Beauty's Claim

To name it beauty, place it one amongst
the mingled mass of faces, starry nights
and places staked by beauty's claim, would be
to name the wandering constellations old,
to place them there amongst the lives of men
and all their making; name the night sky deep,
to place it one amongst the run of far
cliffed canyons, oceans hemmed in stanchion chains.

To name it beauty, that, which weaves your hair
from morning's golden skein, which knits your skin
with snow, and rose-white stitched from loosened lengths
of moonlight dropped and gently claimed; would dim
those hanging stars and stay that raging sea.
If sweet your brow were staked by beauty's claim,
then nothing, nothing else could ever be.

Seven Suns

Seven full I counted there,
a yellow black and dancing swarm.
Like leaves upon the gentle sigh
of a freshly waking, stirring storm.

At first they numbered only three,
and then there leapt another, thrice.
When one more brought its pedals fro,
they stepped in time, but for a trice.

Stepped in time, their dance beguiled,
laughing flashing, like a child.
Each one in their own way wrought
with such fine care but never caught.

And while they dropped and always rising,
leaping near in circles full-
Monarchs quick in sunlight steeping,
all my breath and senses stole.

Each then up turned west and left,
like seven suns at dusking's set.
And when their waning fled in full
their absence swift beset my soul.

Rhyming Rush

Each April brings its wild tune
untamed upon its breath,
where Spring time sets each note to song,
and sings till Fall forsakes its claim.

It's then
as Winter's shapeless form denotes,
November shades that chiming tune
to slow and muted verse,
restraining Autumn's rhyme
that Spring and Summer sang
so soon ago.

Now every pedal
previously played resigns,
the grass and blossomed boughs
recline below
the muffled groan that idly wanes,
recedes then drops
to octaves silent long and slow,
and only meek in aching sighs proceeds.
Surrounded deep within that binding hush,
no tree can sound
nor any flashing thrush.

Yet there beneath the dark December pall
a seed, a sea of such
reside and burrow,
sewn and stitched below the muffled groaning thrall
of Winter's whitened sigh
so lately blown.

And what at first resembled Spring time's tomb
in honest holds its hungry womb
with what there waits
beyond the cold and crooked croon
that clasped its call
and all its windows shut;

The breathing birth of April's wild song
that sunders every verse and muted tone
from each the waking hills
and branches long,
as every note is reaped
that Spring had sewn.
Surrounded deep
within that rhyming rush,
the trees resound with every flashing thrush.

Wanting Sky, A Sonnet

I've kept alone amongst a crowd; the moon
amidst a mingled night of glowing stars
appearing closely knit though each are strewn
across the deep, and kept at distance far.
And there within the blue sky facing, high
ascends the blossomed sun at midday's chime;
Its pedals singing songs in gentle sighs
along its lone and far off arching climb.
While long her light had cast upon my way
of late she dared to share a deep embrace;
a full embrace that folded night and day
eclipsing each, residing in their place.
And now together bound we'll ever fly
where long we'd set upon a wanting sky.