Monthly Archives: March 2016

Morning

There was a moment
when colors graced the morning,
before clouds converged.

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Filed under Haiku, Poetry

Morning Haiku

The rain is so light
It is like snowflakes falling,
dancing on sunlight.

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Amidst Chaos

We embrace,
the air acrid and thick,
dust and particles
cling to our clothes.

We embrace,
debris is scattered about,
fallen walls, ceiling tiles,
glass, shrapnel and suitcase contents.

We embrace,
unable to hear the cries,
the shouts, the sirens,
the questions.

We embrace,
holding tight to each other,
oblivious to the chaos,
and the bleeding man

on the ground behind us,
reaching for his own
salvation as
we embrace.
.
another bombing…discussion of who, why,
and how do we stop it become increasingly irrelevant.
I was struck while reading of a photo of a couple
who looked to be standing outside hugging
while a man lay on the ground behind them,
clothes ripped and bleeding.

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Mighty Oak

Oh, mighty oak,
tree of destiny,
from seed to sapling
to lone pillar of bough and bark.

Oh, mighty oak,
there were plans for thee,
host to tire swings and bold climbers,
shade for picnics, shelter for young lovers.

Oh, mighty oak,
none will weep for thee,
shunned for the strength of your limb,
though you knew naught of black or white or brown.

Oh, mighty oak,
tree of destiny,
not for pleasure as should be,
known now only as the hanging tree.

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Games

She knows the
game

 ……………every rule memorized
           each move instinctual

but studies the
……………………………………………..player

knowing the outcome
…..not
 …….by
 ……….the
 ………….board

but by the

………………faces

for the Mag

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Born of Atoms

There is a revelation to be found
if you are           still          enough
to bear witness

standing in a field at night
— or forest meadow —.
beneath a clear sky
.                       where stones sing a lament

..           of ages never to return
and stars       breathe        whispered       legends
        of their source

Each moment a                cycle
of your destined               journey,
a line of the                       story
we were born to               tell.

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Impressions

The browns of the yard blur
into the beginning
of greens,
while early white and pink
pear blossoms
begin to fall.

It reminds me of a washed out
Monet — maybe
Spring Landscape,
or Meadow at Giverny,
without the blue,
and less light —

much like how the world
is out of focus
as she drives
away.

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Filed under Poetry