Friday, April 29, 2011


(To A Distant Fire)

to the
rust red
velvet hue
stained into
blue western
view I
raise my
glass in
tribute and
gratitude for
all that
is renewed
in subtle
silent grace
resplendent as
a tapestry
suspended over
a distant
scene drawn
into its
simmering embers
waning in
the brief
interval searing
the moment

David Sermersheim

Thursday, April 14, 2011


leaves scatter
words fly
what matters

one of
none comes
what matters

promises made
all kept
in matters

we twist
the thread
of days
into years

what remains
of what
there is

David Sermersheim


quite to
his surprise
I was
almost his size
except for his
hat and shoes
and for these
he paid
his dues

David Sermersheim

Long Pond

gray November afternoon
stalking the woods
above Long Pond

dry leaves and
twigs snapping underfoot
a gentle lope

down the slope
to the water
line as a

sudden rush of
wind turbined through
opened wings soaring

at treetop on
approach to a
soft landing on

a jade surface
a congress of
gaggle chatter and splashing

before settling down
to serene elegance
drifting idly in

circles of bliss
passing one another
each in his

place aware of
his presence in
a moment suspended

in silence not
to be again

David Sermersheim


when I am older
I’ll have a garden to tend
where bees gambol
in a ‘bee-loud glade’
with abundant shade

fritillaries will cavort
in bright yellow sun
caper and dance
over red and blue zinnias
nodding in a gentle breeze

my hands will be rough and gritty
back wet with sweat
and no one will care if I fret
about roses rhododendrons daisies
and the rest who will
spray their colors joyfully
in an endless season

what we think
is ours to make and mend
is leant to an innocent
for a moment
wrapped in a timeless dream
imagined at home
in a remote garden
one step short
of paradise

David Sermersheim

Taconic Hills

a fleeting shadow
brushes a craggy hillside
as a shroud
clearing a way
in advance of
its wake on
an unimpeded passage
silent as a
mirage whose presence
might be imagined

a soul could
die here living
on dry bones
and empty thoughts
riding on air
drafting through Oblong
Valley draws

David Sermersheim

First Time/Every Time

each time you begin
it is the first time

not to be as before
as the act is formed

anew in its own
time and not to

be again else its
origins are betrayed

in the act of becoming
breaking the link in a

chain formed of itself
from a voice speaking

within the silence of
one who makes his

way alone enshrouded
under a cloud of doubt

the more known
the less done

keep ignorance your ally
and innocence your guide