Selenelion Oregon

The moon in the valley mist shimmies upon the Manor roof:

a lady dancing in a veil, gauzy and seductive,
in the space between night and day.

She
weaves
in
and
out
of my Venetian blinds.
I am alive in her blue light.

My words
play
hide
and
seek
between the slats of light.
I am alone
and you are so far away.

“Can you see the moon?

Does the desert dress her differently?

Does your heat rise to cradle her body
suspended in liquid sky?

Do her shards of light
slice
your
body
sleeping ‘neath the Pinyon Pine?”

I would be that light,
catching my hair on needles:
a shadow dancing on your tent wall:
The light
shimmering
from my fingertips,
caressing,
your face in sleep.

We are impaled with light,
the luminous flux,
spanning the Mogollon Rim to the Rogue Valley,
between Northwest Willow and Ponderosa Pine,
basking in her light bars: the earthlight cold in our morning breath,
inhaling air glow in the flutter of REM sleep.

She
sets
with
a
sigh,
a whisper of movement across your face,
gliding
down.
behind tall mountains.

In that moment:
Selenelion.
You and me on a horizontal eclipse.
A refraction of light fading to daylight
and then gone.
I am alone
and you
are
so
far
away.

 

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Read more "POETRY: Barbara A Meier – Selenelion Oregon"

Centipede

In early spring
a centipede crawls
across a branch
next to a bird’s nest
of blue eggs,
its segments aligned
like well-edited films
that seem so natural
to my eye.
It must be
a barely augmented
inspiration for
families or lovers,
moving separately
but together
through this tree,
and then forests,
pulled toward sunlight
and greenest leaves,
leaving behind
nests of blue eggs,
the chatter
of hungry robins.

 

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Read more "POETRY: Richard King Perkins II – Centipede"

Coping with Romanticism

My wife is gone, and Bruckner’s Fourth is on
full blast: Romantic’s what it’s called. A beer’s
in front of me, of course. The slabs of sound
build slow, misterioso: here on Earth,
the lovely ache of purple dusk or dawn.
I’m sad and happy all at once. My fears,
those briars binding me, an angel gowned
in light cuts through. The music swells: a birth,
a death, a glimpse of hell. Of heaven. Write
of life, my wiser muse suggests, as I,
brimmed full of bliss, glide fast from giddy height
to kitchen sink. Composed, I now know why
old Wordsworth counseled calm, tranquility:
advice to seekers of sublimity.

 

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Read more "POETRY: Thomas Zimmerman – Coping with Romanticism"

Friday morning

no shade is like my own
my leather chair
my birth
for what it’s worth I’m older now
and coming closer to the road
what hold do you have over me now?
Only in memory do your daggered whispers cut me
And that’s shunting off too
(to better shores).

No trade is like my own in words
it’s dew
over the mewling mouth
of eager does
whose hooves extend into my house
and yours

drink it
and fly

 

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Read more "POETRY: Robin Wyatt Dunn – Friday Morning"