Poem: How It Happens

How It Happens

Line by line,
verse by verse,
sometimes dissonant,
sometimes lyrical and agonizing,
filled
with surprises, pain
and soaring pleasure,
life unfolds
like Scheherazade's stories,
full of just enough
mystery
to keep you alive
one more day.

======================

This poem was inspired by a line in David King's poem today (It has no title, so you will have to look for his May 12th poem), a half line that I blatantly stole to travel somewhere completely different with .

If you have not read King's poetry, you should. He's wonderful and wonderfully prolific. An almost daily read for me.

The picture is of a painting I have been working on. I had no image that caught the poem, so I grabbed this one, since like most art, and all life, it is a work in progress.

Tom
, 

Poem: Meditation on Life

Meditation on Life

The skull sits on velvet,
mocking any permanence you conjor
in your mind, in your heart, knowing
that in times, you will become his twin,

unless
you learn to dance,
share your wonderment like a child,
fingerpaint,
sing with abandon in the midst of strangers,
leave love in the laps of chidren,
create, even badly,
dare to fail,
dare to succeed,
dare to touch others,
and more frighteningly,
dare to let them touch you.

=========================

The picture was taken at the Sterling Renaissance Festival yesterday, as I visited there with my son and daughter. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Beauty

Beauty

The face has worn off, the victim
of age and dampness, and the light is dim.
There is algae growing on the wall,
fed by leaking springs and the late day sun

that leaks through the one door way
that has not been closed in
by the debris of thousands of years.

The fountain no longer dances
merrily, but holds instead, the barest
drips that leech through the stone facing
and glisten. Still,

somehow there is magic,
like an old woman whose face
still reflects the passion of the coquette
she once was, or your own heart,

weary from the abuse of time, yet somehow
still soaring when confronted with this place of magic,
still certain that beauty is not fleeting or fickle,
but something shining, and more than that,

alive.

====================

The picture was taken on Palatine Hill, in Rome, in a grotto next to the gardens, overlooking the Roman Forum. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Standing in the Rain

Standing in the Rain

In a few short hours
you have seen the sky change
from a peaceful blue
to a red of fury,

watched and smelled the storm
as is flowed around the mountains
to the valley,
felt the wind rise

and swirl in anger,
and as others fled inside their homes,
you stood on the porch,
waiting out the storm,

letting it's anger flow past you,
it's thunder, the shock of lightening
that strikes the nearby tree
on the creek below your home,

feeling the rain,
blown sideways, drench you
as you stand, not watching the storm,
but living it

as it rips through the valley,
and subsides,
and in the same way,
you see the clouds blow past,

the wind calm,
the sky open,
and the freshness of that time after,
again, not watching it, but living it,

not a spectator,
but part of the drama,
wet, and hopeful, enjoying the freshness
in a new way, more real and more alive.

============

The picture was taken a couple of years ago, a few miles south of Fincastle. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: At 52

At 52

At this point in your life, you know the truth,
that each kiss is holy,
each touch precious,
and each moment may be your last.

Colors are brighter.
Music is more melodious.
And the tender moments of quiet,
more true.

=============

The picture was taken last week, at a birthday party for my neighbor's one year old son. That's him, with his father. You can click on the picture for a larger view.

Tom

Poem: Gettysburg

Gettysburg

You stand on the green copse,
gazing through the mist shroud
that covers the field rising towards you,
a field once covered with grim soldiers, blue and gray.

In your mind's eye you see them,
Lee's men clambering up the last ridge.
McClellan's last few gape mouthed at the ridge top,
aghast at the battle before them,

the wall of Southern soldiers,
at the bloody charge that brings them to the brink,
face to face, bayonet to bayonet
in the very spot you now stand.

And in that moment, everything was won and lost.
The New York 10th fled the field,
leaving a band of green soldiers from far away Michigen,
engineers whose life was centered on building, not battles,

to stand in fear, surrounded by slaughter,
the smell of death and defeat all about them,
their flank fleeing through the forest behind them,
crazed Confederates toe to toe, ready to die, in front.

Yet somehow, they stand.
These mild builders of walls and camps,
stood while others around them fled.
And history is changed. The Union lives.

And you wonder, standing there in the mist,
what compelled the confederates to charge this deathly hill?
Why did some flee and others stand.
What madness prompted each man there?

And you wonder
why in life and love
some stand and some flee.
What courage or desire or fear

defines the moment of decision,
rendering us heroes or corpses,
victors or vanquished in the battles
that bewilder us,

where victory and defeat lose meaning,
and all is a struggle for mere survival,
where all we know is the desperate need to protect
our hearts.

==========

The hotel where I often stay when working in Washington, DC, is near the Manassas Battlefield, and I sometimes walk along the battle lines early in the morning. I wrote this after walking through a morning mist on that field, but used Gettysburg as the center point, and more particularly the battle of Round Hill, on the last day of the battle, because in a real sense, Round Hill was the place and moment where the war changed and the tide turned, all because a few men stood while others around them fled, and in standing, changed the course of history.

The picture is from the battlefield from that last day of the three day battle, which happens to have happened on July 3rd. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Sap Dance

Sap Dance

Steam swirls around you,
sweet with sap from a thousand trees,
tapped, drained and boiled over the hardwood fire,
slowly condensed, purified.

The season is short,
those few perfect days of warmth
with icy nights,
neither winter nor spring,
but something in between,

an imperfect balance
that brings the perfect mix
for sweet syrup.

================

The picture is from this past winter, taken in Durkeetown, NY. (In light of the heat wave hitting us here in the east this week, the image of snow had a certain appeal.) You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom