts the forest down;

Indiscriminate action on the pasture.

But when you reach the underside,

Down to the lower ground,

The air is cold and still within the rafter.

It is at that point, for some,

Creation begins again.

This launching of the light produces shaking.

From within and from without

Fractures form and disappear.

Those million points of light begin breaking.

That light begins escaping;

That light begins escaping.