The Lake

THE LAKE

In autumn chill I sat at the edge of a deep blue lake.

It was placid as the moon in solitary space.

Silently as if stirred by the slightest briefest breath,

Perfect circles in a series broke the surface, moving outward.

I watched the widening whorl travel to the edge then bounce back.

Something—someone—had touched the water.

Maybe it was a bird dipping down...fish twitching its tail...

Dry leaf riding a draught making a splash landing.

When the waves had spent their energy, the lake becalmed again.

It shone purely, a polished mirror of the sky: blue to blue.

I felt the cold wet air rise but did not hear the wind swirl.

One hour lapsed, the surface blankly serene, whispering along the marge.

 

A lake in Eastern Sierra, California

Darkening Afternoons

DARKENING AFTERNOONS

I love the wooden beauty of darkening afternoons

Softly varnishing the oldness of the sky,

Weathered like the brows of studious hills.

Stillness dwells in the air like a great thinker,

Pondering forgotten equations, hidden runes.

Clouds are flecked with the fires of beaten copper,

Skies limpid with the blues of pale oceans.

Shadows weave fingers through grass looms

As fields gaze blankly at the sun.

Birds grasp at the last utterances of a prayer,

Day vanishes like a broken pot.

Dusk is redolent with the aged interiors of sleeping cabinets, richly inhabited.

Originally published in Boston Poetry Magazine (September 4, 2014)

The Malvern Hills by Ken Bushe

Prime

PRIME

Morning is a swimming pool,

Deepest blue,

Newly replenished,

Chilled overnight,

Rippling gently.

Floating water molecules

Waft fragrant.

Ice cube splashing into a glass,

I dive, do six laps,

Six laps more,

This time backstroke,

Right arm, left arm,

Gazing upward at a cloudless sky,

Protective bubble

Swatting back

Solar radiation—

Stroke, stroke, stroke—

Glide forward, turn,

Push the wall,

Exhaling underwater

Necklaces, carbonated,

Feeling flushed, exhilarated.

No one else here,

I am first one in.

Only turbulence, spume generated by

Slashing arms, windmill,

Churning legs, waterwheel.

V-shaped wake, widening,

Tracks a streamlined hull, torpedo

Guided by black tiles, laser

Aimed at white tiles, target.

Beneath the surface tumult,

Water, transparent backwards, forwards,

Tranquil as a pipe

Fuming wispy aphorisms

Or dolphins wondrously examining

Mirror images of themselves

Slightly distorted

By visual deformations,

Akin to optical effects wrought by

Heat waves rising above

Desert stretches or

Asphalt roads, disappearing.

Deeper, stiller,

Clearer, cleaner,

Keener, wiser.

Touching the wall,

I stop, pop my head

Above water,

Bobbing ball,

Dripping like a dog,

Mermaid undulating

Sine waves, low amplitude,

Alive, lightning,

Thunderously huffing,

Euphoric, inflated,

Rising, happy balloon.

Life is water—

Cold, fresh, clean.

Originally published in Thought Notebook (April 9, 2015)

Study of Young Swimmer by Toni McGreachan

Summer Solstice

SUMMER SOLSTICE

June 21, 2011

Early today, the sun leaps brilliantly over the horizon, taking a long, spellbound jump, spinning in slow motion his legs and arms, gliding, a bird of prey.

Rising light casts drawn-out shadows running up and down hills and dales. Atop a summit warming rays outspread.

Colors explode, life bursting in dread of death. Stunning dyes ink the sky, veins and washes.

Bright droplets of flowers splash across a palette of meadows. Floating trees at their base join to luminous shades.

Silver rivers transmute into gold. Forest regiments guard eyes hiding beneath shadowy green canopies, shading hands.

Fulsome clouds tumble, hay rolls in a royal blue field. The wind, freshly laving, puffs memories, ardent.

The longest day is glorious, a shining bracelet of hours—agate streaked orange and blue at dawn, dazzling quartz at noon, orange sapphire at dusk. Night fastens the end with a snap.

Originally published in New Asian Writing (May 7, 2015) at http://www.new-asian-writing.com/summer-solstice-by-gonzalinho-da-costa/

Summer Solstice Sunrise over Stonehenge (June 21, 2005) by Andrew Dunn

The Song of Creation

THE SONG OF CREATION

To Gerard Manley Hopkins

Creation sings of the glory of God.

We do not hear it but see it

In brilliant interstices

Opening and closing

Of trees waving to and fro

When the world is radiant,

In glittering leaves,

Beaming stones,

Mountain streams, flashing

Metal foil flattened

By fists, smoothed

By hands.

The blind hear the song in the trees yearning to speak.

They inhale it in the attenuated wind,

Taste it in fruits bursting with water.

Bending down to touch the earth,

They become one with the beginning of all things,

Pushing roots into the soil,

Unfolding leaves,

Joining hands with the sun and the dead

Brought back to life.

Originally published in Blue Heron Review, Issue 3 (Winter 2015)

We do not hear it but see it in brilliant interstices opening and closing...

Bread

BREAD

Hot fresh bread, breakfast time:

Fragrant, not a flower,

Warming, not a fire,

Lively, not a flame,

Soothing, not a salve,

Kindly, not a caress;

Dark honey wheat,

Black oat barley,

Sweet cinnamon raisin,

Savory apple walnut,

Ciabatta, Foccacia, Pita,

Bublik, Chapati, Pandesal—

Parmesan, Romano—two-cheese,

Sunflower, sesame, fennel—three-seed,

Every type of loaf

Bundled in brown wrapper,

Crackling in your embrace,

Steaming scented clouds,

Breathe deeply

Atop a mountain;

Billowing, fluffy blanket,

Pull it up,

Tuck it snug

Beneath your chin;

Bracing, poppy fireside,

Cross your arms,

Hold it to your heart.

Fed in deepest winter,

Bathed at height of summer,

Refreshed when day is dry,

Sheltered when life is wet,

Healed when you are pierced,

Becalmed…even after you are violently shaken,

Remade in hope,

Transformed in joy,

Nourished, uplifted…blessed:

Every good thing comes to you

As a loaf of bread.

Originally published in IthacaLit (September 27, 2014)

Every good thing comes to you as a loaf of bread.

Tag-Ulan

TAG-ULAN

Earth dwells in a tent, suffused in light weakly estranged from darkness.

The lowering sky is a mordant mangkukulam, invisible. He eyeballs anxious passersby chary of tripping bolts of black magic.

Moisture wafting from the soil lingers indefinably like fine confection melting between the teeth.

The wind rises and falls. Stillness settles into a corner, waiting, a dog curling opposite the front door.

Expectancy is a recurring dream—pregnant storm clouds, the space between breaths, promise of a child, the moment before crossing over, hope that rises to heaven.

When the rain arrives, it bursts into flames.

The spectacle is electrifying: a flash flood, a sprinter bounding forward, a dog barking excitedly.

Originally published in New Asian Writing (May 7, 2015) at http://www.new-asian-writing.com/tag-ulan-by-gonzalinho-da-costa/

The lowering sky is a mordant mangkukulam...