Surroundings

A gentle breeze thrusting small yellowed leaves
wobbling in a short parade
spinning like flat rocks
pitched across the surface of a pond

but in a lofty descent
delicate and graceful
in the briefly sustained trajectory
driven by the airy wisp
seating them sparsely
like the simultaneous landing of sky divers
in a field of grass.

Maker of Wonders

Maker of wonders
wonders
Holding the power
to stop and go
goes

Missing the mark makes mysteries
and gives rise to the birth of context
perfectly

What is perfection without contrast
to be reasonably established?
The unintentional stain
sustained without sanctification

Like all living things
it lives then dies
intermittently in troughs
throughout the frequency of existence

Yesterday's Rain

Yesterday's rain stranded shallow pools
cupped in the sandy and pebbled creek bed
tranquilly resting where the remnants of rainfall
no longer push a fluid stream beyond
what nature had strewn in its path over time.

A calm and serene offering to rooted plants
and trees bordering the narrow vein
claimed by the water lane
bound to deliver the solvent cargo
to its lowest point.

Halted in sculpted basins already carved
granting an unselfish drink on one side
nestled placidly and comfortably today.

Yesterday's rain droplets had clung to high leaves
and twinkled like stars
jostled by a mildly drifting breeze
in silence under widespread sunshine.

Abandoned by the mute swiftness of the glimmering stream
treetops swayed like cheering race fans
as the sparkling gleam of hurried ripples gleaned
over and around fallen twigs newly acquainted
with sandstone rocks of more longstanding residence.

Listening for something I yearned to hear
like unasked questions to my readily made answers

or good news.

Brightly puffed and contoured cumulus clouds moved
through a magnanimous and calmly cheerful blue sky.
A cardinal darted through it whispering good news
in my soul that I wasn't far from home.

Who? What?

My birth year 1951:
I've seen a few futures in hindsight
but never saw them coming.

My line in time
tangled with others
without ever really touching

Crooked
Crimped
Coiled

Hardly textbook straight

A pile of pickup sticks?
not a plausible configuration.
Who is to say who I am?
Once reluctant to accept face value;
now more respectfully considerate
of things as they are.

I carry chapters.
Even one volume
too pretentious to surmise

Besides
the story never ends
with my short thread
of little lines entwined,
a packaged possession
like any other living thing
coated and scattered as dust
from the wizard's thrust,

Swirling in the heat of stars.

Space Crumb

Under the dim light
of twelve stars

hundreds
of thousands
of hectares
of crusty firmament
slowly baking
in arid desolation

A mysterious sphere
without invitations

dangling in the cosmos

awaiting
the zenith of eternity

in indifference
like a giant crumb

untasted
undervalued
overlooked
insignificant

wondering
whether it will be
anointed with raining souls
spewing in the distance
from shooting stars

Fallout from Hate

Tears drip from closed eyes that shelter the soul from the sight of tragedy,
a resistance to the ugly side of truth.

The blood stained rubble is the silent witness in the telling of the unbearable events that had unfolded in this fallout of hate.

Jesus is still weeping.

Words, Ideas, and Imagination

  Although words are commonly and repeatedly used to express ideas, I wonder which precedes the other. A radio program I heard over a year ago about this established residence in my mind and occasionally becomes loosened, stirring the enigma like sediment from the bottom of moving water or objects swirled into debris by the wind. I can't recall whether mention was made of the opening sentence in the Holy Bible, but its mystical profundity endures: "In the beginning there was the word and the word was God."  It's a fascinating proposition to say the least, and reaffirms my belief that words should be used as precisely and carefully as possible.

  If words activate ideas, then what about the imagination? Is imagination a gestation of ideas?  If so, my visualization imbues spores diffused in a medium or spermatozoa racing in their trajectory, a whisking not conducive to the formulation of words.  In this frame, are words even necessary?
 Perhaps asking a musician or following lines and brush strokes on a canvas can answer that.