June 10th, 2006 at 7:20 pm
by Rastaban (Darkness, Featured Poems, Poetry)
The first Sunday
after the first full moon
after the first equinox of the year,
rise early and lean outside
in the spiced air, listen to the bells ringing.
Morning bells, bells
of the far churches
chuckling their delight for the advent of another spring
in a world that has dawned.
Easter
and already the snows have grown weary;
they drop their coats
and troop back into the darkness.
Already the gale, brabbling wind
discards his piercing shrillness
and his iciness;
he bounds forward on us warm and naked.
Already the distant sun, long aloof
forgets herself,
wanders our way, smiling broadly.
Already the crocuses and daffodils,
the jonquils, the dogwoods, the wisteria, even the white iris
alone in the field by my house,
cast off their shyness; vulnerably
expose themselves before the world,
unprotected and beautiful.
And it is spring. It is spring.
I look beyond the empty lot, out past
the steeples that stand like toys on the far street; suddenly
I see earth supple before me like a gardener
like a mother suckling rich seedmouths
and they spring up.
They spring up, they spring up
in eudicotyledon splendor of living,
resurrected in body once again.
© 1986, 1990, 2006 Dwight Lyman
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June 10th, 2006 at 9:53 am
by Rastaban (Featured Poems, Once, Poetry)
Jenny would love this gusty wind
were she with me here to see it playing
in these tall oak and birch she knows so well.
Yes, Jenny
would love this gutty wind which sneaks
beneath the leaves, rustling them
until they waken. The breeze
pretends it’s morning still
pretends it doesn’t know about the dark
the silence
which has swept across the world
since yesterday.
The wind is trying harder now.
Relentlessly it tries
to sweep the leaves and branches
into some sort of playful mood
some whim
to rouse them from the death-like mourning
of their silence.
Now and then
it pauses haltingly a moment. Then
rampages
rampaging
as if to chase away the darkness
as if to quell
the soundless whelming of her death
before it blackens out September.
© 1990, 2006 Dwight Lyman
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February 19th, 2005 at 10:42 am
by Rastaban (Featured Poems, Once, Poetry)
the slim dark flower
i saw this morning
while walking beside
a lake i’d seen
for only an hour
pressed without warning
deep inside
and made me dream
of her lips’ sweet power
© 1990, 2008 Dwight Lyman
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October 10th, 2004 at 8:25 am
by Rastaban (Once, Poetry)
Carl & I spent many Mays
roaming hills on sunny days
fighting pirates, routing thieves
building castles, climbing trees
right though to the breezy fall
when leaves became our rampart wall.
Mid-summer of our sixteenth year
all changed, another sex appeared:
a dirt brunette, and a blonde who tracks
Carl up the hill and back.
Laughter echoes between the three
making it very clear to me
between the two he’ll get to choose.
Lucky Carl—he cannot lose.
His eyes are good, he will not miss
her soft blonde hair, the way it twists
and curves like Nature made it do,
and gleams with love in the afternoon.
Then her face he won’t forget—
the chin so soft, yet firmly set
beneath her light blue eyes (those sing
like summer raindrops in the wind).
But I get the girl he leaves behind,
God, I hope he is blind
and does not love the one that’s blonde:
she’s the girl my dreams are on.
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October 10th, 2003 at 10:36 am
by Rastaban (Featured Poems, Once, Poetry)
Now winter’s come
I like to hum
and sometimes sing a tune
To bring to me
memories
of times we had last June
When I gave you
some summer love
beneath the night’s white moon
Recall we were
beside the shore—
a woman, and a man
Who held her firmly
next to him
on blankets made of sand
Your eyes on mine
were soft and kind
as you pressed against my hips
And the stars above
bright with love
as we tasted with our lips
The waves rolled in
and in the din
we danced a while
Afterwards
we had no words
but silence and a smile
As eye to eye
beneath the sky
we shed our clothes and hugged
Our bodies stark
in the dark
nakedly we loved
The morning smiled
on clothing piled
aside our makeshift bed
And was no talk—
I’ve often thought
of things I might have said
While rapt amazed
I gazed
at the woman I should wed
But now like summer
you are gone—
my winter lingers on
And midnight brings
a pain to things
my heart has felt too long
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June 10th, 2001 at 5:27 pm
by Rastaban (Darkness, Featured Poems, Poetry)
Sun is a flight of photons
pelting me in the morning
entering the soul of my body
in photonic penetration.
Gold little embers
enter me through my fingers
through the weak frailty of my arms
cocked before me.
How should I know what the secret of life is
when it is only embers
even the sun’s little embers
come to me by these arms?
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