Words Fail

 

For Poet’s United, Midweek Motif.  Sumana has the prompt which is words.

Words Fail

“Actions speak louder than words” – old proverb

Words –
A poor way to communicate.
How often words are taken amiss –
to cause anger, make glad, cause tears,
a different language sounds like gibberish –
reduce one to helpless snorts and guffaws.

the touch of a gentle hand upon one’s shoulder
a smile, a frown, the rolling of the eyes,
lips pursed or a blush –
the wind through the trees
the soft peep of peepers down at the creek
on a warm summer night
or the hooting of an owl
in a crystal night with a sky full of stars
in the depths of a cold winter night…
the things that speak to the soul
rather than to the ears –
Words.
Words can fail.

Open Link Night 165: Pine Barrens

This is for dVerse Open Link – poems of all forms and subjects can be linked today.  I am submitting a portion from a long cyle in progress:  Pine Barrens.  It is in the style of the imagists.  Eventually, there may be haiku or tanka as part of this cycle.  This is an area that has intrigued me since I first visited thirty years ago.  Come visit us for other poems or submit you own at: http://dversepoets.com/2016/02/04/openlinknight-165/
VIII
An alien land
Sugar sand
Scrub pines
Tall pines
Cedars –
Water – serene streams
Calm rivers
Blue hole – bright blue
Fathomless depths
Unfreezing in coldest winter
People disappear in its depths

A haunted land
Ghosts of long dead buildings
Long gone families
Crumbling brick skeletons
the pine barrens slowly
obliterate traces of civilization
unwelcome in this place
people disappear in its depths

Only the trees remain
Only the animals remain
Only the water remains
only the sky remains
only the silence remains

We are merely visitors there
Welcome as long as we leave quickly
and without a trace behind
People disappear in its depths

Pinelands Preservation Alliance photo

Pinelands Preservation Alliance photo

;

 

Wordless Wednesday: Lucky Clover Necklace for Clowie

CAM00562

Image

Friday Flowers – Azaleas

Here are just a few of the 30 azaleas around our house and on our grounds.  Most of them are taller than me and several are roof high.  Enjoy!

              

wood azaleas          red azalea       bee and azalea       midnight sun clusters     fuschia azalea     white azalea close     May side yard azaleas1

 

 

November 6, 1987 The Braid

The night we stood on the walkway of the bridge
Looking up at the full moon.
You looked down at its reflection on the river,
And said to me, Do you want the moon?
I’ll go down, get, and bring it to you,
A double handful at a time.
I looked up into your eyes
And saw you were speaking truth.
You are all I want. You are enough.
One year ago to the day
You had looked through your men
At me and said, your hair smells of Mitsouko.
And gently touched the long braid of my hair.

Seven years later, I stand at the same place
On the walkway of the bridge, alone.
You left a year ago.

You loved my hair – thick and wavy with occasional threads of
White. Soft and fine as a silk thread you told me.
You’d bury your face in it
After you had taken off the silly
Rubber band I used to hold the end of the braid,
Or after you had pulled out one of the kanzashi
You brought me back, watching
As my hair flowed down.
“nagareochiru taki” You would whisper.
“Sono taki wa kirei desu.”

I stand now in the same place you stood.
I try to reach back to
Those years ago you offered me the moon.
I try to pull together the essence of you
Tight around me like a cocoon.
My heart seeks the smell of you:
Bee and flower sandalwood soap, surgical scrub,
The heady musk of your skin.

Only the moonless night and the green cold
Smell of the river are with me on the bridge.
I pull scissors from my bag and begin to
Cut my braid at my nape.
It still smells of Mitsouko.
I throw it down into the river.
The river swallows it and keeps
Its secrets.

October Haiku

 

Golden leaves drip dew.

Pine needle path leads us to

Fragrant  adventures.

 

Hidden among dry leaves

Empty hulls nestle.  Pecans

Wait to be discovered.

 

Red flags of sumac

Wave against an ocean of

Blue sky.  Clouds race.

 

Burgeoning leaves.

Parti-colored crayon box

Of gold red orange brown.

 

Faded leaves beautiful

In their fallen array.

Ageless pattern a reminder

That beauty is not

Always young.   

Fragrance is not always green

And strong, but delicate

And to be savored slowly.

 

First frost covers the

Grass.  Morning sun

Melts until night comes again.

 

The taste of rain cold

and sweet falls from iron sky.

My lips ask for more.

 

Darkness falls too fast.

Sun fades and disappears

Like summer flowers.

January Solitude Part II 2:14 am

I awaken.

Lying in the warmth of the bed

I orient myself to the strange room.

I snuggle in with satisfaction.

I am at the beach.

I am alone.

The sliding glass door

Off the balcony is cracked.

Ocean waves slough softly.

The air has a sweet smell

In addition to the salt.

I breathe more deeply

Testing the smell.

Sweet with salt?

Out of the bed and into my robe

And slippers.

I open the balcony door completely

And step outside.

It is snowing.

I stand and watch the flakes

Hurrying down to nestle on the sand.

Flakes gather on my hair

My robe

My hands and face.

Snow and ocean.

Sweet and salt.

Back into the room

And I rush to put on my clothing

And down jacket, gloves, and hat.

I grab the door key and out

Into the night.

No one is around.

I cross the sand and

Go to the edge of the surf.

Black waves, white foam

Dark sand, white snow.

I wave my arms and jump up and down.

Snow snow snow snow!

Ocean snow ocean snow!

I laugh and hold my face to the sky.

Flakes settle on my skin, my glasses.

I stick out my tongue and taste snow.

I walk along the edge.

Because of my boots,

I walk close enough

For water to touch me.

Snow and surf.

Snow and sand.

Darkness to my left.

Hotels barely lit to my right.

After awhile, I turn and head back.

Shells on the sand

Are fuzzy with snow.

Snow melts on the sand.

I turn back to the surf.

The flakes are falling faster,

Disappearing into the blackness

Of the ebbing waves.

I stand until my face is numb

And my nose runs with the cold.

I hold out my hands to collect

Flakes on my gloves.

They stay long enough for me to

Fall in love with each one

And then they disappear.

 

 

Previous Older Entries

%d bloggers like this: