Rain
Insane, the rain
washing down
my window.
Insanity of raindrops
mixing, matching,
their Van Gogh
rainbow colors,
no artist’s eye
to select them,
just a false ear,
tin drum
to their sound.
They blur blossoms,
twist tree and bush,
water censers now
those branch ends
bending beneath
water’s weight.
Unseen, the island now,
nor visible the bay
beneath cloud blankets
wrapping them away.
Sun Worship
Worship the sun
as it rises over the hills
from whence cometh
its golden glory.
Trees and their forest,
forces older by far
than this Christian god,
walk in darkness
until touched by the sun.
Worship the sun ropes
that tie you to your daily work,
rejoice in your bondage,
for no man kills
to glorify the sun.
Sun, my father and my mother,
sunshine that floods my spirit
and enlightens my world,
here, before sunrise,
I raise my voice in a song
praising you, and your strength,
the life you give, the death
you will one day bring.
Thank you so much, Deborah Carr and the WFNB, for inviting me to write about the KIRA Creative Experience. I appreciate your kindness and interest. Here, for my regular blog followers, is the link to the appropriate page.
Two Dogs and a Deer
(Cherry, Hanna, Jasper, and Lucinda)
Two dogs and a deer:
the deer, heart in mouth,
bounding away from the lawn
seeking cover in the trees.
The gold dog bounding too,
a rocking-horse bounce,
from back to front, lurching,
falling behind the black dog,
the latter, smooth as a train.
The enemy having fled,
shoulder to shoulder they return,
across the green grass of the field,
the victors, side by side, panting,
sides heaving, triumphant, grinning.
What heartbreak as these memories
fade and fall behind. Long may they
linger in my dreaming mind.
Rain
Parched, the dry brown grass,
taut the earth, tighter than a drum.
Footsteps echo a rhythmic, hollow sound:
marimba music with death tones.
No joy in the barefoot beat of heel and toe.
For months now, no rain has fallen.
The fire crackle is feared in the forest.
Elsewhere, trees catch and the woodlots blaze.
What good are showers, dry thunder clouds,
building, always building, but never releasing
the surging tide that this commonwealth needs?
We yearn for a thick blanket of cloud to gift us
with the long, slow soak of an English spring.
The grass speaks out with its many tongues,
each as sharp as a blade, and calls for rain,
for liquid to pour down from the sky and end
the dryness of drought. We need to fill the wells,
to let the streams overflow with the bounty of water.
We need the green, green grass: not this baked,
bare, arid crunch and crumble of taut brown earth.
Roger
Writing in the Red Room at KIRA
I sit at my desk in the Red Room
overlooking Passamaquoddy Bay.
Minister’s Island peeps through
its bandage of low, thin mist.
Sunshine illuminates me
as, pen in hand, I write in my book.
Timeless, that photo, these words.
I will sit forever by that window,
deep in thought, writing in sunshine.
Time
Where is time going
when it overtakes me
in its speeding car
and leaves me lumbering
along life’s highway?
It’s after five to twelve
and the morning has flashed by.
The clock is about to strike,
and the afternoon draws near.
It too will vanish, a milestone,
millstone tied to day’s neck.
I remember the old days
when the big handed pointed to XI
and the small hand pointed to XII.
Now the clock is starting to strike.
I have left the last gas station way
behind me and my motor’s failing,
and my car is running out of gas.
Kingsbrae 22.4
22 June 2017
Trinity
A coming together of cultures,
these three statues, placed
equidistant, an equilateral
triangle, all things being
equal and none more equal
than others; three brothers;
mother, father, child; father,
son, and holy ghost: no women
there; perhaps three founding
cultures: English, French, and
Indigenous, in alphabetical
order; and there they stand,
face to face to face,
a triangulation, in profile,
silhouetted, sharing positive
and negative space; and, at the dead
center of their union, at the spot
where all is still and nothing moves,
a living space, that takes away
your breath when you breathe
in air and light and sun and
a renewed hope; then faith runs
tingling round your body with
joy and life and love reborn.
Kingsbrae 22.3
22 June 2017
Old Sow
The good luck ship
flies its Jolly Roger
and all is well with the world.
No pirates now
bury their treasure
on Oak Island,
nor skirt the Old Sow
as she sucks away
at the ocean depths..
Porpoise and whale
come to her feeding grounds,
milking the maelstrom
she churns up from her seas.
Warm is her welcome
to travelers brave
who test their courage
on her swirling waves.
Kingsbrae 2.1
2 June 2017
Pan Pipes
(for Carlos)
Lips form to make sounds
and the pan pipes speak
the international language
of love and lost love,
of a breeze through river reeds,
of fire on the snow high above
on Huascaran, Misti,
and wherever the pan pipes
roam, the piper will be at home,
his magic moving hearts and minds,
entering fingers that tap
and feet that move to the music’s beat,
yet beat is too harsh a word
for music that moves
like a breeze through the reeds
to pierce our souls
with its rhythmic breath
of a life now shared
with its mastery of that sacred art
older by far than other music,
save for the tapping
of stone and stick.
Zampoña andina
(para Carlos)
Los labios se comprimen
para formar sonidos
y habla la zampoña
la lengua internacional
de amor y amores perdidos,
de una brisa entre las cañas,
de fuego en las altas nieves
de Huascaran, Misti,
y dondequiera que viaje la zampoña
estará en casa el zampoñista,
su música penetrando
el corazón del oyente
haciendo bailar sus dedos
y danzar sus pies
al compás de la música,
aunque compás es una palabra
demasiado dura para describir
esta música que mueve y nos mueve
penetrando el alma
con el suspiro rítmico
de una vida ahora compartida
con su dominio de esta arte sagrada
más antigua que toda la música
salvo el batir de bastón contra piedra.
Journal: Last night, I picked Carlos up at the airport and we loaded the car. It was getting late, and between thunderstorms, water on the highway, poor visibility, the spring presence of moose on the highway, the gathering dark, and the hydroplaning that was a part of the storm, we decided to spend the night in Fredericton rather than arrive late and in the dark. My Spanish, very rusty, is improving under Carlos’s guidance. I am helping him with his English as he helps me with my Spanish.
This morning we are up early. Breakfast is ready. I will post this and then we will be on our way.
rogermoorepoet 