January 6.21: Coping

Comes now night’s black broom,

sweeping citric glow

over earth’s long arc

into some tomorrow.

Two planets meet the while

in astronomical collusion,

appearing in a oneness

of ballyhooed illusion.

It isn’t the conjunction but

the difference that’s grand

between what we can see

and what we understand.

 

Thanks and congratulations on capturing the Conjunction to S.W. Berg.

My apologies, dear reader:

the Conjunction faded in the transfer

to my blog. I hope you can see it!

Although this post is coincidence,

I cannot help noting this is Little Christmas.

The tradition of the star may not be universal

but human searching surely is.

 

 

November 8.20: Coping

Moonpath,

silk road,

where some fragment of soul

follows the bright water,

trading calumny of day

for the horizon

of a lavender night

and pillow’d dreams.

 

 

With more thanks to photographer S.W. Berg,

and with wishes that my tired country

can find peace within itself.

 

October 4.20: Coping

If I breathe,

will I hurt the air,

will I break the moon,

shatter, tear

this moment

frail, silvern,

when crickets whisper

Chopin nocturne?

July 5.20: Coping

From a purpling east

in pompadoured peach

toward twilight sun

they’ll never reach —

no matter: in beauty

airy, narcotic

they revel in being

 purely quixotic.

 

 

May 7.20: Coping

In song to the moon

at end of day

Robin chirps

his roundelay,

the lyrics rising

plaintively:

What fools, what fools

these mortals be!

 

OK, dear reader, not all. Not all.

 

Thanks to Shakespeare for his ever-timely words,

and thanks to Robin for holding still.

April 8.20: Coping

Did you see it rise

majestic, slow

serene and massive

transient glow?

So brief a candle

in minutes gone

as night enfolds

with note of dawn.

 

With thanks to The Bard.

And kudos to the moon for its show last night!

 

February 28.20

Night light

wind with bite

bitter air

mocking chair

message clear:

don’t sit here.

 

 

February 6.20

The ice of contempt

word-borne

(or not)

cuts

like sleet shard/

snuffs thought

in tight cocoon/

enshrouds

the limp remains

of reason/

thriving in cold dark

whimpering wetly

in warm light/

rhinestoned

glittering

hard.

 

September 15.19

September night

thick-aired, damp,

heavy with weight of day,

slow as prayer

raises the moon

ruddy gold

soon ice white

but,

for this brief Now

of autumn rite,

glowing fermata

over a thousand crickets

piping.

 

 

January 24.19

 

Night lingers

in cobalt shadow

while stars dawdle

on winter’s bones.