In Wallace Steven’s style

 

Seasonal Notebook Thoughts, 17 x 17

Summer’s final breath,

ravens scouting this year’s nests,

monks still pray for peace.

Autumn’s first breezes,

humans spy as we build homes,

wrens find peace mid-air. 

Days of thanksgiving

abound with friendship and joy.

There is bliss in peace.

Seeking awareness

before winter’s arrival.

Peace may still flow in.

As winter draws near,

perhaps we’ll tread consciously.

Peace is every step.

Clouds of December,

painting paths and rooftops white. 

Peace in the village.

Frosted serenades

accent winter’s frozen sleeps.

Dawn’s peace comes slowly.

Living mindfully

in the holiday bedlam.

Peace is a challenge.

Winter’s fire is banked,

air dancing above hard coals

At peace in my bed.

Spring is not summer.

Pickles aren’t yet cucumbers.

Peace is who one is.

Soft blue, like the sky

in the first kiss of summer.

Peace, carried by doves. 

She sang of summer,

winter’s grip soon forgotten.

Peace always trumps fear.

Life is as it is.

No need to create anew.

Peace is snow and sun.

Elders learn by fall

that summer’s crises soon end.

Peace will come with calm.

All of man’s seasons

bring natural inventions,

peace the best of them.

One is not separate

from the earth at any time.

With peace, all are one.

There’s but one question,

summer, winter, spring and fall.

Will one work for peace?

The Day After

 Graduation Day

On the day after 

my “final” session,

my “last” day with

my brilliant PTSD therapist,

I mostly gnashed my teeth,

tried to get some sleep,

still felt the pain beneath,

tamped down the urge to weep.

Even with helpful friends,

a patient and adoring wife,

I knew that graduation day 

left me with more work to do,

as the sentence was for life.

It was time to stand tall,

shoulders back,

not focus on the lack,

behave like a Marine,

treat myself like 

someone who can ask for 

deserved help, 

whenever madness or

panic attacks returned 

to my daily scene.

Years later now,

life goes on,

as I live it with 

bold common sense,

aggressive simplicity,

and my version of faith.

And poetry, let’s not forget,

and always, a cat to pet.

A night poem

 

Potential 

In that time the ancients

called the death mist,

others the black sun,

he knows it as

the ‘tween times,

before new day has begun.

He mostly sleeps well,

though frequently turning in place,

recalling the presence of Spirit,

knowing he lives in grace.

Still, ideas spring unbidden,

perhaps prompted by moonlight,

deep meditation not required.

Great rhymes are found, written down,

or lost, no matter how inspired.

It’s the night shift,

poems bathed in shadow,

starlight used to burn

the words in stanzas,

each spinning on its axis,

a muse-ical nocturne.

Poems have always come at night,

though nicely drawn, 

they are words in flight,

too often lost, here then gone,

he’s unwilling to rise, bring the light, 

as perfect thoughts vanish before the dawn.