She has walked these roads before,

these swollen pasturelands of life lived lush.

She still sees footprints from the last pass

through grass like cotton under calloused feet.

This time around she’ll not forget

to breathe, to sigh and, with the overflow

of air-filled moments sing the songs

even of the crows, nasty and loud, but present.

Severed, now, from her the times freshly gone

where dislocated streams interlocked their

watered journeys, cutting banks to spell

healing words, seen only from above.

The crows’ din, songs gruff, bloated and stifling

are replaced by her solitary voice,

wavering with quavers birthed in silence,

the symphony of her own breath.

Image: www.flickr.com

This is my first poem in a while. I’ve been concentrating on writing other things. However, once a poet always a poet. It was time.

Robert Alan Rife, August 21, 2013

Serial storm, these wayward winds,

perilous dives to depths unknown.

Beggar’d skies betokening calm

but not till shore is abandoned.

Cauldron of unforgiving deep,

belches up a moaning sky, deaf

to cries of drowning sinners, dark,

unstarr’d the evening’s damp despair.

Burrow down with hands, grace-giving;

pluck this heartless heart, unflinching.

Sear with love my love, unloving.

Change with yours, my life, unliving.

Settled, now, this pilgrim, wand’ring,

still before an endless highway.

Footsteps fall beside, behind me,

always leading, never pushing.

In this open field of journey,

we must, naked, find our freedom.

Drawn are we like thirsty beggars

to this cup, the drink of heaven.

Sometimes late we find our purpose,

see ever dimly God’s design.

But for mercy we might never

know the breadth of this, our comfort.

Picture: www.livingwithlibby.com

Enter now this moon,

parading past the shades

wearing only dusky intentions.

Her cloudy slip billows past her knees

and brazenly reveals her starlit muse –

gift for these words.

*

One-eyed heavenly wink,

a gesture of good-will,

brightness of day gone by,

she bares her breast

to let the night suckle its way

once more to day.

*

Her pale, pocked face has no rivals

but spills herself out as offering:

love that looks for mood,

art that looks for food,

bedsheets that turn to brood,

all for the gift of a song.

Picture: www.layoutsparks.com

What dark, forbidden thoughts

lie hidden, cringing in corners

left purposely unexplored, where only

the unbidden foes and uninvited guests

can plant their flags of remorse.

Pull back the shades but for a moment

and the nighttime pupils tear open

gasping again for shadows, but alive

once more to the potential of life-giving light.

What chaste and tender memories

are held at the bottoms of jam jars,

pie trays, rabbit cages and junk drawers.

Here, where time and dust allow

the mind to shade and dim what once

was bright, certain, immediate,

the mind can do its best work

of cinching a forever then

to a thirsty now.