October 29th, 2009
On the tip of my brain
Sits a poem only half-formed.
It has been on the verge of being written
But lacks a common thread or substance.
The change of the seasons are a muse
As is Prokofiev, green tea, and daffodils.
When peering out into nature
To watch God’s amazing workmanship
Words drip into the sky
And peek out from behind the trees.
These fleeting moments of clarity
Are so difficult to grasp,
But their memory leaves a taste in my mind
And can’t help but make me thirst for the Something Greater.
Like the dark shadows shining down from the clouds
Between the bright rays of the sun.
Or the resonance of a string on my violin
With the tamborine atop the piano.
The sound rushes through the air and finds a kindred voice
And the two shake with joy at their meeting,
Lifting my heart with them
And laughter bursting forth.
Observing the absurd and giggling
Deeply until I must gasp for air.
God, the beautiful painter,
Who made the colors to complement each other.
He put red flowers on stalks of green;
Purple and yellow wildflowers
Scatter themselves and dance along the highway,
Crowned with caps of white.
Trees containing one hundred shades of orange, gold,
And vibrant, burning embers of scarlet
Against a vastness of blue
And a trunk of black.
Each leaf, then, holds a secret;
Each flower petal an answer,
And my eyes flit over them oft unaware
Of such a great mystery.
Oh, grant me the liberty to write such a verse
That would do justice to these trappings
Beating out of my heart.
A calling, a whisper,
A rampant longing for the glorious.