the plaintive calls

in this temporary lull…

in the stall that passes for a quiet pause…

the sigh between stoplights winking…

through another relentless rumbling evening rush,
.
.
i can hear the faint… the plaintive calls.

like memories echoing down narrow windowed canyon walls

a slow whitened silhouette a blur above rooftops,

entrails across the smoke dark shroud of sky.
.
.
a lone seagull…

aloft in her weightless circles calling…

pleading our cause that carnivorous Winter release

it’s talon grip on our weathered psyches.
.
.
this colossal metropolis

frayed and weary along its steely margins,

holding a collective breath praying for relief

for signs our resolve has slain the beast.
.
.
to be home… and warm is a primal lure

and cars have little patience for an inconvenient reverie,

but i have witnessed Spring’s first inland gull

and believe her plea was not in vain.
.
.
heartened and invigorated now,

windows down i invite the viper wind

to hiss his last stinging breaths on my skin

and tangle my hair as i drive.

the first sound…and the last

Myth
You cant keep hangin’ on
To all that’s dead and gone
Oh, let the ashes fly

Help me to make it
Help me to make it
.

.
.
.
.
the first sound…and the last
.
.
.
in the quiet before sunrise…
.
before this relentless world awakes…
.
at the window silhouette of my
.
alone listening…
.
.
i hear the first of morning’s call,
.
faint from the dense of sheltering evergreens…
.
alighting from February’s greyed and leafless branches…
.
in slow breaths past your sleeping lips…
.
.
i can hear our shared living mystery recital
.
whispered deep within your down pillowed dreams,
.
the serendipitous and storied soliloquy of
.
our improbable union of years.
.
.
in destiny devoted season after season…
.
that even in this cruelest of another Winter cold,
.
we can still scorch
.
in the white of our own flame.
.
.
and still… this fool romantic’s heart
.
could believe only Love beckons reconciliation,
.
but a slow and greying wisdom wonders
.
‘is it our friendship we can’t live without?’
.
.
.
.
and outside our window long past sundown…
.
when the world has turned away…
.
i hear the life mating cardinals, like us
.
a fated pair
.
.

.
.
calling each other home to close another day.
.
we are as the Universe demands, and how
.
i’m forever grateful it’s your voice i hear.
.
.
the first sound…
.
.
and the last.
.
.
.
.
drawing approx. 8″ x 8″ on vellum paper
pencil, watercolor pencil, white and black marker,
acrylic paint and sourced from various Google pics
click to enlarge

bravely white on white…..Tanka

.
.
.

parchment paper birch

standing bravely white on white,

deep in snow… on snow.

its textured history bared

like ours… in subtle details.

.
.

slow nuanced layers,

peeled away in time… with trust…

from pretense and fear.
.
.
patiently waiting…alone,

hoping our Truth will be found.
.
.

.
.
pencil, watercolor pencil, acrylic paint,
paint markers, approx. 8″x8″ on vellum paper
sourced from various Google pics and my imagination.
click image to enlarge

even the sparrow….Haiku/Tanka

a relentless snow
.
drifts in consuming whiteout…
.
will i disappear,
.
succumb to the vampire wind
.
that would drain my soul to numb?
.
.
.
these eyes half open
.
in waking hibernation,
.
this heart a frail beat.
.
.
a frozen flatline…
.
waiting in emotional
.
ambiguity
.
.
for the morning Sun
.
to light… this desolate sky…
.
to wake… from this sleep…
.
.
.
the ambivalent
.
stare dead eyed past the wounded.
.
yet time and again
.
your brown eyes warm my shadows,
.
and mend these oft broken wings.
.
.

Hope turns skyward now…
.
beyond… this Season of Fear…
.
snow… falls ever white…
.
and Winter’s death has it’s Spring,
.
even the sparrow… finds food.
.
.
.

.
.
watercolor pencil, pencil,
black and white marker,
white acrylic paint
12″x 12″ vellum paper,
sourced from various pics
and my imagination
click for larger image

numb of Winters past

.
.
for years suspended

.
in the crevice of between…

.
regret or forget…
.
.
.
speaking or silence…

.
numb silhouette safe between

.
love and protection.
.
.
.
shadows disappear

.
in the white of fallen snow,

.
each Spring forgives the
.
.
.
impatient crocus.
.
.

.
.
Time erases shadows and

.
Love resolves the wounds.
.
.
.

inner quietude

.
.
.
.
alone and still in
.
.
my Chapel of Solitude,
.
.
i worship silence.
.
.
.
.
.

let the world….

.
.
.

let the world do as it will…
.
what pale light lingers of endless Winter days
.
fades from these eyes averted,
.
far away from this reluctant silhouette’s
.
anonymous imprints in greying sidewalk slush.
.
.
.

let the world do what it has…
.
i measure my walk lightly here in frugal steps
.
and speak less amidst the throng,
.
not belonging where i don’t an eager
.
trade of so many years in such meager wisdom.
.
.
.

so let the world do what it must…
.
that our words and value lie less in volume
.
than in selfless devotion’s daily intent.
.
this grateful heart returns Home

warm with aromas of pine scented candles and

food so lovingly prepared,
.
the eclectic comfort of all we’ve collected
.
of familiar voices and heartbeats
.
and know there is no world i need but ours.
.
.
.

Faith interwoven….Tanka/Haiku

.
.
.
.
evergreen boughs weigh
.
.
heavy with hungry sparrows
.
.
awaiting daybreak.
.
.
.
.
their hopeful chirping,
.
.
like sweet memories waken
.
.
a sleeping landscape.
.
.
.
.
our nature entwined
.
.
in Faith that a warming Sun
.
.
will rise once again.
.
.
.
.

December’s silent shroud

a song, video and words to explain my silence in December.
.
.

.
.
.
.

the too familiar turns and bends…
.
and statue still are the trees standing sentry tall
.
astride this white and weary Winter road,
.
my incessant journey of so many dreary and crippling seasons
.
recalling the somber memories etched decades deep
.
in gnarled bark and devoted wood.
.
.

how the infinite canopy arches in graceful bows,
.
laden branches kneel in gratitude to the peaceful sleep of snow.
.
i follow the trailing in frail voices of family i’ve lost,
.
of those i long to remember
.
swirling in the sliver of pause between
.
this world and another.
.
.

there is no hesitation in
.
passing through the Gate of Melancholia,
.
i wrap my solitude close in December’s silent shroud.
.
disowning my voice in sequestered quiet honoring memories now,
.
turning ever inward bowing in divine gratitude to those who
.
found me alone along this snowy road.
.
.
.
.

in pristine powder

.
.
.
how eerily silent
.
this low and permanent sky
.
weighed heavily in veils of gray,
.
that sunrise of so forsaken a faded light
.
announces morning from night.
.
.
.

falls and falls and falls
.
this relentless snow,
.
pillowing high on window sills
.
and muting each fresh sound it buries.
.
tentative voices die slow in drifts,
.
.
.

and this morning’s rush is
.
suspended in our collective complaint.
.
such swift surrender of steely urban arrogance,
.
as my skyscraper city is helplessly
.
brought to its knees.
.
.
.

yet the under world still spins
.
and wanders in merciless carousels
.
of cruel days after hungry nights,
.
the aimless trails of pre dawn paw prints
.
pattern the pristine powder.
.
.
.
.