I cannot find the Spring

I cannot find the Spring, though I search among the stale, white halls,
and I feel it not in stony silence that answers me from bare, gray walls.
These do not seem the living greens my eyes would drink like cool spring water,
nor caress as the breeze that shivered leaves like whispered words from virgin lover.

The breathless blast of conditioned air and rigid back of office chair
languish beneath the sterile rays of pallid bulbs' fluorescent glare;
somehow unlike forgiving waves that beckoned me to pause and lay
beneath the yellow-scented jasmine and keen embrace of warm sun's ray.

I cannot find the Spring, and now I cannot quite recall
when Winter annulled the ease of Summer and revoked the ruddy leaves of Fall.
So I will press my search among the concrete walls and metal chairs
and shut my ears 'gainst silent cries that verdant Spring was never there.

Villanelle villanelle

After reading my previous poem, a friend sent me a villanelle that a friend of hers had written, and asked if I had considered using that poetic form.  In truth, it had always intimidated me, so I never even tried.  But after reading the rules and a few famous examples, I decided to bravely tackle it myself.  Then, of course, I needed something to write  about.  After a couple false starts, I decided to make it an exercise by using the form itself as the theme of the poem.  So the poem isn't necessarily deep or philosophical, but ironic.  In fact, I am rather pleased with my little joke.

I don't think I can write a villanelle.
I cannot seem to fit the pattern'd rhyme
(I've given up, in case you couldn't tell)

I wander through the freeform verses well
but struggle with such metronomic time;
I don't think I can write a villanelle.

These days iambic meter doesn't sell
and I have better ways to earn my dime.
(I've given up, in case you couldn't tell)

I might try a sonnet, locked inside a cell
with bread and water, given enough time...
I don't think I can write a villanelle.

I haven't strength to strain for that brass bell
and haven't hope to hear its blessed chime
(I've given up, in case you couldn't tell)

And so I'll slouch in my prosaic hell
despairing to such mighty mountains climb.
I don't think I can write a villanelle.
(I've given up, in case you couldn't tell)


The poem that inspired me to attempt the form is here.

The ghost

Here at last is a poem that has pressed me to be written for a long time.  This phantom haunted me almost constantly for years, gradually fading as such shades are wont to do.  Now I rarely see or hear her until I open an old album or listen to certain music.

The imagery is intended to point back to Shadow Thoughts, but the primary juxtaposition is, I hope, obvious.

The ghost

Alone and wandering on a winter day
I clutch my sputtering candle 'gainst the draught,
as shadows among tarnished promises play,
and dusty frozen faces shine and laugh.
Before me now, a rusted lock and bar
hides apparition of affections old,
whose fair form dims through years like youthful scar,
yet murmurs memories piercing, pale, and cold.
So, turning from that wisp wrapped in regret,
I soon recall a warm inviting den --
upon a gilded shelf my candle set
and flee back to my cheery hearth again.
This guttered wick still flickers for that soul,
but in the blaze of thine my heart is whole.

The labor of the honey bee

Here's another poem I dug up; this one was inspired by my research with honey bees.  It actually won a NC State University Haiku contest in 2008.  It is supposed to emphasize the amazing amount of work that goes into a pound of honey.  It's so easy to take these things for granted.

Two million flowers
The Ten-thousand mile harvest
Sweetens my pancake

Sonnet 6

And here I recorded the closing of a chapter, though I didn't know it at the time. In fact, I sincerely believed we would be reconciled. An excruciating final page.


Alone

I cannot now believe in what I knew
that life would never change – a year before –
that I would be a soul complete with you,
that we would be together evermore.
For when I took the band that bound me to
the oath I gave with joy and hopeful heart,
resolving – always – faithfulness to you
I trusted, fearing lest that joy depart.
Now I live each day in hope’s despair –
old words and warmth in gift-book covers linger –
and speak my heart to one who isn’t there –
the glass no longer clinks against my finger.
But I resolve, no matter what you do,
To keep my oath of faithfulness to you.


I haven't written much since, but not for lack of inspiration. I remarried, and my wife and three children bring me a joy I had not known. When I get around to writing again, it will be to capture the essence of the happiness and pain that have gone into nurturing a maturing marriage and family.

Sonnet 5

I don't remember exactly when I wrote this or what was going on at that point, but this marriage got off to a rocky start and never did get much better, so it was probably in the first year. Apparently I had been accused of not really loving her. This was my response.


A Husband's Protest

Dark mutt'rings sometimes creep from shadowed thoughts
that love, though often steady in its light,
must flicker in my breast, too weak for aught,
when Time's cool breath expires in winds of spite;
for, in my mortal state of otherwise
dim feelings groping in a shutter'd heart,
the flame kept there for you at most belies
the darkness that surrounds this brighter part.
But despair not the frailty of this light
against the draughts that waft through chambers dim --
its strength is not alone of this poor wight,
but God protects a flame, once sparked by Him.
And as I vowed my faith to God and you,
so does He aid me always to be true.

Poem: The Wedding

I think this one is pretty self-explanatory. It's not a sonnet, and not one of my better poems, but it is a part of the story, so I included it here.


It's hard to know what thoughts you mind when promising to give your life
to make it one with that of he who fain would ever call you wife.
How can one know the feelings flowing through the rivers of your heart?
One only guesses at the flood that even he may see but part.

The spinning hours between each beat bring anxious care your heart may burst,
for Patience will not beg your hand when Giddiness has wed you first.
But he is calm and laughs when friends extol marriage and all its causes
and paces "just to pass the time" and only trembles when he pauses.

A step, a chord, a mother's tear, and side by side two spirits stand
with swollen hearts and nectar smiles, twain lovers lightly hand in hand.
A thousand heartbeats pass and you at last give loving voice your part:
in Godly song, "I do," spoken true, rings not from words, but from the heart.

Sonnet 4

I wrote this poem when I moved back to my hometown and prepared to begin what I thought was a lifelong journey with my soul mate. I'd been gone a year, and the private university I was attending was way too expensive, but that wasn't my primary reason for transferring to a university in my home town.

To My Love Upon Returning from College

The dew blankets the quiet morning now
like fire from creeping dawn, and clouds cold, white
and still belie the long, hope-drenching row
they thundered overhead that coal-dark night
we were apart. Today the hours we spend
together touch your cheek like morning rays
among the shading leaves of life and lend
their moments of light to ever brighter days.
And brighter still, the path that winds ahead
to denser distance, hiding future bends
that, walked with you, no matter where it led
would be for me my heart's desired end.
For time, which was my torment once before,
with you is now my joy forevermore.

Sonnet 3

In this poem, I tried to convey the joy of a visit home, in which I would spend every possible moment with the one I loved.

Visiting Home from College

This road I travel cuts its barren lanes
through one-church towns it rends like glaciered hills,
while minutes bear as Sunday bullet-trains
through shadowed valleys creeping forest fills.
And I rush t'ward your waiting arms like death
to meet the welcome smiles my visits bring --
where dew gleams in the city's dawning breath,
where grand cathedral choirs in sunsets sing.
For, though this journey's short in time and space,
and food and rest my fervent toil require,
my thoughts are ever turned from tasks I face
to dwell upon that heart I most desire.
Wherever I may stray, whatever do,
is less important, far too far from you.

Sonnet 2

While I was away at college, I would write to my sweetheart daily, and my visits home were more frequently to her than to my own family. In this poem I continued the metaphor of the storm for my lonely time away from the one I loved.


Down Pour

Beneath downpouring days, I trudge my thoughts
in search of rest from hope-eroding hours
that gathered in the clouds of choices wrought
and now rush thickly from those gloomy tow'rs.
And with each step, I stumble with my fears
as lonely moments crash before my eyes
and rumble sorrow though my straining ears,
redoubling Time's cruel storms my love defies.
But on I struggle through the blinding roar,
sustained by knowledge of your biding heart,
reminded of the love we shared before
and will again when no longer apart.
For, just beyond the darkness and the hours,
I feel my outstretched hand still clasped in yours.

Sonnet 1

William Wordsworth said poetry is "...emotion recollected in tranquility." The following poem begins an arc which starts at the beginning of a long-distance dating relationship that ended with me returning home after a year and marrying the girl, and continues through a waning marriage to its end. Very painful for me, but I hope enjoyable for you.

I have always been a formalist poetically, and like Shakespeare, so I thought the sonnet would make an excellent vehicle for my romantic feelings.


To My Love Upon Leaving for College

A warning dawn leaks sanguine through my mind
with brewing threats of swiftly rolling hours,
with flashes of the sadness we shall find
when time pours down on mine and yours, not ours.
And closer than feels safe the rumblings sound
out dolor for two hearts, haplessly marked
to be beneath those loudly pitch days drown'd,
or lose themselves in gusts of love unmarked.
But we would fain these rueful winds defy
by crescent hope rooted in certainty
that weath'red storms will love intensify,
that time will water our magnan'mity.
Each drop of time upon my lonely brow
will, to its torment, watch my fondness grow.

Poet's thought

Everyone needs a little irony in their diet, and this poem is chock-full of it. I was very frustrated at not being able to think of anything to write, so I wrote this.


I never could see a poet's thought;
I read little in his face --
just the bright, piercing eyes, squinting
as if looking from a distance at the word, coaxing
to light willfully its shiest secrets for men
who see naught in aught at the last.

His distant smile seems to boast that it understands
the spells his pen incants, while wrinkles
gather about these soft invocations, curious,
straining like children listening
for what old eyes have learned.

I never could read a poet's thought;
I see little in his words --
just the rough texture of sandpaper-syllables,
dots and commas poised to pierce the skin
and spill forth a pain called thought and my wish
that just once I could bend far enough over
to drip onto eloquent paper
an original verse.

Day at the Beach

Here I tried to capture a typical day at the beach for me when I was a kid. The preparation and the drive there seemed to take so long because we were excited. We'd spend all day there, leaving only at dusk, and I'd always get a sunburn even though my mom slathered sunscreen on me.


Morning started slowly,
as we threw yesterday's potato salad
in a red Igloo cooler, cramming
bags of towels and swimsuits
into the green '66 Volvo station wagon.
Roads like time stretched
through watermelon fields and cabbage rows
that met in the distance,
and we watched for white dunes
until salt burned in our nostrils and we swore
we heard the rush of waves
above the engine's roar.
Gray castles ruled coquina kingdoms,
but we ate cold fried chicken
and greasy orange soda,
faithful subjects in a fiddler-crab's demesne.
Treasures lived in warm tide-pools
when the sun dipped low,
and we hunted crawling stars
and followed the shallow, rippling seas
until they dried up,
and red coals burned across our backs
from the West,
and we went home.

Poem: Haunted House

When I was ten, my folks helped a young couple move into this old house that had a history of tenants suddenly leaving for various reasons. The most recent tenants had left a lot of stuff behind, as if they'd been in a terrible hurry, so that had to be moved out first. In addition, a large nest of hornets had made their home near the top of the stairs, so they had to be sprayed.

My brother and I were not as a rule afraid of old structures, but this place terrified us -- especially upstairs, and particularly the third bedroom; even in full daylight it took everything in me to stand in the doorway and not run away.

Years later I wrote this poem, then drove out to find the old house and take some pictures with my mom's old Brownie camera. She'd taken a few pictures on the roll; I took several of the house to illustrate my poem. Then I gave the camera back and she finished the roll. When she got the pictures developed, hers turned out fine, but mine looked like I'd left the lens cap on, completely black. Except, Brownie cameras don't have lens caps.

Oh, and that couple didn't stay long in the house. I didn't find out why.


Haunted House

Those live who scoff at dreary haunts and laugh when others' eyes grow wide,
but no man knows a haunted house, or not, unless he's been inside --
and yes, I have, once or twice, and dared myself through darkened rooms,
whose seeping silence sapped a thrill unmatched by any carnival ride.

Cadav'rous it was, cold-gray from neglect, two stories and eerily haunting to see,
inside: a plethora of corners and halls, and even a narrow, walled staircase, and bees.
Yes, hornets haunted the upper rooms and begrudged the movement of any who called,
and even the Windows glared in at the gloom and despaired at the state they did not want to be.

In rooms there dwelt a chilly Fear that dully clothed itself in dust,
and hugged in-comers for their warmth, 'til they grew numb, as all men must.
But up the stairs and down the hall resided a Dread most cold of all,
which begged me please, good sir, to leave, and let the creaky doors to rust.

The House could tell its own brief tales of tenants come and quickly moved on,
and long years left between the days, when darkness slept past outside's dawn.
But charity brought me to ready this house, to rake back the age from the dead, leafy lawn
and dispose of the last tenants' worldly effects for a couple who nervously came, then were gone.

Poem: Dead Man Mountain

Here is another poem I wrote after hearing a sad story of a sharecropper in the Ouachita mountains of western Arkansas. I tried to be true to the story as I heard it.


Dead Man Mountain

Once, through my youth, a poor man passed and travell'd by a lonely path
that oft' I wander in my thoughts to grieve for prey of Fortune's wrath.
The trav'ler left a shadowed past and in the valleys fell at last
to strike a deal to rent the land a failing farmer leased too fast.

'Twas sixty acres that he planted, cotton that he quickly sowed,
yet carefully, lest any foot yield less than that he thought it owed.
And then he waited for the harvest, waited while Job with him watched --
he watched the cotton grow and ripen: dress and shirt and rag and swatch.

At last there came the day when oven-sun and earth had done their work,
and cotton burst like downy popcorn -- long-awaited harvest work.
Then frantic'ly he reaped the cotton, labored on the mountainside
and filled his wagon, yoked his horses, whipped them t'ward a two-day ride.

And in the farmer's name (by law) the poor man sold his cotton crop,
but cash-rain fell to credit's claws and to his hands fell not a drop.
Then, as he climbed into the wagon, empty now of all but pride,
his head held high, his rough face stern, he closed his eyes to life and cried.

At journey's end he found himself, and so he stepped down from his life,
hung up the reins with weary hands, now spent and cotton callouse-rife,
and shook his lowered, thinning head -- he moved his lips as if to pray --
"A pair of shoes was all I wanted. . ." that was all he found to say.

And then he left us, wending up a mountain man had yet to name,
but as he went, we each looked down to see his feet (though more for shame)
were bare as newborn babes', but rough from years of toil and war with sod --
then he was gone, adopted by the nameless mountain near to God.

A few years later on that mount, a skeleton men sadly found
and gave a long-deserved fun'ral -- buried it in hallowed ground.
And then and there they named that mountain, named it Dead Man for the soul
whom Fate had found her finest fool, whom life could torment, death, console.

Welcome!

Welcome to my new blog. If you are interested in science fiction, poetry, Christianity, or my opinion and revelations in general, you will find them here, updated at least weekly I hope. As for poetry, I haven't written since college, so my own is limited; I may link to others I like when that runs out. For now, I will start with one I wrote that others have enjoyed.


Thunder Clouds

Swift, gray children run laughing past growling winds,
scattering their footsteps in puddles and rivulets.
Dizzily, they dance among shaded daisies and pounce on angry tin roofs
until Prettiness catches their dark, excited eyes,
and they shout their delight as they gaily stoop to touch their fancy
with electric fingers.