Violet morning
like youthful eyes in the face
of an aging year
Tag: poem
Layers
A window clutching lines of rain
the bramble of dew glistened thorns
waves of yellow topped stalks
the farmhouse looking sturdy
with sloping roof and distant white walls
a wisp of mist like prelude to Halloween
the mountains cold morning blue,
all folded one after the other
like stacks of clean laundry
straightened by some maternal hand
and behind them all,
the sky.
Conversation with a stranger
The meeting of our eyes was the weight of letters packaged and tied
flat in my palm, as I received them,
and every greeting was untying the strings that bound them.
You laughed and it was the sound of my finger hooked under the envelope’s mouth
and tearing—the smooth slip of opening—
and unfolding.
I agreed with the dreams you couldn’t keep off your tongue
and steadily we smoothed out
the pages of our separate hearts
and read them.
Dusk
old embers flit along the line of clouds,
like fingers strum horizon’s humming haze,
a distant note reverberates, on fire
and striking rain-soaked sky like lit up gasoline.
Grey echoes buzz, the mountains shake
are dancing through the flame
are casting shadows creaking like a closing door:
the hinges on a rusty autumn day
thrown into darkness thick as smoke
the last notes ringing in the night.
A Night on the Sahara
We craned our necks to comprehend
The weaving of the cosmos, thick
Yet delicately infinite.
Our eyes swam through the milky way,
A winding river’s silver run
Horizon to horizon’s bend,
Inviting us to race along
And tempting, teasing, find its end.
Those planets, patterns, unknown skies,
And us: sprawled on the sand dune’s back.
Thus wrapped in deeply velvet night,
The grinding wheels of Time stood still
To cool their gears, to better gaze.
We brushed our teeth behind the tent —
As campfires spat their wild song,
Morocco drums dancing along —
However small and plain we are
We’ve lined our shoes with desert steps,
With constellations stirred our dreams,
Like sugar cubes into mint tea.
Citrus fingers
Citrus fingers and sticky lips,
Smiles flashing with words I missed
That wet-hair night, slick pavement light,
The hours led to where I’d never been;
Right down the centre of the street,
Right up the rafters, echoing stairs–
You remind me of someone I’ve always known.
Did we slurp popsicles in backyard summer?
Were we running in grass-stained torn-jeans sock-feet?
Did I dream the ocean was a running faucet,
And we were just putting on the kettle?
I agree with the colour of your eyes,
They send me jam jars full of springtime:
New green and the smell of morning rain;
This is hardly a memory,
But one day, maybe, it will be.
Sonnet for a Peach.
The leaves a gentle yellow, dappled still
With green; the evening a deep’ning blue,
With dizzy silver faces peeking through
All thrumming drunk on sunset’s rosy thrill.
Each brush of night exceeding daylight’s skill,
Dull beams yet catch this undiminished hue:
The peaches’ dusky blush does shade eschew,
And soaks instead what August overfills.
Like lover’s hand, familiar, the palm
Enfolds that tender sphere: that fragrant skin,
Those juices sweet! The heady taste of calm:
To sunlight caught in curtain folds akin,
To reverent draw of breath when singing psalms —
Abundant peace: all summer revels in.
Sunday, May 17th
Conversation washes over the room.
Windows of grey sky, rainy morning eyes,
Sweet bottom dregs: a mug of tea,
Wool socks over tucked-in-toes,
Stories stacked in crooked piles.
Cold water washes over the stones.
Shrouded in grey sky, rainy morning peaks,
Sweet ripples spread: a swelling lake,
Wet docks under barefoot steps;
Trees stretch up in crooked spires.
Afternoon Library
Sunlight dishes out its rays in perfectly even portions:
Squares that melt into thick-grained-wood;
The bookshelves in the stacks
Inhale the dust-mote fragrance of shine.
Shelves with curving vertebras,
Heavy with bindings of breathing stories
Held not like a burden,
Not a burden but a poem:
Weight like words at the threshold of speech
Where faded colours of ancient books
Are the endless tongues and lips and teeth.
Innumerable organs, each shelf like lungs,
Are shaping the vowels of Peace,
Tasting the solid consonants of Knowledge,
The pursed kiss of Purpose,
Sighing out the sounds of Hush
And Whisper.
Given breath in pages and ink,
I can hear their voices
Saying thank you to the sunlight
In the solitude and silence
Of the afternoon library.
Soft Beginning
Yellow leaves in November breezes,
Twirling along the first snowfall of winter:
If only for an evening, if only for an hour
You’ll walk alongside the visible tread of time.
There is a beginning glimmering
In the end of fertile seasons;
There is a softness spreading
In veins of ice, like open palms
Covering familiar ponds:
Their ripples stilled at slightest touch.
Swirled at the bottom, in the dregs of the year,
Landed lightly on frozen earth
Despite the V of fleeing birds:
A soft beginning.
And it reaches you in humble ways,
Like tentative wind through tiny holes in knit sweaters
Like the faintest memory of childhood houses:
You’ll see the lights all over again
Hung in half forgotten windows
Framing the refrain
Of your mother’s favourite Christmas song
And the simple words you used to write:
In windows and fog of your innocent breath,
Disappearing when daylight came again.
In all that’s past
And all that’s ended
A soft beginning, mingling.
Mackenzie Lee 