Dawning

Dawn sneaks across the sky
in painted beauty, prismatic gleams,

a soft kiss to bid the dark night farewell,
serenaded by the mourning dove

a dream awaited, anticipated –
a flame to enrapture the soul.

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Update: PoetryDances.ning.com

Tooting my own horn, here - I was selected as a Favorite Writer for the Quarter on Poetry Dances.  I really appreciate this as there are many, many excellant poets in this forum. 

Thank you, Poetry Dances!

http://www.poetrydances.com/favoritewritersnovjan10.htm

For additional news, please check out the following link:

http://www.pr.com/press-release/196189

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Shall I . . . ?

You say that you can’t go on, that it all feels too much . . .


Shall I agree that this is the only way, that nothing will ever improve?

Shall I grant you permission, or solace, or your need for forgiveness?

Shall I give you leave to end your life upon this Earth?

No, that I will not do.


Shall I sing a song of tear-cried rivers from anguished souls left behind?

Shall I tell you of my angry heart that rages against allowing your light to die?

Or, shall I fight for you, and with you until the day you draw your last breath?

Oh, yes, THAT I will do.

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You Must be This High to Ride

The photo displayed a lovely
woman with hand held
up measuring the distance
between earth and sky.

Below were the words
“You must be this high
to ride.” Not so different
from the States, I thought.

Then a trumpeting roar
came calling upon my ears
and with it, the realization,
that pachyderm wasn’t

fiberglass, but living, breathing,
trumpeting, and possibly
very upset. It was ALIVE!

I think I’ll skip the ride,
but thank you all the same.

(http://poetrydances.ning.com/group/prompz/forum/topics/prompz-17?page=1&commentId=2834822%3AComment%3A30912&x=1#2834822Comment30912)

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Ancient Song

As the last kiss of night waltzes
with dawn’s light across the melancholy
sky, shimmering fog hovers, masking
the forest eternal in blanketed silence.

A blur crosses visual periphery as one denizen
of this wild abode sneaks homeward from nightly
revel. No populace, no towering concrete nor steel.

No overrun of vehicular smog, no noise, just still
surround. Above, a canopy of wild green dripping
condensate; below, leaf pack muffling this visitor’s
progress and behind, solitary footprints. Ahead,

a tunnel leads to a secret place. Glimmering light
guides this seeker through encompassing woods,
each step one closer to a singular miracle. Sudden

arrival stutters the breath into a duet with the soughing
breeze rippling all around. My sanctuary, nature's chapel,
a grove of old ones encircles a clearing, a woodland
garden ablaze, a firestorm in red, and a stream singing

an ancient song to guide this seeker home.

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