11. Aurora

The lights are quick; they shift above

these hills, the autumn ceiling tight

about its pinning Pole, then flit,

with drifts of northern gods and time

slack in their wake, across these mute

night airs. How rays weave strange tonight,

their fame a falling echo still

of One Flame dancing trim, vibrant

and wise, the full dark down! And how

their sky-wide flare, their crowning, frees

the grace, those jeweled auras soft

to lift the flawed fields’ shade! And this:

the radiance – folding   folding   folding

The Nature of Winter

She  comes, wing-span fanning the trees’

gap, belly a-ghost of twilight and snow:

tall dark shivering in the offing

gathers to smother the living, the land,

while she of the heart-face stands to a hover,

feather-flap slow to roll on still air holding

a pitch of night  - it clutches the clipped

moon, ice crawling through twigs.

Her black eyes angle on white,

talons flared, tense for a flicker of shrew

or vole on the clamped hummock below,

beak snipping on clean space,

dropping for death, all of her moment

mute. A snatch, a turn, wing-back fancy

in pinched light, she flows, flits

to a mote where it’s bleak, raw on the edge.
 

New Year’s Day

Let a first night sleep away the last

before we flounder in pools of unknowing

vast as the year is deep, top waters fast

over shadows dropping to their full past.

Let, there on every mere’s outer, a wind flick

ripples to raging waves churning

thick, debrised sludge caught in the slick

of water-thrash pounding to scrape, scouring quick.

Let there be sediment drifting calm to the base,

waters filtering clear in their sluicing

chase through reed roots to the milfoil’s place

where their lick and lapping fillip a fronding trace.

Let there be light through each quiet lake

stippling down to the perch in its flickering

shake on a gulp of minnow, the gone fry’s wake.

Let there be light when all days break.

Let there be light.

War in Heaven

"Hark!" the herald angels trill,

"This Jesus stuff gives us a thrill."

"Hark!" unruly angels call,

"We've settled on a Second Fall."

"Hark!" archangels start to yell,

"We've lots of dogmas here to sell."

"Hark!" more dissident angels squeak,

"Orthodoxy's up the creek."

"Hark!" His loyal angels shout,

"Jehovah one; Dionysus nowt."

"Hark!" some unionized angels croon,

"A new religion's coming soon."

"Hark!" god-fearing angels gloat,

"Believe Him, or we'll cut your throat."

"Hark!" more rebel angels blurt,

"We’ve set up idols in a yurt."

"Hark!" a cunning angel clacks,

"Shove itching powder down their backs."

"Hark!" the itchy angels squawk,

"What eejit's taken us for a walk?"

"Hark!" triumphant angels hoot,

"One more word and you're down the chute."

"Oy!" mouthed God with a baleful hiss,

"It's time I put a stop to this,"

stretched out His Hand and gave a tug,

"That's all creation down the plug."

 

Haiku by Seasons

 

The budding iris
a nip of wind through poplar
I tell you it’s here 

Ducks crash on the lake
widening water-trails glitter
shatter the hot sun

Red gold on the tree
brittle brown on the wood’s floor
Who notes their going?

White flakes on pine boughs
snowdrops draw green to each leaf
shoot through all frail falls

No-Saints’ Night

         
          

          ...And in the blue sky, and in the mind of man:

A motion and a spirit that impels

All thinking things, all objects of all thought,

And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still…

                                                    from 'Tintern Abbey' by William Wordsworth

 

You’ve set me here, and no doubt find me frail

because I cannot reach the heights. I’m less than

perfect in your eyes. So be it. I can

do no more; don’t comprehend the scale

on which you work. That vast light blinds; you veil

yourself. Let mystics, then, unclothe you and span

eternity. Do what you will. I’ll scan

the slight horizons here that tell the tale -

those stars, the details of that master plan,

and in the blue sky, and in the mind of man

those normal bits of bright - the lives that wait

for death once they are born. A long night swells

around them as they shoot and fall, excels

the lesser seas that drown them here. It’s fate,

I hear? Oh, really? You’re no fool! Debate

that with yourself, then tell me what compels

you to lie so artfully. It’s what repels

me; we’re trapped by it, but you create

as freely as you will while in you dwells

a motion and a spirit that impels

you forward. Why not us? Wrapped in this caul

of flesh, we are still sparks of you. You taught

us that. These limits you impose are fraught

with hopes and freedom’s dreams, and so I call

you cruel, not paradoxical, to stall

us. What makes you do it? You said you’d brought

an ark with you, but leaving us distraught

and shipwrecked on all shores, you’re off to trawl

for gold. Then finding only that you’ve caught

all thinking things, all objects of all thought,

in those great nets, you play some more, then claim,

my child-God, that you have such goodwill

when catching fish. Not so! As those heaps fill

your hollow holds they heave and thrash. Proclaim

it how you will, they drown in air. One aim

is clear: pain doesn’t trouble you; you kill

because you can, as we do here. You chill

my thoughts, but fully expect that I’ll acclaim

your majesty, the never-peaceful will

that rolls through all things. Therefore am I still.