Posts Tagged ‘Grass’

I never knew that

opening the white door,

leaving the painted white porch,

and walking into the grass,

into the trees, out

onto the hill,

would open up a new world for me-

one that was not even far

from home-

until I did so.

I cherish this moment:

when the wind rolls in

with floral perfume,

when the grass bends-

as if in genuflection- and ripples,

when the birds warble

and their chirps burst like bubbles

and their piccolo-bones sound

their ascent,

when the children’s laughs echo

and fill emptiness where the birds and wind cannot,

when the trees seem to be carved rocks,

and their buds burst into bloom like fireworks,

when the flowers split into color and scatter

adding new shades with the buds of the trees.

This moment is

exquisitely orchestrated.

Wheat Fields Under Cloudy Skies

painting by Vincent van Gogh

Sky with its blue scales
does not daunt
pastoral fields- great pools
of emeralds, celadon-
the flowers at their fringes-
white stars, blood spots-
arcing under the wind.

The land is made of curves.
Clouds wheel in and out
of their own whiteness.
The wind is blurring
the world’s colors.
They are all within one another.

One day, I went out,

and the World Struck my Eye-

the Hills- the Grass- pleaded-

and I could only comply


by venturing forth

into the Warm air-

this solace, like Eternity,

was not simple- but- Fair.

This will thrill

like the sun, anxiety

of spring undoing

the old curse

of cold overstayed.

And the green pushes up,

unfurls like a map of stars,

and ribbed transparent stalactites

fall to shatter into

the earth. A new

song will flit over the hills.

To what Lengths does

the green lawn Grass grow?

In this Modern Age, it seems,

That we’ll never Know.

Two Things

Posted: December 11, 2013 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

There are two things I must do.

One is live,

not simply breathe in the salt air of the ocean,

but wade in its watery body, feeling the tide

teethe and ripple against me;

not simply walk on glacial hills,

or in whispering emerald field of grass, or on gray sidewalks,

but stroll, and gaze,

and feel the solid ground vibrate smally with each step I take on it

and see the smallest of miracles- ants or flakes, cracks in stone

even at from the distance of my full height.


Secondly, I must do what all humans must.

I must die,

whether by wind ripping my soul into its vacuous center,

or by water pulling my body down to its bubbling hearth.

I must let go of that last breath,

that final whisper.

I must speak final words.