beneath a Saskatchewan sky

the yellow wheat fields

are endless beneath the cloudy morning

zigzagging and swaying in the strong wind

the land glows topaz and amber

with poplar trees rising from the soil

a flock of geese heads south

tracing the arc of autumn

the birds follow an ancient path

my eyes cannot see

but here, where there is not one city light

moose and deer graze

on rain-drenched grasses

a herd of bison gallops across the river

to the drumbeats of the ancestral land

hummingbirds and woodpeckers

trill among the bees and bugs

i do not disturb the silence

not with a hunting gun

not with my boots and jacket

instead,

i remind myself

that i am only a visitor here*

i tread lightly,

taking my trash with me

beneath a Saskatchewan sky,

the wind erases my footprints

as it has erased countless others before,

leaving only the land

to remember

*Inspired by the poem:  INSTRUCTIONS BEFORE VISITING EARTH
by James McCrae

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub- OpenLinkNight - Join us when the virtual pub doors open at 3pm EST.   Saskatchewan is a province in Western Canada.   I visited last week and I enjoyed my time under the prairie sky.

peach

to think that

i could be

first fruit in Eve's garden

amidst star-struck magnolias 

& green-eyed apples

i could be this-

seducing you with my

sun-yellow skin, my juicy velvet

nectar, my sticky cleft body

in your palm

i could make you

*hungry for the sun,*

make you forget

dark music, darker shadows,

the darkest night when the moon

is only a curved pin

but instead

i offer you a calm moment—

peeling back my skin

against your fingers,

dripping with sweat

i am cool hand,

settled wine glass, shaved ice,

slow slow dance

reminding you

beneath fuzz and dusty skin

is one hard stone pit

black earth

sand & silt 

growing sweetness

honeyed by bees

scarred by wasps

*From Peach by Dorianne Laux

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight.  Wishing you a good summer!  Thank you for your visits and comments.

firestorm

slight smoke hangs in the air

the sky swallows

its blue, spits out grey

i water the pots of zinnias -

scorched leaves,

delicate buds - pinks, reds, oranges -

their thirst no different

from my own

my back strains with the effort

soon I can move only

gingerly

so this is what it means

to grow old:

the body keeping time

in careful steps,

while the heart

still leans toward summer

my spine pulls taut,

an osteoporosis warning

still, I lift my chest

summer has returned - 

heat, humidity, fires in the sky

i stand 

a maple tree

filled with orange-lit fog,

Toss in the wind—rack up the muttering sky.*

i root myself   

i hold my body high

grateful

for another season

of long, hot days—

for sunlight still warming

my shoulders,

for flowers

that insist on blooming

for whatever time remains -

to stand 

to weather 

to live

*A Thunderstorm by Archibald Lampman

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight #411- Hosted by Mish.  Thanks for your visits and comments.  Happy 15h year anniversary dVerse!!!!   

a work in progress

i would find you
between sun-dried flowers
spent, tongue rolled back

from screaming at the top
of your lungs
hoping to get my attention

forgive me
if i am waddling these days
with my head buried
in numbers

i miss seeing you
in colorful shirts & hats
peeking from wherever

your fancy takes you

but when i am alone
in a silent
and reflective mood

you come
unbidden, unchecked, unfiltered

knocking me out
of my city comfort

you are the stealthy driver

of this imaginary car
bringing me drops-

a green spiraled tendril   
a phrase left beside my teacup
a stitch of a fading memory

i gather them
into my pockets 

lined by moon dust

trusting time
that old gardener
to tend what lies unseen
beneath the page

and you
arrive-
ink, insight, the inglorious beat

of something
i knew before
but somehow forgot

you place it here
an open palm
and i am blown away

by the thought
that my <best> poems

are still walking
toward me

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Ars Poetica Revisted - Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.   Happy summer break!!!!!

what the water gave me

was clear line of my belly

filled with salt & seashells

holes, much like my memories

fading away, a ship in fog

was bed of drowned summers

plated in orange light,

i should have said some things

let the tower fall & shatter to ash

was illusion of calmness

yet underneath are currents 

a puzzle of faces

a skeleton, whose bones i still

do not know

was questions 

do not need answers 

not right away

see my right foot bleeding

i still do not know why

What the Water Gave me by Frida Kahlo (1938)

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight - Thank you for your comments and visits.   

detours

 

it was the road, the

odd shape

of detours, of

camouflaged hands

that could not hold the

soulful beat

of blues, tyranny of

language denting the heart

it was the pause, the

crease of unopened letters

unsettling, of

stories shaping me, my

path, my name

Original poem:  Driftwood by Sara Teasdale

My forefathers gave me
My spirit's shaken flame,
The shape of hands, the beat of heart,
The letters of my name.

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub:  Poetry Form - Golden Shovel.  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.  Thanks for your visits and comments.

morning bird notes

i.

spring hides from the window 

the fog is a film

in noir

bathed in memories of tulips & blue irises

(no birds in sight)

ii.

gusts &                thunderstorms

are the weather

heavy-lidded eyes

peek from sleep delirium     & then lapse   

(a fallen feather)  

iii.

the trees

are sticks & stilts & empty 

canvas

awaiting the slight brush of      spring

(a bird song trills)

iv.

what spell is this

to wake up with bones fresh & fevered

my fingers    are running    faster

than i can           catch                   up

sage smoke & songs      

from spring rain to sloshing river

(a cardinal on the fence)

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub -Zuihitsu, hosted by Merril Smith.  Thanks for the visits and comments.

false spring

 

your hands were warm,
as were your letters
against my cold touch

i did not know spring then -
nor the weight of long winter 

this i now know:
my heart leapt
at the sound of your voice,

that old memories rushed back
like gentle tides returning
to a forgotten shore,

that the air between us
still carried electricity
from long-ago words

who knows what might have been -
how a fragile bud,
a seed of a smile,
a light touch

might have opened slowly
into something larger
under the full glare
of sun, rain, and sky

my mind was timid then,
my resolve even more afraid.
when you are young,
naïve, and unsure of what might grow,
even hope can feel dangerous

so i let it pass -
that brief warmth,
that almost-season.

now i look back
on that time in my life
with fondness -

no regrets,
though a quiet garden
of what-ifs still lingers.

and if our paths cross again,
beyond a night of easy laughter
and borrowed friendship -

you know what?

the older me
is no longer afraid
to take that leap,
to startle the quiet air.

i will wait until then
for our spring to arrive -

not early,
not mistaken,

but true -

with wrinkles,
with louder laughter,
with songs
we are finally brave enough
to sing

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - False Spring.  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.  Thank you for the visits and comments.  Have a good day!

Moonseeds

 

Why are your words creased
in moon’s indigo carbon copy,
a blue my eyes cannot hold?

Why are my morning legs
ice-struck at dawn,
yet lift like pollen
when you place flowers in my hands?

Why does this story tugs at my ribs
toward opposite tides-
heavy as wet wool after rain,
light as dust drifting through an emptied room?

Why do my lips freeze into chalk
while my chest is a raging engine
along uneven tracks?

Why is the night crusted in salt,
unmeasured beats 
between the high cries of loons?

My fingers tremble against cold glass
before the question crosses my tongue.

Are moonseeds blooming where breath should be?

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Poems of Questions (No Answers).  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm.  Thank you for your visits and comments.

at the mouth of the city

can you imagine it 

the world stops spinning

loud music simmers slow,

ice of a hard winter melts;

soft rain arrives

quiet and unannounced

we lay down our warring words,

set aside the practiced rhetoric.

streets remember safety 

calm descends

a river's mouth curling in

we breathe the cool air in

what was fogged lifts, clears

we are flowers

thorns

weeds

rolling down the sidewalk

it doesn’t matter

you have to imagine this-

strangers, briefly kindred,

visible amid a polar-vexed skyline,

walking

crossing streets

without flinching

for once

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight.  Inspired by the poem, Proof,  By Cornelius Eady, and with the line, You have to imagine it.   See you at 3pm EST.