Tuesday, September 18, 2018

How Restful Is the Rain

How Restful Is the Rain

How restful is the rain 
a soft hushing sound
that brings me awake 
to soft grey morning.

I’m quick to smile
close my eyes again
and cherish this gift
of sound for my soul

The ebb and rush of 
storm, a gentle tattoo
becomes an insistent
tapping pulse of drops

They wash over roof
clattering in gutters
bringing new sounds
to my drowsy mind

The water, I envision
It washes over roof tiles
through cracks to drip
on me upon my bed

It floods the floorboards
lifts the linens and 
gently swirls me away 
adrift on time’s current

I imagine opening eyes
to stare upward
leaves and branches
passing by to clouds

I spin like a leaf and turn
pelted and washed clean
water below buoying me 
upward to receive this gift

How restful is the rain


a fast write - some editing on the fly, but no real agonizing analysis of form or meter or rhyme - just flow of consciousness and imagery

NOTE: This is a new write ! Can it be that my drought is coming to an end ? I have hoped for a new burst of words, but it's been hard. So hard. This fast write is meant for a voice, I think. A soft whispering voice that is slow to read and that pauses over the lines and paces them like a slow reverie unfolding. 


Monday, August 13, 2018

Passing Through Wilmot

Passing Through Wilmot

Tonight old man, your spirit whispers,
“Take care of the fields, stoke the fires.
Close the shades against the sounds. 
Traffic is sure to come.”
It’s summer and Kearsage rises
In the haze of midday.
The old train station still aches
For the rumble and smoke.

Evenings still come on slow.
The tick of grasshoppers tease.
Grasses rustle and click
On the evening breeze.

The minions will surely gather,
To make the pilgrimage.
Wilmot will shudder and sigh,
Knowing that it's just your due.
The autumn’s breeze will descend.
The nights will become chill.
The view of Kearsage will open up
And on you’ll go to the night and stars.
Tonight, old man, your spirit demands,
“Feed the cat and come into the parlor.
There’s wine and talk. No need for a fire.
Let the breeze carry me out the open window.” 

on the passing of Donald Hall, a poem by Susan Lindquist - 6/24/2018

I love poetry. I'll never profess to be any good at it, but I love it. I love words. I love expression. I love the voice that can come to a written piece when it's read aloud. I've written a lot of what I call 'poetry' over the years, but have found myself in a drought for words since the passing of my Dad, Richard W. Miller. Today, on reading of the death of one of my poetic inspirations, the gates opened, if only for a few moments.

For more on one of America's finest poets ... https://lithub.com/donald-hall-poet-of-eagle-pond-farm/