Early Orchard Snow

The barn door yawns slowly,
the rusted hinge loosening a soft moan
at the touch of the breeze
meandering off the orchard slopes.
Beyond the frozen ruins of the garden,
deer for a moment cease their hopes
of winter wheat and cock eyes and ears
toward the snoring barn.
Firewood hides beneath the snow
and my back cocks once, quickly,
as I gaze upon the axe.
Blessings huddle beneath the wood shed,
one dry cord.
Standing still again, I close my eyes.
The creek gurgles its way across the farm.
The barn door shifts in dreams.
Latching the door, I turn to predawn hills.
Row after white blanketed row
the apple trees wait, freshly pruned.
Like Arlington they stretch beyond sight, wonder.
Like the little ones snuggled close inside,
they slumber.
I close my eyes again and see blooms
and fruit.
I fill my arms and turn from orchard to orchard.

~bsower~

Mailing Resumés in December

Leaves
released to the wind and the cooling earth
to be broken, decomposed, decayed
Forsaken arms stretched skyward
bearing no gifts, only baring what nakedness reveals
Gaunt, gray fingers content to wait and wave
possessing no heated desire or urgent need
Autumn leaves, her vibrant dress now brown,
scattered in countless swatches on the wind
to fertilize tomorrow's dream perhaps
but now
unemployed.

~bsower~

New Clay

The soft, cotton string
of a jet splits the autumn sky
as I sit on a hill above the river
wondering.
The labor of hands and feet
and a mind intent on moving
suffers frustration, a shiver,
a thundering.

A decision in weakness
in the garden of heaven
and now we strive and thrust,
desiring;
But better lives were ours
before the blood lines
passed as they must, before
the firing

Of the new clay we inhabit,
where we taste but a glimmer
of the freedom that was given
and spoken.
Finding the gift proves fruitless,
though, unless we destroy
ourselves, bringing us riven,
broken,

Like the raiment between
the world and the holiness
when the clean blood fell
like rain.
As the lines of cotton fade
above me ,and the sky is one,
I find understanding in the nail,
a gain

Of sorts, for how else can there be
such love as a death,
such gain in loss?
Tell me.
The river flows still,
and the tree of my life
is twisted to a cross.
Nail me

There and take this labor
and craft some greater love,
end this strife.
Grave me.
For no labor brings joy
like a love given freely
like the gift of the life
that saved me.

On this hill I imagine
another time
when the life of the world hung dead
until a blood stronger than the river
ran and a wind from heaven swirled
instead,

and I rise with new eyes
and I walk new paths
and I can sing
As one
with the angels and saints
and the Father of Lights
as They come and bring
the Son.

~bsower~

A Poetry Day

Morning Awakening

Never take lightly
Shades of a sunrise slaking
The dark thirst of waking
Hills dressed in early spring
Nightcaps garnered with foglace

Even though Momma’s probably up
By now and the house is one
Big coffeepot steaming done
So I smell coffee outside

I always am a child when I think
Of Poppa and of dreams
And of Momma’s old surprise
The magic coffee sunrise

Never take lightly
All those burnt summer evenings
Between the trees behind the house -
The two dogs chased squirrels
And I sat until the sweat dried

Mostly wondering if dogs cry
They look so like they know some things
I like to run with them at night
In visions tomorrow wide

I sometimes drift away when I spy
Chimney smoke flapping in the wind
And clouds floating vividly
Above a pastoral mountainside

Never take lightly
But the milking and feeding
And mowing need done by noon
Then the fence the far pasture’s needing
Must be up by new moon

Baby brother will soon be here
Pondering the sunrise, reckoning
Son, the tomorrows keep beckoning
Ages pass year by year

I laugh at becoming my parents
Still, their sun shines brightly
The mountains are quenched – time to rise
Long working day – don’t eat lightly

~bsower~

This Functional Life

Pictures from a recollection and wishes
of somewhere else in time and distance
where trees are grown for no reason and I can love

the moon

Several sawed-off shotguns
wasting in the woodshed and suits
with dusty shoulders from hanging too long
in the closets of rusty soldiers
Maybe in church on Sunday
where real seems sometimes surreal but yet so real
that thanks should be given for bloodshed
and all the spankings behind the woodshed
because more than our shoulders are dusty

Must he
hide behind the squint and swagger
when all that is needed is a smile to sweet the bitter
swallowed with a childhood chased with annual migrations
and carpetbaggers from God-knows-where
who appear in bedrooms and kitchens
calling themselves family

Choking
from the sweetness of her love until
tears fall because of daily realizations and recognition
of mortality, of loss
because nothing lasts forever outside this room

Sitting on a sunset
smiles become vivid recollections and even pictures
will not remain – memories can’t last forever
like stale toast
Stuck

popped up in Pompeii and frozen to yesterday

~bsower~

The Morning Train

I should not think of you again
unless I can dream
free and clear of heartache
and the next big earthquake

Seems there’s less to gain
unless tomorrow comes
without memory and desire
and yesterday’s fire

I could put you on the morning train
unless you’d stay
you could tell the birds
so there’d be no words
for me to hang on
no hopes but those
I live on

But I will sleep now
unless the phone rings
free and clear is the line
but the light doesn’t shine

and still I dream
and always will
unless I wake in Ireland
and hear the choir and
the birds
without words

I shouldn’t wake but I do
and I think of you
ever, still, and will
free and clear like the morning train
and I sure would love to see you again

~bsower~

Thaw Me

Sometimes I am abandoned

by my heart, and I cannot even feel

alone

Sometimes I am abandoned

by my body, and I cannot even walk

away

Sometimes I am abandoned

by my head, and I cannot even remember

apathy

Sometimes I am naked in the snow

and am willing to lay there

asleep

Bundled people passing by

forsaken in foreign ways but one

should have my promise to keep

Not willing to forsake

but to thaw me awake

♪

♪

♪

Stripping Still

This process is but a cog in a gear in the system that is me.

Water Dream

We melted into a pool
cotton, silk, cotton-poly blend, denim
falling all around
Like autumn leaves drifting to the watertop
barely rippling the surface.
Hesitate, hurry, heat, cool air, stop
don’t stop –
bronze the moment in memory
like baby’s shoes – reminder:
fruit of conception –
Like stones skipping, scouring smooth surface
with simple swells until the fall
down – can’t wait – drown –
drop fast
Stone to the bottom of the pool
And like a stone,
Can’t remember the details
once the ripples slowly move away,
fade into the rushes, blend
with man-made wake while
Waiting for winter to freeze me again.

~bsower~

Economy of Love

The swinging in the playground
twenty years ago
Stopped dead in the rust
of feeble, old dreams.
We grew upward from strollers to bikes,
leaving each to fall like leaves,
And time still hikes
its way through a mangled world.
We dined at the wedding feast
on gilded plates now broken
from the move you made
Away.
Love depreciates.

~bsower~

Across the Alley

She says she loves the moments when she can forget
to be her and instead remember,
sometimes too much, sweet dreams and vistas
that other times appear
in a magazine or on television
or in someone else's eyes.
But those moments when she loses
track of time and self, they are more than all that
because they are real,
even through a window-view,
and leaning out the window is its own poison
just like suffocation.

And he says he loves the moments when he can share
his heart and soul
with another who returns them
better than they were,
with another who breathes more than air - she breathes
the soft flesh of dreams both to be and not
and is not afraid of suffocation -
and he is ready to give her his breath anyway.

They speak across the alley,
smiling across the way through opposing windows.
Their hearts seem pinned to clothespins
sliding on the line from one to the other, like notes
or clean clothes. They sometimes see the blur of traffic
passing by, or faceless people, the mailman, but mostly at these times
they see one another.
Still, sometimes they see the door,
beneath its awning always lit.

~bsower

Humidity

Crossing the threshold
I am pasted sticky, wet
Eight a.m. and eighty-eight degrees
The air is invisible still but steamy, molasses
Life in slow motion
I do not want to mow the lawn in slow motion
I am thirsty
I do not want to wear grass and dirt today
I am soaking wet already
I wish you were still here
You would be surprised
I have fixed the place up nicely
Barn door thermometer reads ninety
The mower starts easily
I am tired already
Maybe you will come back today
for once
I look forward to a cold shower

inspired by Lime

Diving

A smile like the sunrise
Peering over Calibogue sound
Rouses him from other dreams where,
In arms as free as his
Longing, he rests peacefully,
And she wonders what he will do
when it rains.
Thoughts of darkness toss him
like a hammock in a hurricane,
but he recalls the fire within.
He knows he finds inspiration in the rainfall,
and he knows how to swim.
Swallowed by her light, though
He takes a breath
As deep as canyons
Just in case.

~bsower~

56 words worth... maybe

If you had eight shades of heaven
sinking through your mind
and if a girl was a woman
or if a 6 were a 9
or if I couldn't love you
before a flower's color fades
and if a dragonfly couldn't fly away
behind those eight shades of heaven
there'd just be seven shades of grey.

Counting Sheep

Tomorrow’s music silks through today
and finds me, drapes me with hope
soft as yesterday
and as real.
Vote for tomorrow,
subscription and redemption.
Bill me, 90 days same as
forever.
Try to remember a dream nestled
somewhere in a wide open space.
Headlights slant through the blinds.
Life ticks loudly, marking my pace.
Someone gives birth in the city outside;
someone just died.
Eyes need a night to spend the place.

~bsower~

I saw a battle field today
And I told the boys something simple about the dead –
Then, as they ran across the field and tumbled into the forest’s leaves,
I gazed blankly back in time to a book I’d read
The book pondered how soldiers put into words –
In their letters home – the sounds, the sights,
The hell they lived in whatever war. I feel that way, too,
When I try to describe even to myself the nights
I spend without you.

Tracking
Nine pm - driving home -
one of the last
longer days -
time changes soon
and then long summer days
spent playing outside
until nine will seem surreal,
just like the hours spent
in a dream escape
with skin bared as much as hearts
and desire
Not long ago this drive would have been lit
with a setting sun
but now the headlights glance
off edges of fields
and in the dark
I see shapes move briskly
then they are gone
like yesterday,
but I bet I could wander those fields
and find their tracks.

~bsower~