The Stalking Moon

 

the heavenly body of record
lest you forget
crushes petty complaint
beneath its rocky seas
and pulls the tides
to cool work-weary feet
 
the stalking moon
sees you home
knowing twinkle in the sky
 
it lets you know
in the worst of sorrow
that there is still
another tomorrow

The Truth of First Light

the pull of sleep

loses its hold

when the dawn

first light offers

to burn off the cold

the sweet dew chill

little sought

but for the take

a just reward

for being awake

catching the sky

blue for the right eyes

to set our hopeful gaze

and have adventure

before the heated haze

like the hunter

who sacrificed the night

this is the moment

arrived with first light

A Cold Forest Lament

the woods play tricks

and leave the weary

to walk home aching,

tiring with each step,

mired in a vulture’s quiet

boundary and man breaker,

jester and solemn teacher,

the land reflects

the mind of the hunter:

sometimes mad,

but always hungry

Cloud Language

spy the sultry dusk

billows,

an intimate ceiling

burning paths

for living dreams

thank with a knowing wink

that cloud cover,

letting us hunt

in that first light

without a burning glare

eyes wide to drink it in,

that beauty that makes us mad

and forever fleeting,

made with water in air

Call of the Woods

leaf-lush primal joy,

a magnet,

drawing woodmen

from their galley desks

step

by wide-eyed

step

forest bound

and snug,

wound tight

but natural

in tree cloak

all still

in the magic

of the first light

the world

as we were meant

to see it—

waking, alive,

and ripe

for the taking

Deerwoods

Silent inviting

a place of bounty

fleeting, springing

with creatures alighting

puzzles of trees

branches and streams

woods of Indian walking dreams

pace in the cold

upwind and still;

waiting for prey

ignoring the chill

there to take

with a hunter’s violence,

a thirst to slake

with hours of silence

Call of the Woodsmen

Leaf-lush

primal joy,

a magnet

drawing woodsmen

step by wide-eyed step.

Forrest bound

and snug,

wound tight

but somehow natural

in tree-cloaked garb.

and still

in the magic

of the first light

the world

as we were meant to see it:

waking,

alive

without the glare

of a cruel sun,

autumnal

and ripe for the taking. 

Deerwoods

Silent inviting

a place of bounty

fleeting, springing

with creatures alighting

puzzles of trees

branches and streams

woods of Indian walking dreams

pace in the cold

upwind and still;

waiting for prey

ignoring the chill

there to take

with a hunter’s violence,

a thirst to slake

with hours of silence