23 April 1616 > 23 April 2021
International Book Day.
Today we celebrate the anniversary of the deaths of three great writers: el Inca Garcilasso de la Vega (Comentarios Reales, Peru), William Shakespeare (poetry and plays, England), and Miguel de Cervantes (Don Quixote and so much more, Spain).
Our hibiscus decided to issue its first official blossom of the year, just to help us all celebrate this day.
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Fire
Fire
a double-edged sword
Fire
the beginning
and fire the end
Fire
the means of forging
the Omega and Alpha
that surround us
day by day
Fire
surrounds us
but leads us
nowhere
we must create
our own path through
Fire
to the life beyond
Fire
so many things
to save from
Fire
so many things
to be consumed by
Fire and flame
only a fiercer Fire
will free us from
will put an end to
Fire
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Driving at Night
Once upon a time,
my hair was brown and curly,
but now it’s straight and as white as
this drifting snow clogging the windshield.
I smooth down my hair with my fingers:
swollen knuckles, crooked joints.
I burn with feverish thoughts
yet cold blood shivers through my arteries.
Headlights blind me in my good eye.
The other one’s useless when I drive at night.
It’s a long time since I last saw,
let alone touched, my toes.
Putting on my socks or tying my shoelace
is a morning no-no.
Short of breath, of agility, with no ability
to climb up stairs: I stop to catch my breath,
pause, and shudder with despair.
What happened to my youth?
Where did my childhood go?
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Potholes and Portholes
My poems are drawn from my life,
not from the lives of others.
I live my words,
drawing them wriggling
through the holes
punched by others in my flesh.
Pot-holes,
portals to the underworld,
so many cars
slithering in spring’s freshet
melt of tarmac and metal flesh.
Portholes:
so many ships,
leaving port,
sailing away
into unknown seas
well beyond my ken.
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Little Boy Lost
I’ll never forget, years ago,
standing in the snow,
looking through a window,
seeing a friend’s family
gathered inside by the fire.
Shadows danced as the children
decorated their Christmas tree:
laughter and warmth and joy,
and me outside in the snowy street,
walking past, on my way home,
an only child destined
to be alone in my lonely room.
I also recall empty rooms,
cold corridors, stark loss,
and the sorrow of surviving
on my own.
So, I created my own family
and filled my mind with
boys and girls, siblings,
people I could see and touch,
a family to which I could belong.
Spotify:
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Trucks
Flocks of colored passerines flying up
and down cracked tarmac roads, this way and that.
Spring songs fill the highway’s grey-black throat
with noise and color. Songs? Coarse the engine
growl, the grinding gears, the rattle and roar
of ten-wheeler trucks, dust and stones pinging
off the windshields and hoods of passing cars.
Noisy, smelly, dusty, yet welcome spring
visitors, predicting new building sites,
foretelling fresh human nests, promising
an end to winter’s frost, snow and ice, with
the assurance of warmer weather to come,
days longer, nights shorter, holidays at hand,
and a finish to the pothole season.
Spotify:
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Spring
Slow going
this snow going,
but at least
it isn’t snowing.
Snow forecast
on the weather show,
but we all know
it cannot last,
now the equinox
is past.
With a roll of drums
Easter comes,
but friends and family
stay away.
So all alone
and safe at home
we’ll spend
our Easter day.
Everybody understands
how often we must
wash our hands.
Don’t go unmasked,
even when asked,
and all our friends
must safely stay
at least six feet away.
Comment: I just received this poem as a memory on Facebook. Interesting. I remember writing it, online, a year ago today, and what a fun time I had. Here’s the link to the video. I loved being involved in the creative experience. It was my first poetry video. I do hope you like it.
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Golden Angel
He stands beneath guardian trees,
his saffron garments glossed with gold.
Hands cupped, body bent,
he softly swells as he dips
beneath sun and rain.
He speaks to me:
wild prophet from an ancestral book
that I believed in when I was a child,
but no longer read or understand.
I try to interpret the aroma of his lips,
his slow, small growth of gesture.
His winged words are traps
tripping my tongue, clipping my wings,
preventing me from flight.
Shape-shifter, she changes before my eyes
and takes on her earthly disguise.
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A Farewell to Charms
Early tomorrow, my love, you’ll fly away.
Today, you’ll walk around the Beaver Pond
where red and yellow leaves abound. A thin grey
webbing garlands one dead tree. I’m not too fond
of tent worms. I hate them when they swing
from low branches. Give me a fresh green frond
caught by the morning sun in early spring
or else bright autumn leaves so soon to fall.
I love American Goldfinches when they sing
that last departing song. I love most of all
those occasional visitors: do you recall that bright
blue Indigo Bunting with his “I’m-a-lost-bird” call?
The hunting hawks give everyone a fright.
They perch on top of a garden tree
then step off into space to claw-first alight
on some poor songbird trilling away, quite free
from fear, his unfinished symphony of song.
It’s getting late, my love. You walk towards me
out of the woods. I’ll end this poem with a plea:
don’t forget me … and don’t stay away too long.
Spotify:
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Covid-19
In bed, you turn your back to me,
pushing me away, even in sleep.
I only seek warmth and comfort.
Blankets don’t touch the cold I feel,
deep in my body. I reach out to you,
but you’re locked in your dreams.
A grunt or two, a muffled snore, a half-
-whistling sound, sometimes, a cry.
Last night you shouted “Help!” out loud.
I hauled you back from some black pit
where sharp-clawed devils clutched you
and tried to snatch you away from me.
Today, it’s my turn to call for help.
I face a horizon filled with darkening clouds.
They refuse to go away and weigh me down.
rogermoorepoet 