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And More Poetry…

(a sijo for Spring)

The kite hangs high in the guilty tree, suspended by its tail
still wavering in the throes of death, back and forth in the spring breeze,
March showers gone, April flowers beginning their short lives below,

leaf buds, green, tender, preparing to unfold on limb tips,
the kite dancing unaware among them, swaying in oblivious joy,
even upside-down joy, ecstatic just to be moving still;

and the tree, broad, strong, majestic, rooted deep in warming earth,
feels no guilt at all, no sympathy for a flippant silly kite,
and wakes from its sleep with an unconcerned, unsurprised yawn and sigh.

© Damon Dean, 2019

for Poetic Bloomings, In-Form Friday, March 1, 2019


My Dog,
the Storm,
and I

I am shaking at the rumble!
Look, she’s trembling at my roar.
“She can’t understand, she’s quaking,
cowered, trembling on the floor.”
I will thrash with rain and fury–
Oh, there’s terror in the skies!
–roll my clouds and flash my lighting!
“Now she’s pleading with her eyes.
I can’t bear her fear–I’ll hold her.”
Look, she jumps up in his lap…
Ah, the hands of my good master.
…now she rests, as if to nap!
“There now, Daisy, only thunder,
nothing, precious friend, to fear.”
Though I rumble, flash and roar,
it’s only his strong voice she’ll hear!
How I love my master’s lap,
the love and mercy of his arms,
with each storm I can but whimper,
and with him, I’m safe from harms.

© Damon Dean, 2019

for Poetic Bloomings, Motivation by Perspective, Sunday March 3, 2019


Light Dancing

Sol and Luna met one day
as the world turned round.
“hello, “ Luna dared to say.
“HEY! “ Sol’s brave resound.

“bye, “ was Luna’s faint reply,
“SEE Ya! “ ol’ Sol said.
Then he rolled out of the sky,
resting for a stead.

Luna pondered as she rose,
might he want to dance?
But as all of heaven knows,
she had not a chance.

As she danced alone that night,
in her lonely mirth,
Sol watched with a longing light
‘round the edge of earth.

Stars and moons may dance apart
in opposing skies
but the music of their hearts
shines in human eyes.

© Damon Dean, 2019

(a trochee quatrain for Poetic Blooming, 01.18.2019)

 


A Coat to Walk In

While colors fly outside the panes,
while branches grow more bare,
while words fly from their origins into notions piling up in heaves
against curbs in my mind,

I put on my brown poet coat,
thick with memory,
the pocket lint vague evidence of seasons past.

I open up a door to
take a walk
against the winds of change,
that will subside, in time,

so now I write a few heart-spoken poems,
scribbled on the virtual leaves
that pass and tumble between us
on this lovely autumn-littered lane.

© Damon Dean, 2018

Poetic Bloomings Autumnal P.A.D. Chapbook Challenge, Day 14, October 27, 2018


Night to Myself

They move down sidewalks,
neighborhood streets,
(gathering smiles along with sweets)
this flock of darlings a thousand-strong
a laughing, giggling, excited throng.

They chose to dress in
other personas,
(Batgirls, ghouls, Ironmen, Madonnas)
Imagining, on these annual nights
of being someone else–in tights.

Their goal is identity
not revealed
(hidden, costumed, masked, concealed)
to be someone who you are not,
but inside, just the same small tot.

I will not fly
the skies this night,
(my cape and tights put out of sight),
not flex my muscles, no powers flout–
I’ll just be Clark, handing candy out.

© Damon Dean, 2018

Poetic Bloomings Autumnal P.A.D. Chapbook Challenge, Day 12, October 25, 2018


Fall Roster Call

Let’s not forget brown,
for brown belongs.
As much as the yellows and oranges that laugh,
as much as the reds that shout,
or crimsons that hum,
or golds that sing,
brown belongs.

Let’s not forget brown,
for brown belongs,
It stands in tree trunks, bark and twig,
rests in acorn caps, and the meat of nuts,
and more, perhaps,
in the forest floor,
the dirt from which
all colors came
alive.

Let’s not forget brown,
for brown belongs,
more as an au pair for the hues
of children swirling all about,
not in the autumn-play herself,
she stands, then stays to take her rest,
never changing.

Just to sleep a while
beneath the winter snow
until new children come.

© Damon Dean, 2018


Mom’s Hunting Stew

Oh, from the cupboard,
while we were in the woods,
seasons came and went
into Mom’s dutch oven,
on potatoes, celery, onions, carrots,
and browned cubes of last year’s deer.
Salt and pepper, garlic, bay,
some Tabasco,
gathered into a
V-8 tomato base.

The seasons came, and simmered,
in a bath of contentment,
comfort went wafting upward
toward the oven hood,
issued by a humming vent into kitchen air,
simmered ‘til a red foam puree
floated gently over all.

Oh, from the cupboard of memories,
warmth of comfort
from the flavors of life,
the aromas of
well done
love.

© Damon Dean, 2018


What Rules Over Memory’s Remains

There was plenty
in our home,
as far as I remember
what rules over memory’s remains.

Cream of Wheat a plenty,
in the year that Dad was hurt
out of work, in and out of hospitals,
surgeries, stiches, whispers,
but I was three, and Cream of Wheat
was plenty, milk and butter
on the porch.

There was plenty
in our bank,
as far as I might know,
what rules over memory’s remains.

Smell of money a plenty,
in the year that Dad was well,
back to work, wafting in papermill air
sulfur, sauerkraut, tuna,
but I was five, and stinky air
was plenty, milk and butter
on the porch.

There was plenty
in our town,
as far as I could imagine,
what rules over memory’s remains.

Corporate growth a plenty,
in the years that Dad moved up,
bossing, supervising, engineering,
steaks, status, company car,
but I was twelve, and Christmas gifts
were plenty, milk and butter
from the store.

There was plenty
in our lives,
as best I can remember,
what rules over memory’s remains.

TV news a plenty,
in the years that Dad stood quiet,
watching Cronkite’s broadcasts
and war, worry, his boys,
but I was sixteen, and hormones
were plenty, milk and butter
in the fridge.

There was plenty,
in our minds.
I know what I remember,
what rules over memory’s remains.

© Damon Dean, 2018

(for Poetic Bloomings Autumn P.A.D. #5 Challenge, October 18, 2018)


But For Autumn

Aromas rise,
they tell the day its age.

A scent of fireplace dust
at waking, with a thought to stoke the coals.

A waft of flavored coffee steam
at stirring, with a prompt to seize the day.

A pungent dew-wet-fur
at dog-is-in, with whines for breakfast kibbles.

Each season
has an age, an age that lasts all day, I say.

And autumn owns
the morning (not bright spring as you might think).

It owns it by the rights
of smell, by odors that can never be denied their time.

Let other seasons
claim their time by sight, or sound, or touch.

But for autumn,
aromas rise,
they tell the day its age.

© Damon Dean, 2018

(For Poetic Bloomings, Autumn P.A.D. #2 Challenge, October 15, 2018)


Mind of a Dog

The eyes,
the begging eyes,
always, always watching mine,
waiting for a key to turn
to unlock her wanting.

The pleas,
the gentle whines,
sounding on my human ears,
though I can’t hear what she can hear,
a squirrel’s scurry up an outside tree.

The sad-eyed dread,
the nagging fear
I might decline,
I might demand
she lay back down
ignoring what she knows is true.

The wag,
the honest pleading wag
to let her joy be mine,
begging my confession that
I truly count
her happiness my own.

The yes,
the glad relenting yes,
appears in the air between us
like a poem’s unexpected line.
I grab the leash,
go to the door.

I don’t know, ever,
anymore,
who really turns the key.

© Damon Dean, 2018 – In reply to Poetic Blooming’s prompt “Pandora’s Box”


This Way

Simply is, as simply does;
my faith must live this way.

To lay down burdens, with a dare to leave them there…
peace enough, full of trust, by unrepeated prayer…
yet confidence that bears the right to ask again, again, again. ..
when answers come, a smile, a tear, a laugh, unheeded from the heart.

My faith must live this way:
simply is, as simply does.

(c) Damon Dean, 2018

For Poetic Bloomings, in reply to Anna Akhmatova’s poem “I Taught Myself to Live Simply, ” selected for a Reading Room post in September, 2018.

Apologies

He marks the square,
on the calendar,
and writes the time and place,
hangs it on the fridge by magnet,
right before his face,
where every day he passes by,
a thousand times and more,
then wakes one day,
and dresses, readies,
walks out, locks the door,
drives miles, and smiles and
says, “I’m here,”, so proud
that he’s on time.

He’s told, “No, not today,
next week. “

With pleasantry sublime,
he offers an apology,
tho really none is needed,
except perhaps a ‘Sorry… ’
to his calendar unheeded.

© Damon Dean, 2018,

for Poetic Bloomings, where you can find poets of all sorts whispering among the blooms.


In a SevenAcreSky

Pines and oaks
surround the pasture,
fingering a line that meets the sky,
a line that cloaks horizons,
a jagged line of limits for
the wondering mind and eyes.

My mind and eyes imagine
what my heart can only know,
since eyes and minds prefer the facts,
but hearts can freely go
where words can take them–
and then with them
thru the open sky
beyond a fence,
past now to hence.

My wandering mind,
my wondering eye,
follow my heart
into a wide blue
seven acre sky.

(c) 2018, Damon Dean, for Poetic Bloomings, where you can find poets of all sorts whispering among the blooms.

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