Moon Lover

Seeking
perfect
balance
of earth
and stars,
no desire
to be grounded
she’ld rather
be on Mars.
Yet when
the sun rises,
division
remains deep,
with the moon
as her lover,
while the rest
of us sleep.

Ten Thousand Broken Pieces

Let us know the secret
of how to solve the puzzle.
Find your broken pieces
and spread them in a circle.
Begin along the edges, and
work your way inside. A
patch of blue and orange,
becomes a sunset tide.
Rely upon your instincts
to tell you when it’s right;
when strokes of black and grey
emerge as birds in flight,
it’s time to stop arranging
the jig-saw of your soul.
Ten thousand broken pieces
at once becoming whole.

Primavera

So now we wait,
dying for a ressurection.

A blade or two of grass,
like mini telescopes peeking

above the earth that barely
survived Winter’s death.

The morning mist of anticipation.
That once frozen lake,

now rippled with reflection,
waves of purple, yellow, and green.

And still we wait,
for daffoldils to say hello.

The daring ones among
the first to be reborn.

That scent of earth,
and rain, and sun.

A subtle hint,
a mere detection

of Spring’s invitation
to every snowbird.

Come for the awakening,
the vernal celebration.

Take flight, the North
no longer sleeps.

Jacquie in Pink

She wore a pink suit
That morning in Dallas
As black and white film
Recorded the malice.

Adorned at the oath
Of a new President,
And the following day
As the casket was sent.

She gazed at the blood,
Laid the suit in a box,
Though history’s pleading
It’s imprisoned by locks

In the National Archives
For one hundred years,
Her bloody Chanel
Soaked in Camelot’s tears.

The Writer’s Trance

Drawn each day
To this crystal

Expanse,
Soothed yet again,

By a writer’s trance.
Red bird on a

Brittle branch,
Blue white snow

She does her dance.
And whispers her

Tune, in a colorless
Tree, on a cold afternoon.

Inner Speak

Have you had that
Sacred talk with yourself,

That journey that goes
To your very core?

Does the priest always
Get his answer,

Like a dove resting
On his shoulder?

Or could there be more?
Do you hear

The inner speak?
The soulful whisper

That says do it
This way, not that.

Do the stars accomodate
If we only pray?

Or is it simply a gathering,
A collective flow?

Maybe it’s just a
Prayer to oneself.

A season of silence
Of listening,

With the stillness
Of letting go.

The Yellow Rose

I wake with this knowing
From my bed as I rise,
That the world is a place
That can see without eyes.

There were cool velvet folds
Of yellow or red,
And judgement was merely
A word that I dread.

Yet American Beauties still
Win the First Prize,
If only we all could
See without eyes.

The Praying Stone

The Cape Cod Indians
Came here to pray
On a cold flat rock
Overlooking the bay.
A solid stone alter
Along Wading Place Path,
They would go there for
Comfort from a
Snow fridgid wrath,
Or the women would grieve
For their children’s ill health,
While the men prayed for
Harvest, shelter and wealth.
They prayed Mother Earth
Would provide every day.
On a cold stone alter
Up above Pleasant Bay.

Mantra

Ocean could be
Your mantra this year
Mindful and still
There’ll be no more fear,
This day and good will
No birth and no death.
Silent and still
Go to the depth.
Float with the wave
As it builds to a peak.
This place that you crave
This joy that you seek,
Is the watery stillness
You build in your heart.
Just get your feet wet,
It’s a good place to start.

For Now I Sleep

When the shadow dies
I mourn each season

the tree must endure.
As the winter sun hides,

without buds or leaves,
there is no allure.

There are no shadows
till the sun comes up.

Then they lay elongated
on snow covered gardens.

A mere reflection of
some former life,

like a silhouette
of black lace.

The barren tree cries out,
“For now I sleep.

In springtime I
will show my face.”