so taut
it would snap
brittle sonorities
into a thousand fragments
of sprechgesang
murmuring hushed epithets
through spiny thistles
laced into a grid
over an orange-blue nimbus
smashing atoms in
a dry-brushed textural milieu
much too vague
for sentiment’s unctuous touch
seeking flight in
remote conjecture beyond
fantasy’s febrile domain
vaguely among us
for the straitened interval
prolonged a moment too long
for pilgrims’ idyl
carelessly displayed in the
carefree array of
asymmetrical sequence
Monday, October 19, 2009
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
At Seventy
equilibrium
has met its match
balancing chance
on the head of
an inverted obelisk
slinging a curve
against the pull
of deadly angularity
complexity has found
a place to hide
simplicity gambols
in the space between
shadows of a receding sun
and I have ceased to run
with the restless winds
of persistent change
has met its match
balancing chance
on the head of
an inverted obelisk
slinging a curve
against the pull
of deadly angularity
complexity has found
a place to hide
simplicity gambols
in the space between
shadows of a receding sun
and I have ceased to run
with the restless winds
of persistent change
Miniture 135
when you go
I reach a
a bit longer
each time before
you fade into
the dream from
whence you came
I reach a
a bit longer
each time before
you fade into
the dream from
whence you came
Tracing Your Name Into The Wind
I trace your name
into the wind
following the contour
of your profile
in the flow of the line
between space of breath
forming you before
you became the
shape of a circle
outlining the odyssey
bearing your name
on the cusp of winds
riding the slipstream of
migrating birds scrolling
November into amber
fading to dusk
you, who were
born on the wind
shaped by the
will of denial
know the meaning
of what is hidden
among the signs
of those who venture
into remote vistas
at the end of dreams
turned to dust
at the touch
of anxious fingertip
into the wind
following the contour
of your profile
in the flow of the line
between space of breath
forming you before
you became the
shape of a circle
outlining the odyssey
bearing your name
on the cusp of winds
riding the slipstream of
migrating birds scrolling
November into amber
fading to dusk
you, who were
born on the wind
shaped by the
will of denial
know the meaning
of what is hidden
among the signs
of those who venture
into remote vistas
at the end of dreams
turned to dust
at the touch
of anxious fingertip
How Many Times
How Many Times
how many times
I have passed this way
only to turn and say
they could be brown
gold, blue or gray today
as yesterday when we
met and I forgot to look
and took what came
effortlessly without thought
to when it is no more
what vibrant memory
shone in the sun’s
refraction on golden strands
strung in luxurious folds
streaming light between
partitions of motion and
stillness here to there and
back again, a secondary
amendment to loss
accumulating currency
with each year
spent in vague
imaginings, false hopes
holding sway against
spurious pursuits best
left unattended in
face of loss
never to be regained
as youth’s splendor
in the sun is
left to wither in time’s
sequential array of
what remains unseen
ignored in what’s
worth remembering
in the gray and black
chiaroscuro mosaic of
shapes giving life in
imitation of movement
between us in
imagined moments
hovering in distant auras
drawn on to a glass
half full of the deceptive
elixir of daydreams
languishing in idle
afternoon meanderings
silent on the tongue
as the lament of time
sounds in the timbre
of perseverance
how many times
I have passed this way
only to turn and say
they could be brown
gold, blue or gray today
as yesterday when we
met and I forgot to look
and took what came
effortlessly without thought
to when it is no more
what vibrant memory
shone in the sun’s
refraction on golden strands
strung in luxurious folds
streaming light between
partitions of motion and
stillness here to there and
back again, a secondary
amendment to loss
accumulating currency
with each year
spent in vague
imaginings, false hopes
holding sway against
spurious pursuits best
left unattended in
face of loss
never to be regained
as youth’s splendor
in the sun is
left to wither in time’s
sequential array of
what remains unseen
ignored in what’s
worth remembering
in the gray and black
chiaroscuro mosaic of
shapes giving life in
imitation of movement
between us in
imagined moments
hovering in distant auras
drawn on to a glass
half full of the deceptive
elixir of daydreams
languishing in idle
afternoon meanderings
silent on the tongue
as the lament of time
sounds in the timbre
of perseverance
Friday, October 9, 2009
Midnight
the wind
sings
in the strings
of an
open
window
so still
a rock
tumbles silently
down hill
a pause lingers
night feels like
blue silk
running through
open fingers
we are alone
silhouetted against
the circle of
the moon
drawn into
the arc
of
distant
light
sings
in the strings
of an
open
window
so still
a rock
tumbles silently
down hill
a pause lingers
night feels like
blue silk
running through
open fingers
we are alone
silhouetted against
the circle of
the moon
drawn into
the arc
of
distant
light
O That Which Does Not Yield
empty hours will not fill
with dreams that cannot hold
what is not ours to possess
nor will solace be found
to ease longing until all is
at rest content and secure
with what is his to own
nor will change find respite
in what was left lying undone
in wake of haste to press on
toward the unknown beckoning
from those who hold what is
theirs alone and know what
rises upon the dawn of
each emerging moment come of age
to one who faces the
glare of a light
that singes our eye
with dreams that cannot hold
what is not ours to possess
nor will solace be found
to ease longing until all is
at rest content and secure
with what is his to own
nor will change find respite
in what was left lying undone
in wake of haste to press on
toward the unknown beckoning
from those who hold what is
theirs alone and know what
rises upon the dawn of
each emerging moment come of age
to one who faces the
glare of a light
that singes our eye
Etching No. 24
how
still
it
rests
be
coming
edifice
emerging
as
evocation
from
a
watery
womb
a
waiting
revelation
in
damp
oracle
in
different
to
what
passes
by
still
it
rests
be
coming
edifice
emerging
as
evocation
from
a
watery
womb
a
waiting
revelation
in
damp
oracle
in
different
to
what
passes
by
Etching No. 20
lighter
than
air
it
hung
there
for
ever
breathing
sad
laments
in
to
stillness
and
sound
wandered
wondering
where
silence
went
than
air
it
hung
there
for
ever
breathing
sad
laments
in
to
stillness
and
sound
wandered
wondering
where
silence
went
Beads
Feed the days
like beads
through fingers
in a sequence
etched on the
perimeter of a circle
catching filaments of
light passing
through a silver screen
superposed on
a golden horizon
glowing in dying light
opening to a
revelation of an
archetype of
our presence
in the space
of absence.
like beads
through fingers
in a sequence
etched on the
perimeter of a circle
catching filaments of
light passing
through a silver screen
superposed on
a golden horizon
glowing in dying light
opening to a
revelation of an
archetype of
our presence
in the space
of absence.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Yesterday AFternoon
Yesterday Afternoon
(Housatonic River)
overhead a hawk
catches air in folds
of his wings
opened to wiles
of the wind
circling dipping diving
soaring into blue infinity
the force gathers
momentum within itself
feeding into the
current underneath
pulling him into
down and away
far from the place
that contained him
joining the stream
running full and free
over rock and rapids
without cause to
correct its way
(Housatonic River)
overhead a hawk
catches air in folds
of his wings
opened to wiles
of the wind
circling dipping diving
soaring into blue infinity
the force gathers
momentum within itself
feeding into the
current underneath
pulling him into
down and away
far from the place
that contained him
joining the stream
running full and free
over rock and rapids
without cause to
correct its way
If You Go There
if you go there
tell me if the
cover is on the
well the barn is
still there and the
tree stands next to
the house by the
dusty road down the
hill where he used
to get air under
his wings and soar
around the fallow meadow
in the glider he
built setting it down
easy get out and
laugh that he had
defied gravity for a
few moments suspended on
bone dry air
everybody thought he was
crazy but wouldn’t tell
him so now he
rests wearing the grin
of a man who
had the last laugh
for Arnold Jerger the best uncle anyone could have
tell me if the
cover is on the
well the barn is
still there and the
tree stands next to
the house by the
dusty road down the
hill where he used
to get air under
his wings and soar
around the fallow meadow
in the glider he
built setting it down
easy get out and
laugh that he had
defied gravity for a
few moments suspended on
bone dry air
everybody thought he was
crazy but wouldn’t tell
him so now he
rests wearing the grin
of a man who
had the last laugh
for Arnold Jerger the best uncle anyone could have
Living Well
living simply and
well is easy
ignore the clock
turn everything off
open the doors
and windows
observe tree rodents
gambol and cavort
one limb to another
eat what you grow
discard nothing
save everything
make what you
have last one day longer
each time it is used
keep cherished items
in their boxes
admit stars to
light your room
sleep ‘till dawn
after that everything
repeats itself
dying in hopes
and unfulfilled promises
washing away freely
with your tears
well is easy
ignore the clock
turn everything off
open the doors
and windows
observe tree rodents
gambol and cavort
one limb to another
eat what you grow
discard nothing
save everything
make what you
have last one day longer
each time it is used
keep cherished items
in their boxes
admit stars to
light your room
sleep ‘till dawn
after that everything
repeats itself
dying in hopes
and unfulfilled promises
washing away freely
with your tears
Eating Your Words
accept what is given
examine it
turn it over
lay it flat
on the table
where you slice
your bread
cut it open
remove the fat
slice it thin
and eat the
heart out of
your soul
examine it
turn it over
lay it flat
on the table
where you slice
your bread
cut it open
remove the fat
slice it thin
and eat the
heart out of
your soul
Cobble Brook
hopping stone to
stone over dry
craggy Cobble Brook
threading a way
between shadows enveloped
in the aura
of midnight silence
holding a moment
of wonder in
mystery and awe
suspended between
us drawing two
into one
stone over dry
craggy Cobble Brook
threading a way
between shadows enveloped
in the aura
of midnight silence
holding a moment
of wonder in
mystery and awe
suspended between
us drawing two
into one
Mt. Riga
moon full
golden glow
autumn nights
we would
drive without
lights half-
blind on
a schist
road snaking
up the
mountain
riding on
hope through
night light
streaming between
parted leaves
casting shadow
patches before
our eyes
probing darkness
paving the
way for
wonder to
work in
endless array
opening before
us toward
an end
where the
moon would
be close
enough to
touch through
mist hovering
in new
love high
atop Mt. Riga
golden glow
autumn nights
we would
drive without
lights half-
blind on
a schist
road snaking
up the
mountain
riding on
hope through
night light
streaming between
parted leaves
casting shadow
patches before
our eyes
probing darkness
paving the
way for
wonder to
work in
endless array
opening before
us toward
an end
where the
moon would
be close
enough to
touch through
mist hovering
in new
love high
atop Mt. Riga
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Will of The Wheel
Will of The Wheel
a line spins itself
into a circle rolling
slightly ahead of her
she nudges it forward
carried by momentum
around its imagined core
centering energy along
the rolling edge
pulling free of gravity
inertia in the subtle
mechanics of motion
at play in her hands
the sun dancing in
a corona of wonder
come full circle round
a line spins itself
into a circle rolling
slightly ahead of her
she nudges it forward
carried by momentum
around its imagined core
centering energy along
the rolling edge
pulling free of gravity
inertia in the subtle
mechanics of motion
at play in her hands
the sun dancing in
a corona of wonder
come full circle round
Aura of First Light
Aura of First Light
movement ceases
making the slow turn
around a curve
toward the outer edge
outlining a tenuous border
where thought mingles
with damp vapors
rising from the dew
of freshly cut grass
glowing in the aura
of first light
standing there transfixed
inhaling the elixir
of a slowly receding dream
becoming a phantom
in the gauzy mist
of imagination
wrung dry of what mattered
a moment before wondering
when you were here
movement ceases
making the slow turn
around a curve
toward the outer edge
outlining a tenuous border
where thought mingles
with damp vapors
rising from the dew
of freshly cut grass
glowing in the aura
of first light
standing there transfixed
inhaling the elixir
of a slowly receding dream
becoming a phantom
in the gauzy mist
of imagination
wrung dry of what mattered
a moment before wondering
when you were here
But Once
But Once
we look but do not see
what comes but once
in its time then gone
as we move and assume
it will come again
next time round
only to miss what
cannot be if time and
place are not one again
when wonder unfolds in
subtle glimpse of first light
as if all changed in the night
forsythia budded blossomed
and flowered luminous
before my eyes but I
was blind to see
deaf to hear what
came and was so near
ignorant to know
the miracle of awe
before its time had gone
in days of haste
that held little interest
or surprise of what
should have been seen
and remembered before
its hour has passed
we look but do not see
what comes but once
in its time then gone
as we move and assume
it will come again
next time round
only to miss what
cannot be if time and
place are not one again
when wonder unfolds in
subtle glimpse of first light
as if all changed in the night
forsythia budded blossomed
and flowered luminous
before my eyes but I
was blind to see
deaf to hear what
came and was so near
ignorant to know
the miracle of awe
before its time had gone
in days of haste
that held little interest
or surprise of what
should have been seen
and remembered before
its hour has passed
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Bloom
Bloom
you want the bud
to blossom and bloom
in your hands
unfurl each petal
as it opens
one upon another
in its glory
before your eyes
of will and volition
apart from what
nurtured it into
its final form
as an object
of beauty possessed
of its presence
complete in its immediacy
alive and iridescent in
the moment accorded it
and the oriole
poised in orange
radiance then gone
you want the bud
to blossom and bloom
in your hands
unfurl each petal
as it opens
one upon another
in its glory
before your eyes
of will and volition
apart from what
nurtured it into
its final form
as an object
of beauty possessed
of its presence
complete in its immediacy
alive and iridescent in
the moment accorded it
and the oriole
poised in orange
radiance then gone
Here/Now
Here/Now
what is here
is of now
and shall be
no more
what came was
right for its time
and shall not return
nothing shall return
save memory to
catch fleeting moments
in fantasy
what you hold
is held by you
in its time
what is said
flies into the
cyclical current of
shifting winds
what begins in
innocence ends in
ignorance and delusion
the world belongs
to those who know
the vagaries of
time and chance
the world is denied
those who wait
for their moment
night belongs to
those who know the
continuity of silence
in tranquility and peace
what is here
is of now
and shall be
no more
what came was
right for its time
and shall not return
nothing shall return
save memory to
catch fleeting moments
in fantasy
what you hold
is held by you
in its time
what is said
flies into the
cyclical current of
shifting winds
what begins in
innocence ends in
ignorance and delusion
the world belongs
to those who know
the vagaries of
time and chance
the world is denied
those who wait
for their moment
night belongs to
those who know the
continuity of silence
in tranquility and peace
Poetry Space
Dear Reader,
This blog will contain my poetry. It will be similar to a diary with different entrances almost each day. The format will be like a conversation -- loose and informative, nothing academic or pretentious.
Each selection will be dated, perhaps with an explanation about the piece, perhaps some biographical annotations.
I am doing this to communicate with whomever chooses to read these pieces. They will be be about the nature of beauty, beauty in nature, what we see, perhaps what we miss, what we have lost and the wide and varied world of the imagination.
The reason: to share these thoughts with others.
Best wishes,
David Sermersheim
This blog will contain my poetry. It will be similar to a diary with different entrances almost each day. The format will be like a conversation -- loose and informative, nothing academic or pretentious.
Each selection will be dated, perhaps with an explanation about the piece, perhaps some biographical annotations.
I am doing this to communicate with whomever chooses to read these pieces. They will be be about the nature of beauty, beauty in nature, what we see, perhaps what we miss, what we have lost and the wide and varied world of the imagination.
The reason: to share these thoughts with others.
Best wishes,
David Sermersheim
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