National Poetry Month – April 11, 2019

Today, for National Poetry Month, I offer you the grace of these lines by fellow poet and friend, Lesley-Anne Evans. I hope you enjoy them as much as I do.

Lament of Water

Snow this morning
after several days of deep freeze.
Slow flakes freed from sky
lay themselves at earth’s feet:
So much emptying.
This time of year the creek

I would love to live like a river flows…

is crusted, flow invisible to passersby
and their dogs, but I hear her speak.
She will transport continents
at spring break-up, downed trees,
bloated islands of of animals;
the elders, the dying.

…carried by the surprise of its own unfolding. 

I sit in my windowed room while the sun
peels back morning, each snowflake
whispers earth as in heaven.
Each day and its relentless giving,
I do not ask yet I receive what

I do not know I need.  Such gifts

I would love to live…

of shadow and of blinding light;
how much longer, LORD,

Lines from John O’Donohue’s Unfinished Poem

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The sound of your laugh.

Happy birthday, babe.

Rob's Lit-Bits

I first posted this a few years ago. The reason I did so then is the same I do so now, to celebrate my wife’s birthday. In the digital age, discovering a person’s age is as easy as a cursor, a mouse, and a nosy desire to know something. But, in the interest of propriety, I say simply, “Happy _____ birthday, babe!”

Like thunder in rain-Rae's birthday16.jpgBabe, you still brighten the road before me…

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When, if not now?

When, if not now?

A recluse to your own life,

are you banished from your own time and space?

When should you emerge from solitary submersion

into mental goat-cheese hills,

clouds coating molasses hillsides, at night –

fallow-fogg’d and faint?

Fainting in self-imposed hunger

you wander, buckling at knees,

well-scabbed, heaven-noticed.

And for all that, so little to show.

It’s the sound of excuses low on batteries.

The oldest, leather’d tales of one made sick

on sumptuous delights of dark.

And still, all those black, moonlit hills of your desires,

shivering wistfully in an adder’s den of want.

“Do you want to be healed?”

Such a stupid question, unless you’ve seen

all this before in light-adjusted caves

of self-pity; the forlorn battle-weary sojourners

preferring to fight without armour, eyes closed.

Closed to adulations begged for, wept over, demanded, refused.

Full steam ahead on an undersized train

sliding down carefully-crafted embankments of misfortune.

Divvy out carefully those shelter-shined coins of detail,

actual currency of a life lived on purpose.

Let your body to your soul state its intentions well –

walls you painted over, once your prison –

now, just old, flayed relics

of too many days reminding you

of too many days.