Wednesday, December 31, 2008

Christmas Tree

Look to the tree, its coloured lights
blazing as if night's stars have fallen;
the branches cradle them
and reflect the faces that search
each pinnacled scape
for some glimpse of a more bearable side. Paradise

beneath, and among the fashioned Summered mosses, lay
the dreams of children, small hopes
pinned below a tree, fifty feet high. Boxes
gaily wrapped and ribboned, gifts
with sharpened edges and soft, beckon
to be touched, gently shaken. Soon,

all too soon, the blessed morning
arrives and delight surpasses
yesterday's wondering. Lights dim
against a backdrop of smiles and laughter.

Thursday, December 25, 2008

Nine charms

Hanging from twisted wire
coloured glass baubles dangle -
a necklace, chain laced beads
a no nonsense, no bounce
style. The only quirk, a catch
not halfway, drawn back
into a waterfall of links
holding space in each loop.
A rosary of disjointed emptiness.

Wednesday, December 24, 2008

San Francisco's wrought iron and Alcatraz

Among the screams for release
are the wrought iron gates
painted pink and pretty
in the curves that carve
the line between the jailed
and the free.

They are oddities,
out of place pieces
that really belong on the houses
that line the streets
of San Francisco.

They are there too, in the city,
painted black
and I wonder at the quirk,
the tease,
and which will stand longest
in a city to be flattened
by earthquakes.

Tuesday, December 23, 2008

What will be seen...

There will be craned necks,
stiffened from searching
concrete walls, spires
that pierce the sky
and spoil the promise
that would have arrived
with the first blessing
of dawn. Birds,
perched on facades gilded
with the fake reckoning
of a city that hides
the unpleasant
under layers of dark and duty,
will sing a morning prayer,
a welcoming to a new land
bereft of the familiar.

Thursday, December 18, 2008

Well below

It is not like you aren't up there,
wandering the sky beyond
those high clouds, lighting
the heavens with our dreams

of peace on earth, and goodwill
that we pray won't fly out the door
with those other hopes we've voiced
recently. I wonder

if you're always listening, if
you really want to hear
all the prayers that we send
constantly toward the stars

when the night reminds us
we should be on bent knees

before you. I kneel in the dark,
know you are above
and am aware I am well below.

Sunday, December 14, 2008

Out back in the garden

Out back in the garden
beyond the footed path
lay the corpses of snails,
silver trails washed away
with last season's windswept fury.

A few lifers remain hidden
up under ledges,
beneath rocks. Yet still
they peer out, intent on crossing
Summer's shadowless cobbles.