From the archives – December by Jean Kreiling

December

Arriving modestly, without a sound,
the first snow of the season fills the night
with tiny flakes of other-worldly light
that settles in pale patches on the ground.
The stone-cold air turns flannel-soft, transformed
by small wet stars that fall and thereby lift
the eye and heart—a fragile, frozen gift
that leaves our spirits fortified and warmed.
Another silent night may come to mind,
another star, another gift, but He
need not be sought as heaven falls to earth
in icy, cloud-spun pieces that will find
the pious and the pagan, equally
anointing all who see the season’s birth.

from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, December 2, 2015 — by Jean Kreiling, first published in The Tower Journal 5/2 (Winter 2013).

photo by Christine Klocek-Lim

From the archives – July by Jean Kreiling

July

This heat, too thick and sticky to be shaken
from fleshy creases, saturates your brain
until your stupor might well be mistaken
for cool, come-hither posing—but hard rain
is now your favorite fantasy by far:
no dalliance or drink or swimming hole
would satisfy as well as clouds that spar
in loud electric downpours. Thunder’s roll
seduces like a love song; you would gladly
forget fair weather—and when merely teased,
you languish like a lover treated badly,
your sluggish lust for lightning unappeased.
Although you mop your brow and bare your feet,
July still clings with enervating heat.

from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, July 1, 2015 — by Jean Kreiling

photo by Christine Klocek-Lim

From the archives – June by Jean Kreiling

June

We feast on color, ravenous for red,
devouring violet, savoring sky blue;
we swim through fields where buttercups are bred,
awash in waves of grass and dirt and dew.
Inhaling trills that flutter from the throats
of robins, we join in the wild gavotte
that breezes blow, and bask in sunny notes
of bagatelles the winter ear forgot.
Indulging in a pagan’s wanton passion,
our games undimmed by caution or by shade,
we try to prove, in humble human fashion,
our fitness for the glittering parade—
and neither doubt nor reason can infect
the holy foolishness we resurrect.

from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, June 4, 2015 — by Jean Kreiling

photo by Christine Klocek-Lim

From the archives – And Not Forgetting Bees by Sherry O’Keefe

And Not Forgetting Bees

I’m not sure where the sky begins,
where field turns to blue. We thread our way through
bramble grass and briar bush, careful not to walk
with heads pitched too far forward,
a tumble off the cliff only a boot’s step away.
We could be standing on the horizon, hundreds
and hundreds of feet above the valley,
where we are searching for lichen rocks
atop an unnamed cliff, talking about what is
and what is not organic. When does something begin
to change? My brother says it started for him
when they shortened the quarter mile
in drag racing how many years ago.
This startles me, both the leap to racing
and the false measurement, and now I cannot remember
what my own example would have been.
My life is not what it used to be,
and I’m not good at beginnings but I’m learning to trust
the path. The way water follows salt
or a coyote finds entry sometimes into dreams;
or how the land dreams of a king, one with feathers
and who is careful not to use the music
all at once. And when we find the stones growing
with orange, sage green and black lichen,
my brother on his knees, fingers digging,
I’ll think of clover in my front yard,
the rabbits, the blue spruce and the bird bath,
and—not forgetting bees—one new rock for the rain
to water, and realize we can’t take this rock
without taking home the cliff.

from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, April 15, 2015 — by Sherry O’Keefe

photo by Christine Klocek-Lim

From the archives – Song by Catherine Rogers

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Song

“Marry me,” said the river.
“I never will,” said she,
“For you’d shut me up
in a golden boat
and carry me out to sea.”

“Marry me,” said the salmon
as he climbed his rocky stair.
“Oh, no,” said she,
“For my golden boat
will never sail up there.”

“Marry me,” said the black bear
as he eyed her greedily.
“Oh, no,” said the girl
with the rainbow sides,
“For you shall have none of me.”

So she built her house by the river,
using her witch’s art,
of the water’s song
and the salmon’s flash
and the black bear’s greedy heart.

from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, April 17, 2015 — by Catherine Rogers

photo by Christine Klocek-Lim

From the archives – March by Jean Kreiling

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March

Tenacious winter, like a guest who stays
too long, repeats his tired tales of snow
while spring approaches, like a bride, with slow,
shy footsteps; soon she’ll toss her bright bouquets.
The cold, once crisp and fresh, turns merely trite,
exhausted by the circling of the year
that starts to tilt the sun-starved hemisphere
politely towards its source of heat and light.
As tolerant terrain reciprocates
the sky’s attempt at warmth with the debut
of unripe grass and intermittent mud,
the snow, now powerless, procrastinates—
piled high at curbs and corners, melting too
reluctantly to pose a threat of flood.

by Jean L. Kreiling

from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, March 18, 2015 — by Jean Kreiling

photo by Christine Klocek-Lim

From the archives – Tide and Terrain by Jean Kreiling

Long Beach, Plymouth

 

Tide and Terrain

(Long Beach, Plymouth, MA)

I didn’t know that it would be high tide;
I never check the charts. I felt the need
for salt air and drove east to walk a wide
soft swath of gold dust—but twice-daily greed
for territory had provoked the bay
to occupy the shore right to the rocks,
the beach now intermittent, and my way
a mix of grainy mud and granite blocks.
Compelled by this terrain to improvise,
I strolled through water, then on well-soaked sand,
then on the jetty. As the shoreline sifted
itself, I did the same, my feet and eyes
adjusting as each moment made its stand
against the last, then drowned as power shifted.

from Autumn Sky Poetry 23 — by Jean Kreiling

photo by Jean Kreiling