Sight Lines.........seeing God in all of life

Loitering Outside of Spring

  The moon, full of itself in

a crisp sky, lights up the vapor

from a resigned sigh into chilled air.

Indian summer has acquiesced to autumn,

early fall to first frost, and I don't feel ready

for another winter that seals the garden

and shuts off circulation.

 

-- rLp--

Playing God and Matchmaker

 
Two ladybugs scout the entire landscape of my hand

and the peninsulas of my fingers.

I manage to get them briefly introduced near

the outer bone of my wrist but

they merely acknowledge each other like

polite strangers on a sidewalk, or like

two adults in a grocery aisle when the cereal

shopper’s buggy is over the invisible yellow line,

leaving insufficient room for the rice seeker to pass.

 

The lady is quite still in my palm, asleep

or at perfect peace with my skin,

while her neighbor is frantically

trying to steal my watch.

 

If I turned them back every time

they reached the crisp white cuff of my shirt and

confined them to this island, would they

ever become friends, or even lovers,

or would they forever complain of their loneliness

and the absence of leaves?

 

--- rLp--

October in Tennessee

A hot air balloon is coming in

over the tree line, which

is the right thing to do on a Sunday afternoon

when the oak shadows are edging

across the field.

 

I’ll sit here with my bought coffee, and

pretend it’s better than it is,

till the tip of that tallest shadow

reaches the fence by the stables.

 

It seems so long ago that I secured

the patent on my life, and I can only

guess how many more autumns I have

to complete the project.

 

The shadows have wrapped their fingers

around the pickets, so I pull the plastic lid off

and pour out the remains of the day,

a good day,

the sun and the craft aloft

setting on opposite ends of the earth.

 

   --rLp--

Defeat Has No Banner

When the losses mount,

it hollows out the legs and leadens the feet,

the shoulders fold in and sink the chest,

and the slope of the climb turns steeper

than the heart's descent.

   

-- rLp--

Ghost Writer

I met a man who told me

that he writes poetry with a #2 pencil on

scrap pieces of paper and

throws the poems away

when they are complete and perfect.

      But no one can read them, I protested.

      Nor judge my heart, he replied.

                                                         --rLp--

Movie Review

No poetry here. Not even sure how coherent my thoughts will be. I just finished watching the film Seven Pounds and am processing it on many levels. But that makes it sound like I'm analyzing it, which is more cerebral than what I'm doing. It's more about feelings that it stirred up in me and I went to the dark front porch just to feel them. Not so much to understand them but to accept them, or at least try. 

The neighbor's cat came over to keep me company. I tried to explain, but not very well and not for very long. So we sat there together in the moon spotted blackness and just let the night be itself.

                                                           ---rLp

Missing Person

 

As a detective he knew what to look for

at the scene of a disappearance--the signs

of resistance and struggle, the manner of entry,

means of getaway.  He knew

what questions to ask himself

before asking others.

 

But the walls had pledged a vow of silence,

and a defiant air swirled its secrets into 

something like marble.

 

There were clues here, he knew it;

even if they were buried seeds, he

would wait out the budding. He would

cut the voice out from the wood if he had to.

 

There must be

                    a sign,

                           there’s always

                                                  a sign,

a spot of blood, a fabric thread caught on an edge,

a glass almost full, a book laid open,

furniture feet not in their carpet shoes.

      

          Everything, don’t you see,

everything is riding on

seeing the glimmer of the smallest shard of

something he could call evidence

because this was it, this was the room without a doubt,

this room of remembrance, the last place he

saw himself alive.

                                                                                        ---RLP

Why Clouds Must Not Loiter

No same cloud can

long veil a stayed star or

fixed moon in the sky

or in the heart.

 

 

Such nomadic vapors

have no engines of their own

nor anchors to secure an eclipse

of permanent and patient lights.

                             ---  RLP

 

Late Summer Tea

( I wrote this today while in World Cup of Tea and gave to the owner the handwritten final copy with the umbrella attached )

 

There is a green and yellow iris design

in the crepe paper umbrella, pierced

with an orange sipping straw for a handle,

a tiny canopy hovering over my sangria iced tea.

 

It protects the chilled tang from

ultra-violent rays that wage war against

ice and all things that would hold their form.

 

In June we propped ourselves up beneath

a rented beach umbrella, lounge chairs

parallel as train tracks,

facing a deserted shore

save one pasty family of five,

two minds filling their sails and racing away,

tongues anchored and

conversation docked, the kinder words

already fed to the gulls.

Journey to Everest

I invite you to view the trailer to this spectacular adventure documentary by film maker David Kiern which premiered on Thursday night here in Franklin.

 

 

 

 

 

 

click here to view trailer>>> www.davidkiern.com/everest.html 

Once on the site click the small Play > button to begin viewing the trailer