Gray rain at dawn,
colorless silhouettes of sycamores
filigreed, having lost half their leaves
to the Christmas gift of storms
after a month of fog—we pray
the world beyond will pause
for a breath, follow suit,
find a common sense of peace
like black dots of cattle
grazing ridgetops, chasing green
reaching for the heaven sent
miracle of rain.
In the canyon
fog descending at dusk,
a gray blanket tucks us in
along the creek’s flaming sycamores
and silent trickle.
Wrapped in a cold cocoon,
insulated from the dreadful dramas
of an outside world,
we rest easily in the dark
with a taste of peace.
It might have been a miracle
to have survived the 60s
and all its first-time diversions
beckoning, daring the unknown—
full-grown children loosed
to explore the candy store
with the ambush of War
stealing the black and poor first,
green jungle hungry for more.
Abstract at best, the future
failed to kindle dreams
beyond the minefields.
Posted in Poems 2022
Tagged 60s, Draft, drugs, hearts and flowers, love, peace, Sudent Deferment, Vietnam War
And they establish foundations and give
some of the money back.
– William Stafford (“Men”)
No pauses, anymore,
between wars.
No parades for heroes
stopping traffic
on Main Street—
no laurels for generals
to rest upon
when there are no ends—
just justified beginnings.
War is commonplace
like mountains in the distance
no one looks up to see,
too far from more
pressing matters
to consider unusual.
Dry hills soft, come dusk
before a promised chance
of rain, blond fuzz
of empty-headed grasses
teased by gusts
beg to embrace me,
to become lost
in the folds of canyons
and draws, absorbed
as someday I will be.
Dark breezes stir the senses
with anticipation,
transform baked clay
to breathing slopes
of warm flesh
and I am comforted—
home at last,
a chance for peace.
drycrikjournal 