Requiem for the Kittah POGO

 

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VALENTINE

There you are my love

It must be….

It is you,

On the small

Of the horizon,

Emblazoned

Yellow, pink and white

Subtle in the mist

Far off,

Down the path.

Can it be

Too joyous?

I ask—-

The memory

Of you.

In this dream of wild

Bright yellow mustard,

Between

Long rows

Of leafless vines

Up

And

Over

 The moss-green

Hills.

Of gold-orange

Buttercups

Patched through

Silver grass.

Beneath

Pearl white pussy-willows,

Pale catkins

Hanging down.

Star flowers

With lavender phlox

And

Snow-drops

All around.

And there,

In the gentle water

The sound

Of your musical voice.

It is spring my dear,

And

Here,

I am without you,

Beyond the flows

Of brook and time.

Forever,

You will be my Valentine

 

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AULD LANG SYNE

For Auld Lang Syne

For Auld Land Syne

My dear,

There—-a sign,

Among the tears,

Among the years

Gone by.

And

Always,

Finding here

Our joyful pair

In the falling days.

So soon the seasons

Come and go

And

The reasons

For love remain so.

For Auld Lang Syne

My dear,

I search the cloudless sky,

For storms

And

know,

A whisper of you

On a sweet breeze sigh.

In spring and

Early dew.

Of Auld Lang Syne.

We meet in the summer grass,

Full of youth

Alive with sass.

In winter’s aging time

With hearts aligned

And

Autumn’s future

Fills with past.

I sing to you.

My love’s sign

No other dream will do

In the deep night rhyme.

Between dark and light

On the tattered edge

Of passing clouds

We drift—- out of sight.

We drink the cup

Of kindness

You and me

Eternally

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SOLSTICE

Sister Solstice

 

Down the hall

Late

The light turned off,

The bedroom dissolves

In a night moon glow

Slanting through the gated blinds.

There are different kinds of darkness.

Always

Is the wonder

If color lies

Where,

Imagination

Sees in shadow,

The forms of everything:

The bookcase here,

The dog on her bundle,

The tanka over the bed,

The chair over there

And

The play of illusion,

When

One wall seems infinite

Because

A night-light creates the world,

Lying just behind

A shimmering dimension.

In early dawn,

The moon is gone,

Its ghost lost in swirling fog,

Which

Beads drops of water

On the garden branches.

Fading forms in mist

Link what comes behind

To what

Appears vaguely in front.

The ground

Wet with mottled Bay leaves,

Playing gold

Among the berry twigs,

Beyond the death of frost,

Still shows life,

Where mice and rabbits are quiet,

Until,

The red hawks and feral cats

Swoop them out.

When solstice arrives

All is ice,

As freeze contrives to stop time,

Resting

If ever so quickly before dawn

In stillness.

I hang her four

Pure-white-paper snowflakes

Cut,

With concentrated precision

By

Tiny scissors

And

Hung on evergreen bows

That

She is ever lost

In the freeze,

In the stillness,

In the very perfect

Point of solstice

That

Is for her

Never

Knowing spring.

 

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HELP

Dear friends,

Andie and I are asking you to please help these guys. Both are outstanding peace and justice advocates. You are probably aware of TW’s photo journalism covering virtual every major demonstration across this nations of ours. Andie particularly likes Mary Oliver, whose name also happens to be one of my poet mentor influences. These two Face Book friends desparetly need your help.

I can so relate to their plight because in November I outlived the last of my life savings  that covered such costs as winter heating, car insurance, Andie’s expensive vet bills and you know those emergencies that reduce us to spam and Wonder Bread for a few weeks  (just kidding). I can’t think of two more worthy of help this season please give generously:

If the below link doesn’t work go to Adgita Diarie on Face Book and find my post:

Thank you     Much love and Happy Holidays    🙂 Michael and Andie

The Face Book link doesn’t open here, so I’ve asked Bill for an outside one you can use. Stay Tuned  HERE: theoriginalbillyllama@gmail.com

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Christmas

It’s another Christmas

My love

White doves and red holly berries

Making us jolly by custom

Decorate and celebrate

Our

Illusions of hope

And

As always

From the eves of our old farmhouse

Hang icicles

As pale blue as your eyes.

They remind us that

Harm

Ever present

Is the zero sum game,

The bane of hope.

It will never be the same again

When

All beloved is treading

On that slippery slope of ending.

*

Nothing moves in the snowy cold

Except a gray fox

Boldly lopping and diving for voles

In the frozen north pasture.

Survival is an iffy

And

Dangerous game these days,

Warm and comforted inside

A log fire burning

We feel

All the same

Safe for the

Renewal,

The new life,

The spring

Lying feral and fertile

Under the blue snow and white skies.

I wait for the climbing roses

Growing to be free

From the broken down gardens of the old order.

I see their wildness

Escaping

Overgrown

Over the log-chopped fencing

Running green

Into the marsh that has reclaimed

The orchard,

Finding its ancient passage back

To the Waloomsac River

And

Vaguely

Blesses us

In its insistence of the natural way.

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MEMORIES

 

Memories

Late,

In a dark night’s blue

Spotting the bright crescent moon,

Remembering the passions of love

And

What happiness was,

Time collapsed.

So many long years ago,

In the beginning,

He opened the gate

With its barren gray wood’s

Uninviting severity

To find its brother parity beyond the barrier

In a large spread of dead earth,

Whose only life was tenacious crabgrass,

Red clay

And

A dearth of beauty.

The way he met the ugliness of life

Was to create,

To garden

To attend the seasons

And

In his imaginative reasons,

There grew lush creations

 Seeming magical in splendid

Color, texture, fragrance,

Black earth for sand

Water for drought

And

The dance of Gaia in his joy

At rejecting sterility and neglect.

I learned to expect as new

Every day

An enchanted nectar paradise

Celebrating hummingbirds, butterflies, bees

And

Varieties of these soldier-angels of nature.

Finally, at the end

After invasive traumatic care

He returned home,

Confused, frightened and wary of place.

You are home my love,” I said.

He stood in front of his bedroom window

Overlooking his garden

And

Whispered:

“Wow.”

His last words.

Days later he was dead,

His ashes buried in the rose garden.

Passing this spot every day alone in grief

At dawn

I pause on the way to duty

 thinking, ‘ashes to ashes, dust to dust.’

While

Stirring in the heart,

At the beginning of a new spring

A permanent sadness recalls

A distant memory of letting go:

While a dove flies into the storm,

‘Lost in Time,

Like all those tears in rain.’

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