Crimson Mirth

The yellow Autumn, full has come! The helm
of Winter, crisp its crown canaried, singed
the sixth October morn, to red a realm
of berries born and bleeding. Huge and hinged,
its old and gilded gate, agape and gold,
releases forth its fresh and flowing dance-

the piping pied and plaided, clad and cold
release of glad and countless steps; a-trance
with such its tinctured touch, the mountains wide
with tree tops high, ignite in harkoned hurry!
About and blowing, leaved and laughing, pied
and pedaled, Autumn plays its fiddled fury.

The helm of Winter, clad with crimson mirth,
aloose and leaping, beckons beauty's birth.

Daffodil Dawn

All is silent, save the seagul's cry. Somber blue,
the gray eyed morn sallow sleeps upon the sea,
aross the charcoal sky.
But east, eastward winks, blinks and bends
its splendid brow. Its creases colored,
crested clear, wrinkles wreathed with pink
and blushing red, rose red rush of waking,
shaking off that sacred sleep.

Yellow yawn, canary calm. Stretching
dressing, daffodil dawn.
An instant stayed,
colors fade and dim;
All, all things wane, waning wait, await,
the full and restless rise of infant dawn.

Look!
The eastward lily lifts its laden lockes,
reveals its face and fingers fair!
Like that first unbeckoned burst,
that dewy dappled drip of crimson bloom,
begotten, born and glaring garnet
rich against September jade.

This white and golden blossomed orb,
casting calm its primrose praise;
Cantelope crowned,
split and dripping, drip and dripping,
all its juice and all its joy.

A sigh.
Sky-sung, harp string strung;
Day has young, crawled and come,
well come, welcome.

My Blossom Blue

As long you latent slept, upon the brink
of blooming, clenching fingers curled, as each
a pedal pink and pearled, I'd wait and think;
await your blessed budding, think and reach
my only thought of worth- Your life begun.

To blink and see my blossomed babe, behold
and cradle, cry before my rosling son,
my waking world entire. Your thumbs unfold,
your ocean eyes to open, glimpsing first,
before this world unknown, my welcome wide
and weeping eyes. Your maiden sight a burst
of warmth, of full your father's love. Inside
your silent room, to soon be lost and left,
you latent lay, of smiles and cries bereft.

You Autumn bloom, your sudden spring. I wide
eyed watch your pink and pedals fresh unfold,
the first and fragile breath you caughing cried.
I gentle plucked my rose to heaven hold,
to feel his feathered hair, to breath his scent,
his pollen sweet. I caught your gaze, the dawn
of first your oceans waking, cresting, bent
and breathless blue, like curtains calm and drawn;
unearthly calm, yet crashing Summer swells.

My rosling growing, distant grew, away
away, my blossom blue. As crimson fell,
with Autumn's golden crown to gild the gray
of Winter's womb, from far my born
and blossom blue, I cold and wistful mourn.

Alone, alone as last the yellow leaf
to harvest roam, amidst November's pale
and frosted yawn, without the red relief
of Summer's scarlet, hooded dawning veil-
Away and windcaught, wrapped and wrought
in Winter's womb, I still and sodden morn.

Yet He who Winter weaves, who thorough thought
my blossom blue, His Winter opera born
of wind and string, in wordless wisdom sings:
That blossoms fallen, bloom a blissful Sring.

First and Fallen

The sun is silver, Summer ends.
Cool, the wind that blows, that throws
the first and faintest Autumn scent-
a distand chimney bricked and churning,
fallen maple, chopped and burning.
Brown and yellow leaves on sidewalks
sleeping, crisp and windcaught creeping.

It blows, and blowing throws these subtle
strong September smells, like castings
swells to cover Summer's silken sand,
to primrose paint, its green and gardened hands.

Beyond the jade horizon hilled,
October, near and breathing, casts its clear
and harvest sky. Comely cast,
abound in slightly cold and paler blue-
as if years and ages younger,
infant full and fresh.

Chestnuts falling gild the ground,
dropping dressed in brownish crimson,
deep maroon, with auburn burnt and singed.
Upon the dawn of dusk, each one casts
its colors skyward; a million tiny bursts
erupt to drench the sky, across and dripping,
down the burning canvas calm.

The moon an orange,
dropped amidst the climbing stars collected,
clustering crystals clear. The manderin sits
and dangles dear, appearing cold and cloudless close.
The stars surrounding, constellations bounding,
breathless bright awake and wander
far their shadowed fields. Burning,
each seems birthed this very night.

Cold the wind that midnight blows,
along the meadows, leaved and lush.
Flowing, blowing, crisp and crossing,
ripe and rushing round the vast
and casting veil of night. Restless
lingers loud the leaf racked rustle,
dropped and drifting, hidden by
the moonlight's strange and shifting shine.

Painted blooms the flowered dawn.
Violet, lilac lily, primrose placed
and painted, born about the brow
of morning's making. Above,
all then blends to apricot stained;
birthed, the first and fallen Autumn morn.

Spider Lily

Aloft the ocean, ashen silk. Above
the hilled horizon, long and lavender laced;
The milken moon, a Spider Lily, dove
like nested, pale nor painted, fair nor faced,
a-sail nor sunken, halved and hangs, as lone
the Lily hangs above the stream below.
Suspended moon, upon your splendid throne,
and Lily shone in soft the rippled flow;
you both reflect the once and fallen Son.
The Son who watched from tall his timbered tomb
and hung His head amidst a death begun,
who bleeding wept, and bowed amidst His bloom.
I trace the moon, His high and hanging crown,
the Spider Lily, blossomed gazing down.

Twilight Teeming

Away, a lure long cast and climbing, down
and drowning, dear and dusking, downward bound
enshrouded, webbed and clouded, robed, with crown
of crimson downing, throned, with violet 'round
at sunset's sounding, hung, against the soft
oleander lining, calm, Creation's brush
has picked and painting, placed,displayed aloft
the twilight teeming, torn, aflame and flush;
Toward cradled home, the sun climbs burning back.

The window, far and facing, curtain, drawn
and lacing, braiding, sapphire silk with black
and weavings eastward hanging; Silent spawn,
the starry stream, aflow cascading, bright,
with chards parading, full; the dawn of night.

Van Gogh

What Van Gogh watched, and wept, and dreampt with blue
and stormy eyes agape, and gazing drew;

Abroad, agleam upon his canvas white,
abound, enshrouded in that cloudless night,
the lucid stars, the mingling many rush-
a sterling rush in midnight's moonlight hush,
aloft and leaping, loosed and laced along
the ink and ceiling's brink, a threaded throng
of constellations caught and counted, kept
alive by painters, poets- those who slept
or sailed upon the shore, the sea, below
the spangled sky; O' sorrowed, sweet Van Gogh.

As once he watched, the moon half sunken sail,
I glimpse the starry, vast and gilded veil.

Road

Majestic Sun! To soft your sea-strung trail,
your pearl-paved pathway, porcelin pedaled, laced
and gilded gold, I set my silken sail.
Below the Morning Star, before its traced
and tranquil home, it lapping lights the way.

Ahead, astern, upon the cyan sea,
begining broad, it far and narrow lay.

Between the sterling sail- a blooming Tree
of Life, amidst a lifeless land forlorn-
My faulted faith, like you full burns ablaze!
Redeemed, aflame, like you I rise reborn.
O' Dayspring drip, and drench my guided gaze.

In distant days, my sail shall set on each,
Upon your road, its great and golden reach.

Mingling Masts

Amidst the dawning, blushed and summer stained,
upon the ocean water's western reach-
A-sail, ashimmer, wind wrought roamed
a clear and crestless crowd of mingled masts.

Like needles, steeples stabbing upward soft,
each firm and fair against the wild breeze.
They pierce the sea, its many summoned swells,
and even break, the pure and pleasent sky!

Yet calm they stand; Blissful kindly calm
they kiss the cloudless, blue and waking morn.

Like Redwoods reaching, timbered tall and proud,
adorned in satin, dripping winter white
and whispering warm upon the wayward wind-
In splendid glory, each did awe demand.

Their might unmatched, yet humble, mighty so!
They countless stand, a crowd afar and near,
adrift- of bow and stern, and silken sail.
So humble yet, ascending stiking strong.

My Son

My rose, my love,
O' what a view I have,
from up above

As a rose has the sun,
feeding life to live,
son I share with you my love;
My only gift to give.

The harmonic sun impaled,
thrown across the sky;
Chariot down it’s pulled,
its light upon a sleeping rose does lie.

Peaceful sitting, O’ content,
beneath the sun’s protective rays.
My flawless love with you I share;
Gaze upon my sleeping child lies.

Sunlit tears compose,
landing gentle upon a rose.
My dancing tear, a joyful tear,
drops upon my sleeping son so near.

As you drift upon the song,
to where your secret thoughts you keep;
I pray you find my love,
in dreams painted while you sleep.

My rose, my love,
O’ the view I have,
from up above.

Summer Ode

Summer upon the horizon sighs,
admiring springtime’s perseverance.
The blue sky dances distant,
as the May clouds gaze their last.

Blossoms fallen dust the fields,
and like the April rain recedes.
The breathing wind its final act,
as summer’s breeze waits gentle in the wings.

The eastern torch slower dances,
its endless mural across the sky.
The west prepares its ancient cradle,
as the star laughs bright in colors bold.

O’ patient blooming summer,
your notes tug playful on my ears.
The whisper of your arrival echoes,
in the constant chatter of the leaves.

Seaside

The morning’s maiden waves, each creeping claw
the dark and dewy shoreline, gentle, soft,
yet full of nature's willful might. They paw,
they swell and curl, then lapping leap! Aloft
the salted lea, ascending, combing cold
the sand; again, again, a chorus rote.

They paw, and paw and claw, and cresting fold
before the patient shore. The misty boats
and bayside birds a-sail, each distant dressed
in morning, floating silently in flight,
above, behind the waxing waves. A guest,
I wordless watch them kiss the dawning light.

I watch, I watch the round horizon burn,
and each wave crested, waning white return.

Inquiry/ Winter's Reply

Inquiry

O' frozen Winter, breaking, fell and bold
with iron will, you come to Fall destroy;
With pillars tall, your boisterous call and cold,
agape and robed, to silent Autumn's joy.

In shades of gray, your frost-sewn quilt, a-drape
upon the dawning, covers Autumn's flame.
Your dark and dancing loom, its icy shapes
spin no escape; You austere life reclaim.

O' songless Winter, have you verse or poem?-
To speak of death, of frozen breath, of tombs
and sunless skies, for fear she does not roam.

You barren knight, born shapeless from what womb:
Declare, and forthright render some reply,
O' brazen, wayward Winter, tell me why.

Winter's Reply

Long years I've come, long years my winds have blown.
Through endless each, with verse, and tears, and rhyme,
I've kissed and pondered, every tree and stone.

Of all I've seen- of life, and death, and time,
no final sleep, to Autumn's end compares.
Through lifetime's passed, my full and frozen tears
in mourning fall, to beauty's end declare.

With marbled moon, and wandering woodland deer,
a widow wrought in mourning, lonesome left
to Autumn bury; Burdened to lament
in melancholy song of joy bereft.
My shadowed tears begin their dark descent.

I ache, O' ageless ache and waking yearn,
For Autumn, fallen fair to sweet return.

Response

O' solemn Winter, surely Autumn dies;
A death, its sacrifice brings lasting life.
Its short lived beauty, gold and scarlet skies,
each towered tree with crimson crowned- their strife
brings joy, and blessed birth to blissful Spring.

Its parting, selfless sets each unborn bud,
each latent leaf and lily free! and brings
a beauty new, born fresh of Autumn's blood.

O' gentle Winter, wrought in sorrow's song,
forgive my senseless blame; take rest, rejoice
on silent hills. Come hither sit, and long
relieve your wearied winds, your virtuous voice.

Rejoice, say I, for Springtime all aflame,
Will rising drench the dawn to life reclaim!

Woodland Chimes

The trees are full, with cheery song,
Of merry minstrels, morning long.
They call and sing, in each, full green,
Beneath the leafy, shade unseen.

Faceless, nameless, fond and feathered,
Upon the branches, warm and weathered.
Song-birds each, on woodland wing,
Wistful songs, and warbles bring.

Amidst the dawning's sun-strung tears,
Cry the mourning, chime the cheers.
Harp strings spangled, softly strewn,
Perching pluck, their playful tune.

What burning red, what royal blue;
What color breasted, hither flew?
What fair tufts, what eyes gleaming,
Witnessed dawn, in moonlight teeming?

I rise and wander, each tree past,
Across the velvet, meadow vast.
With humble might, and willful eye,
To hark the song-birds, caw and cry-

To catch one flashing, color bright,
Behold this wondrous, woodland sprite.
For to glimpse each minstrel free,
Chirping chiming, merrily.

Sun Flower

When Autumn's colors waking, creeping cloaked
the dawn and crawled each mountain stretched and stream-
While summer sailed to hills untrodden, soaked
and robed with morning's mist and deepest green;
The rising Flower, bloomed and golden crowned,
O' bowed and set, and dusked to shadowed tomb.

With shifting leaves, set deep beneath the ground;
As snowfall wept, calm slept in quilted womb.
Through seasons long, through seasons two, it lay
and latent, still and sadly ached and kept.
O' Flower pure! Let not these seasons slay,
nor such a loss, and final fate accept.

Awake, shine forth! Your rising season comes;
In Winter's waning, frost to dew succumbs.

When April's blinking eyes, to open strain
and stretch to gain a glimpse of infant dawn-
While gray and frozen skies, to gentle rain
and newborn buds surrender far and yon;

O' Sun, O' Flower rise! You fair-haired, gold
and gloried, precious sun upon the rise.
Ten thousand stars, would each your light behold!

Through seasons three, this day you greet my eyes-
Your upward gaze, your petals soaked and full.
Below the willow's wail, above the ground,
before the wearied leaping sun, you pull
my longing gaze; My broken heart you bound.

O' towered Sun, sweet Shepherd of the morn,
What beauty sprung, from ancient days, reborn.

Six White Towers

Six white towers at a glance,
I caught and joined their sprightly dance.
Windy towers, six saw I,
set against the azure sky.

Upon the meadow, upon the hill,
above the lilies latent still.
With blossoms covered, blooming all,
stand the old and towers tall.

Wooden, watching, twice the three,
who’s arms stretched over Calvary.
Sunlit filled with chatter wild,
of petals perched and birds beguiled.

Sparrows weaving to and fro,
make their home a happy bough.
April’s hands and laughing loom,
spin for each a windowed womb.

These upward reaching six fine masts,
snow-white sails and shadows cast.
Jocund set, fond and free,
wind-caught passing merrily.

Passing, fading, sweet delight,
each fair tower from my sight.
In days and places, distant all,
I joyful each shall oft recall.

Rain

Stampeding listless, lonely crowds afoot
and falling; each a spoken word forgot.
These words in time, a sentence form, and put
together poems of death, and life begot.

Before our ears, these sonnets turn to song,
unheard upon the fields' a-frost with dew.
In Winter's silent morn and Summer long,
the rain remembers, when and how- and who.

O blessed rain, what joy? What loss? What old
and sorrow's seen? Our Father's birth, the star
the child; Mary's weeping, myrrh and gold-
O ageless rain, the nails, His hands, His Scars.

I long to glimpse, the sights the crowd recall's-
As wise the curtain, cold and crying falls.

Distant Deeps or Skies (II)

Imagine what a steady gaze unbent
will wake; A fleeting glimpse a fire left!

My honest heart this latent day laments,
each passing blessed bloom I stood bereft
of nature's wistful laugh and wondrous might.

Yet hope remains; Each Bright and Morning Star,
each Dayspring dressed and dawning, crestless night
and dying dusk, brings beauty from afar.

I weep, as sad the waking sorrowed weep-
But yet I too rejoice! For every day,
I doleful listless walked where lilies leap,
O' unawares through summer streams, astray-
Ten thousand moment's such, in scarlet skies
and distant deeps, await my wondering eyes!

The Shepherd and the Lamb

O' sorrowed Shepherd, tender mild Lamb,
What Truth, what Life, what love born of your word!
You King of Kings, you Mighty God of Abraham-
How so gentle, yet of Glory all our Lord?

You breathed him life, you loosed Orion's chains;
Filled the seas, the beasts and birds set wild.
When man was lost, you whom mighty reigns,
Became a child, meek, as Mary wept beguiled.

Across your brow, a crown they laughing wove,
To mock and pierce your precious skin-
Drawing forth your blood, O' Dove,
Lo'! Those very drops could cleanse their sin.

How, O' Sharon's blooming Rose,
My Strength and Song, my humble Shield-
Could you take to our intended tomb?
My most Beloved, it's Grace you wistful wield!

You rose, a Bright and Morning Star,
You rose, a Temple torn, three days rebuilt.
In loving Grace, for me you bare the scars;
This gratis Grace, upon the bough you spilt.

For Grace you Shepherd, for Grace you are a Lamb;
Praise your Love, O' Seed of Abraham!

Distant Deeps or Skies

We shall traverse many a far off land
in days yet to pass;
Many a distant hill and valley yonder.
Our eyes will see those things that have for ages passed
just beneath the eyes of men,
Yet which wait to joyful wake
our wistful wondrous souls.

Rejoice! For a mere glimpse
has lit our souls, aflame. O' imagine
what a prolonged and steady stare will silent wake.
My honest heart this day laments-
For every moment I have afor
this Springtime looked away.
But behold! Each new and Dayspring dawning,
brings upon its scarlet skies a hidden beauty,
nameless,
to our gaze pull.

O', I weep; as the sad world weeps.
Yet I too rejoice!
For in counting every doleful day I listless walked,
through summer streams and pastel painted skies,
unawares,
Ten thousand moment's such
await my wondering eyes!

Death's Descent

O', how the rain's descent, lamenting fall,
Can match the narrow notes of mortal man!
I watch it tracing down the dampened wall,
A brief and journey blind, our mirrored span.

The child born, into this life with hope,
The maiden drop from far asunder sewn.
I watched for breath, her blindly strain and grope,
The torrent's last, befall the ground unknown.
As frail her fingers, clenched the stillness tight,
As solemn rain slips senseless toward its end;
O' Truth, was what she grasped salvation's light?
Does every drop foresee the rainbow's bend?

For O'! Unlike your Son in sorrow slain,
We know not if, our love we'll hold again.

A Winter Morn

The world wakes now agleam.
Afor the frosted morn, the dawn
dropped its dew and leaping left,
a veil of beauty nor shine bereft.

The sunken branches, agape and yawning,
scratch and scrape the grass aglimmer.
The blades sunlit, those silver swells,
crest and break, in morning shiver.

The sky, as crystal ocean blue
as the youngest breath of Spring-
This cloudless curtain, alive and still,
covers calm the glass aglow.

Winter's grip, its proud and kingly clench,
timely grasped the deep of night.
I wide-eyed gaze, with the waking sun,
at what in darkness, was silent spun.

This March

This March,
Winter's last; a glimpse, a tease.
Springtime subtle kisses
Soft the crownless trees.

Comfort brings this promise;
Days beautiful to come.
Winter's wind, to blessed breeze
And azure sky succumb.

Through wind chimes weaving,
The season's timely march-
Frost's defeat, its fond fair well,
The pinecone-laden Larch.

The late and lagging sun,
Dripping, drags and drops.
Leaving drenched in silken shade,
The tree and chimney tops.

Brave Orion wanders wide,
From the dusk and charriot waning.
Stars once latent, waxing wake,
Over the night sky reigning.

The fresh and rising dawn,
Brings scarlet forth this March.
Where lions turn to lambs,
And the sun extends its arch.

A Winter's Call to Arms

Upon a listless deep November morn,
My gaze is pulled to the West aflame.
Where Autumn flees, with its paint afoot,
And frost has come to its throne reclaim.

Bold unchained, thundering forth,
Its pillars puncture the horizon tall.
With swords unsheathed, and boisterous drums,
Winter bursts its clarion call.

Its armies summoned, now unleashed-
Clothed in satin garments fair,
Over the aching ground, relentless stride,
Until the fragile earth lay bare.

Blooming winter, admires proud,
From the hills of victory sweet;
Its battleground, left grey and white,
Where Fall bows humble in defeat.

Blossom's Breaking

Come to me my sweetest love,
All the world is weeping.
Come to me my dearest love,
Amidst the sorrow seeping.

Amiss, astray, the world has run-
An unkempt garden aching.
The greying sky, the sinking sun,
Begotton blooming blossoms breaking.

My love amidst the bedlam lies,
With dew and sorrow laden.
Beneath the crestless clouded sky,
In beauty grows this fairest maiden.

Come along, come along my love,
Upon midnight's frosted fields.
Scattered stars and lonesome song,
December's moonlight waking wields.

O fairest love, O lady sweet,
Let us flee this woeful weeping.
To where the sun's great goldem seat,
Cradles dreams for safest keeping.

The Waking East

You return from the distant West-
O hath the sun retraced its leap!
Waking Winter's frosted fields,
From their deep, and ancient sleep.

The aching tree's, with snow and sorrow laden,
Shift, and lift their arms an octave higher.
The horizon West, far and faint,
Turns to wax, set now afire.

Your eyes alive, blue and summer soaked,
Joyful sing to the land beguiled.
The fading night, crestless cold,
Melts to dawn, with colors warm and wild.

Rejoice, O waking East,
For our lady this day returns!
To the sparrow's song, soft and sweet,
Sing for whom the West now yearns.