November

PENNINSULA'S GATE
By Steve Palmer

Nothing in front and nothing behind
Encased by wild and earthly divide
Open clear air to highten the view
And trample with footsteps that can’t continue

In front of the eyes beyond the wide doors
Whose hesitancy flickers for one moment more
To finally secure the end of class
And life’s furious pace with its heavy mass

So outdoors they came to open the space
Onto the edge of penninsula’s gate
To feverishly pace and argue with night
And startle the quiet with prose to right

Where images clash and burn bright and free
An insular calling and one to be
With fortresses shaken by stark country
And wailing notes that few can see

Instrument in hand, to summon they must
That which flows out to blow away dust
To deny the darkened quiet that woke
Their only life with timber and smoke

Would be like still water rising to sky
To meet a maker without a life
Or breaking a stone with a bare hand
Or shedding tears made of dry sand

They simply follow the path to the lake
Molding moist clay till it’s time to bake
And following piper’s that weave a sure web
Of tapestry flowing from inside their head

So onto the forest and water that gleams
With splashes of sun in yellow and green
Onto the boundary that separates two
One of the many from one with a view

Onto the cubicles with four walls intact
Where toil and wonder fuse in an act
And one day pour out on an open stage
With awe and zeal collecting a wage

To bring them wisdom and sound they need
Drawn from thin air and planted from seeds
Pulled from the edge of heaven’s door
To the true end of every night’s shore

2/06/09

 

April

THE EMPTY COURTYARD
By Steve Palmer (April 2011)

There’s a ribbon in the courtyard
Tracing circles in the air
Blowing color in a corner
With no one standing there

Cobblestones make lines that lead some
From the peoples’ courtyard square
That sits silent, still and empty
Gone from bustling crowded fares.

Surrounding walls stand with comfort
With an ever widening stance
And the earth washed tone and texture
Where at times the builders glance

To open doors of warmer greetings
Whether one or as a pair
Holding bronze or lighted buttons
To note an entry shed with care

Through a window lives a candle
Straight and narrow paths to share
A lone teardrop filled with embers
With faint ruffles still it stares

Reaching close to rooftops quarters
With a shielding angle's hand
And a plain and unseen purpose
Only night unfolds its plans

And above there lies a canyon
Raising high above its glare
Moving softly in the distance
Over words and deeds we share

A solemn quiet fills the courtyard
Only rustling leaves show life
Pulled by winds slow force upon them
Dancing pictures in the night