Hushed Ambience

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

What's To Know

what’s
to
know

you
have
only
to
accept

hoist
one
to
the
blind
tiller

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

Miniature 152

though we cannot touch
we are as one
you in me
and I in you

Miniture 135

when you go
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

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

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

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

Smile

smile,
your
simile
’s
showing!

O
go
on,
ogle

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

Etching No. 20

lighter
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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time

at any moment
time seems without
substance or form

like air
passing between
opened fingers

sensed not seen
in the interval
between events

present in memory
among us
not of us

as a bird
tracing an arc above
erasing his shadow below

or a light
cutting a furrow
through the dark

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

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