palm branches – March 25

Posted on March 25, 2013 by landl30

3.24

palm branches in the land of

palms, for the king of kings,

come in little crosses, the fronds

taken for granted.

 

like gifts of our souls that we

overlook because they are

so close to us we cannot

see them, they beckon.

—————–

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old friends – March 24

Posted on March 24, 2013 by landl30

3.24

Old friends, wise in years and play

gathering us around their home table

to share a glass, a song, remembrances.

 

Lives well lived, in a small town that shone

in the holly covered windings

over fences and yards, cottages and

cold cabins, that in memory

become the places of forever.

 

He smoked his first cigarette on that porch,

threw a ball over the wall into the neighbor

yard that no longer exits, yet does in the

memory that bridges over the mere

formality of current time.

 

A life lived in a small place, yet wide,

joy and music in the eye, patience

and knowing in that open smile. History

memory, both malleable, mattering only

in the liveliness of the love they served.

————————

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spring fever – March 23

Posted on March 24, 2013 by landl30

3.23

I smell the loose warm air of spring

and fall into my fever… lackadaisical,

nappy, desiring nothing so much as

the closing of eyes and ease.

 

She, on the other hand, rises to new

heights of enthusiasm. Things to be

done, projects to be joined after the long

winter’s hibernation

 

I cite my New Englandishness in defense of

my version; fever not of leaping about, but of my

introvert’s resolving down into the innerness of

recharging. She, the extro, scoffs and assures

me that it is the leap out into action which renews.

 

Each could work, I guess. But not right now.

Right now  …[ yawn]… I need a moment to

sink down, and close these peepers. Wake me

when the summer comes.

—————————————-

 

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In the magic undercroft of my dreams – March 22

Posted on March 22, 2013 by landl30

3.22

In the magic undercroft of my dreams,

a central temple room lined with

white fluted columns, recessed panels

of dark night sky dotted with stars between.

Above, a pale reflected light illumines

the open surround.

 

And Jesus walks through, in a dark night-blue gown,

with crown of thorns. Slender and hidden of face.

He simply walks across the space of my dream

room, and out through one of the panels

which is a door.

 

The image still haunts me. There in my cellar

Jesus walks through without a word

and on out to whatever lies beyond

the hidden secret doors.

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