Saturday, July 30, 2011

Into the Silence

Into the silence goes earth
the face of the mother
 who created a home for time.

We appear, disappear,
 a tear fallen from her eye.


Tuesday, July 26, 2011

Trading Shadows With The Wind

sitting bodies shaded beneath the oak
wind is blowing leaves are falling
changing the shape of oak's shadow
upon the earth

rising arms lifted we catch the leaves
knowing for each leaf that falls
a shadow disappears
from the earth

spinning arms twirling we toss the leaves to the wind
knowing it is not the wind
that caused the leaves
to fall to earth

standing arms emptied beneath the oak
sun is setting day is ending
changing the length of oak's shadow
upon the earth

stepping arms lowered into the sun
knowing if we stand rooted
by the end of day
our own shadow will disappear
from the earth

running arms lifted we join the wind
knowing it is not the sun
that leaves behind
a trail of shadows
across the earth

Thursday, July 21, 2011

Triple Eyed Face

Give it a face. Whose face? Who amongst us when they first awakened were, of all things, so enraptured by their own earthly form they exalted their existence with incantations of superiority thereby evoking overtly inferior behavior towards everything not bearing their visage, that awful face they struck upon the dawn? 

Give it a body. Whose body? Whose rapacious havoc is awarded reason by those who seclude themselves within the oblivion of their own sanctified logic? Does anyone really think the intellect can endure those who ravage this body, this earth, this nature? 

Give it hands, if you dare.

Then, when this is done, give it a name.

Sunday, July 3, 2011

After We're Gone

Sometime, when the snow has melted
and the bare roots of the tree
show dark against the dry dead grass...
sometime, when the first flower 
crops on a green stem...
that time will open an iron gateway
in the darkened stone wall
black with mold and dead ivy.

Sometime, when the yellow chrysanthemum 
grows again in the sunlight beside the walkway
and the cat struts along the ridgepole of the roof,
that time will tell a riddle about a wall
of one thousand stories
held together with mud and gravel
and the roots of ivy, ferns and moss.

A wall that fences off nothing, stands there
in the middle of a field without reason, an insane wall 
balancing a roof above a gate on two tall pillars
cut each from a single stone, a hollow roof
where swallows nest in April.