Melancholy

MELANCHOLY

The words of a rainy day

Drift incessantly, sighing.

Clouds wander about, homeless.

Soughing water vanishes.

The earth melts, insensate.

Shiny rocks rise in assembly.

Silence bends a strong arm.

Belief sits, quiet as bread.

Originally published in Turk’s Head Review (December 29, 2014)

Melancholy Rain (2007) by Melody Harrison Hanson

Reflecting on your quiet life…

Reflecting on your quiet life…

Reflecting on your quiet life, I gaze at you in repose, your eyes pearls shaken loose from treetops, silvered.

                                                                     

Rain pelts our roof with pebbles as you drift into sleep, river brushwood rubbing shoulders with land.

Rising and falling, a cloud bumping over a mountain, your white arms. Turning, you exhale deeply. Mist gently pushes back your hair.

Wild brushstrokes of pillows and linens tumble as children, their laughter, bolts of silk, shimmying.

Gazebo freshly planted, you wind your legs and arms about a trellis.

Let us be orchids who widen our filigreed faces, leaves tapering to wax points proffering greetings.

Nodding plants in a circle, we will dine with April as our guest, grasping his warm hands from the vows of dawn until the crown of dusk.

Originally published in The Furious Gazelle (April 28, 2015)

...from the vows of dawn until the crown of dusk.

Our lives together…

Our lives together...

Our lives together are braided vines.

We scale a wall watered by the sun,

Our roots meet in soil fed by rain.

Your arms in sinuous embrace

Lift us to climb ever higher.

Your eyes are nodding leaves,

Good fortune is the breeze.

Budding forth, your kindnesses

Blossom, imperishable.

Let us bask in the day entering

As liminal shadows open shutters.

When the gardener comes by,

I will ask him to trim our love

So that it intertwines forever.

Originally published in The Furious Gazelle (April 28, 2015)

Our lives together are braided vines.

After Bashō

AFTER BASHō

Chalk white moon, a disc of pooling light.

Round old pond, stillness unruffled,

Bird tucked inward. Behind

Embankment of clouds, a frog leaps—

Touchdown in water!

Black sky bursts, broken,

Beatific placid mirror shattered

By splash of a big blast,

Droplets, tremulous,

Subatomic particles scattering,

Tsunami unleashing gamma waves, X-rays,

70,000 instantly dead…

Genbaku Dome, UNESCO World Heritage Site.

Originally published in Eastlit (August 1, 2015)

Genbaku Dome, Hiroshima, Japan. UN Photo

Bread

BREAD

Let us bake bread today.

Let us labor, let us stir

Wheat flour, honey, butter,

Add salt and warm water,

Leaven—waken yeast,

Breathing now,

Mold it all in one elastic ball,

Polish it with olive oil,

Wrap it,

And wait.

Wait for what?

Don’t ask questions.

Just wait.

It rises:

Promise of surety,

Plume of hope.

Knead the dough, roll it flat,

Fold it thick and thicker,

Push it down using

Heels of your palms.

The best part is

Dough smiles

At becoming

A new creation.

Pressing together,

You, the dough, are one.

More olive oil, wrap again,

Wait again.

Hours.

It rises.

Stoke the oven, shove it in.

Rising some more,

Freshly scented, golden brown,

Dawn has come to the door.

Day raps on the plate.

Napkins fold greetings.

Break off a piece,

Eat.

Originally published in aaduna, Volume V, Issue 1 (Spring 2015)

You, the dough, are one.

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