one second
falls next to
the other
dripping
slowing like water
forming
on the glass
coalescing tears
that rain the day
converging
colors blotted
drop by
drop
Monthly Archives: September 2014
little stories
sweeping the sands for treasure
what was once cast aside
transformed into a new prize
polished and worn by water
lines the shelf with promise
another day’s adventures
smiles upon your emptiness
provides a sense of home
memories of little hands
brushing a golden crown
the songs that filled the air
each with their own story
alone
Na Mata
Between blues skies and tangerines
frogs sing in trees
children swim naked in dark waters
the smell of green fills your lungs
with life, rich and hopeful.
Light vibrates through the foliage
dancing on the forest floor
to shimmer across the body
of a lover’s embrace
like a silent movie kiss.
The heat rises in misty wetness
obscuring the farthest recesses
of this jungle’s memory
where sleeping magic waits
your return from hunger.
“Return to me,
come, come…”
is the call.
The Way Long
The air is still chill though
the sun shines bright
no one notices the blooms
that push past winter
as they pass through
the archway into the darkness
of this stone fortress
memories once held finer times.
So much lost with time,
seconds dull the senses
yet the search continues for
a place amongst the stones
only mortar, leather and wool,
curtains and curtsies,
that can never go back
It’s a long way home…
Seasons
in the face of
trembling color captured
while planning the fall
Impetuous fever
blushes
‘cross satin cheeks
while someone watches
Bitter apples
bite back
blood-stained lips of regret
while sandcastles die
Shedding armor cast
earthward
like warm summer rain
while riding the release
Thunderous music swells up
inside out
creating waves across skin
while the skies part
flavors and tones…
lost their
seasons.
If
If I could fly I would travel home carried by the breath of God silent in flight simple in sight Over the desert I’d roam. If I could dance If I could read If I could see If I could BE -Previously Publishes 1989 Poetic Page |
silent the watcher
at the end of language
the world bends
a cool stream through
green hills and listen
see the feeling
bird-feathers sway down
they dance in the draft
that circles your room
circles in circles move
touch speak in the twilight
daydreams trap hopeful
your golden slope of neck
with this morning light
caresses curves
untold illusions of God
and the awful rowing
toward his watchfulness
that harsh standard
of home, yet still
isolation now resembles
nightmares the true solitude
those glints off
darkened water so far
gems captured in light
as dewdrops drip
from fanning forest green
green bananas and song
little red canoe floats
the river, lost in the
moment, jumping off
the rooftops into the
river below, children
gather around the
storyteller as she
creates another wonder,
old Brazilian sayings
and the time he thought
that he could eat all
those green bananas,
homemade dolls made
old corn husks, bows
and arrows, and fishing
with a stick, the river
gave and it took, what
remains only faded
images, stories told
now to youngest
singing, “Menina, vai,
com jeito vai
Senão um dia a
casa cai.”
fading
waiting, waiting, for
the storm to pass while
gatherings form, disappear
the changing form with
movement from one place
to the next, searching the
silence for answers, only
known within, forms the
lyrics that fill pages with
passion dripping each word
heavy your heart continues
the empty beaches’ stroll
tiny shells and coral pockets
remnants of that time
before the fading began,
reflections
old man walking
smiling dog close beside
a young child’s
luscious laughter
daddy in tow
red wagon splashing
while leaves spill
out from glistening
trees lining the walk
little bugs twirl and dance
as women tosses hair
exposes rosy lips
whistling the hours away
time collapses upon
the reflections of
what the deluge
left behind
wrapped in blue
city lights
caught the butterfly
green shoots come
push past the many
broken glass knows
what reflections invert
back to earth
your mother crying
for this
forest scent
before rain
that pause of leaf
of sky
almost touching
the insatiable reach
across
dew laden ferns
polished stone
and the day
comes
gently
takes you in.
fractured
upon a once only time
tumbled Jill after
i took the blade
made her cloth
of bridge twine
troll roared
at trampling goat gruff
be nimble, be quick
down let
your long hair
amid his fragile
monstrosity
lining the fallen
wall
no more
moon jumping
i stare
wondering
‘neath
undulating stars.
- Previously publish under marc says, maysa says
Renga Rounds
Marco Ashcroft & Maysa Peterson
between the capture breath and pane
the crossing
back there gates swung in dust
watchtower stood
brooding the dead city
devastation lingers
fierce silhouettes
of passion spent
jagged rock bleeds
thoughts of you
amid the bleached bone
of red hair
lighting the crossroads
hunger rises again
the lost and the lonely
beneath a stone
your image taunts
i follow.
- Previously published in marc says, maysa says
Renga Rounds 1998
by Marco Ashcroft and Maysa Peterson
captured
woven
Sirius looks
down
upon
the chill
hanging
the moment
when first
we met
a keenness
beats
evening’s
chill calling
electric kisses
blushes
the
night
waiting
stars streaking
the long
ride
glances
across
the dim
light
searching
fingers
find
ing hands
knitted together
that offer
comfort
woven.
waves
slices
razor’s edge
darkness still possesses color
what remains of yesterday
while sleep illusive tip toes
away, ghosts from other rooms
demand attention, awakening
that same pain reminder of
the coming day’s events, how
what was, will never be again
cuts the landscape’s edges
bring awareness center stage.