deep blue rhythm of arctic winter grasps
in chill fingers southern haven belies
comforts, jails them in frosted winter world
when to end? when to end? for warmth they pray
though to whom none can certain say, they pray
and curse and burn more fuel, wood, gas, coal
smoke and steam escaping impotent to heat
the world and its arctic sky snowing slow.
just weeks from vernal equinox they cry
against cold nights and bitter frost as robins
chatter of seeds and plenty and coming
pleasance under skies of promise — flowers
soon to triumph over latency and frost
filling the vernal world with truth and beauty.
david m pitchford
26 feb 2014
craig got out of rehab about a month ago
was doing so well until a coworker
brought up a horse named wildcatter — the name
somehow made it all real again, the tracks
the horses gate-to-wire and wagers won
once in a while just enough one more gods
grant me luck today . . . and how can normies
live without those highs? without the lows, live?
but, no , craig coaches himself, he has a higher
power now and steps against that seduction.
an hour later and craig is sweating bullets
though still at work, the quitting bell is set
to ring him home and no overtime in sight
somehow, some way, he’ll manage the beast this time.
David M Pitchford
19 Feb 2014
such a simple goal it seemed: write a thousand
poems. twenty-nine months it took to write
them, and that is the surprise. so much time,
so much life come and gone rivers flooded
droughts come and gone ice storms and ice fog nights
summer with tornadoes and storms of past
resurrected to haunt the now such love
gained and lost lovers won and tossed aside
not for lack of love, never that, but for
incompatibilities love not over-
comes . . . the dog euthanized . . . landslide crumbled
to dust returned the father leagues of life
traversed and each mile unmarked is a poem
failed or captured matters nothing in the end. . . .
David M Pitchford
11 Feb 2014
overwhelming, this desire to throw myself
headlong into some romance that glistens
like stars reflected from gently lapping pools
under dim moonlight and the haze of night.
her cerulean eyes speak of Gemini
dreams filled with traditional homemaking
to the beat of a little drummer boy
before the Child’s manger temple, angels
serenading the world with good will and peace
on earth . . . but suddenly I’m running headlong
into the desert to find the lion
roaring in streets of fire whence temptation
accusation and damnation pounded
on pulpits in joyless Beethoven beat.
it’s all candlelight against infinite
darkness deadfall into oblivion . . .
a kiss in gethsemane’s back alley
one betrayal on the way to martyrdom
roman lash across the shoulders salted
venom rubbed to wound the wounded insult
to injury all in the name of wasted
passion sinking like blood into time’s sands.
yet who can refuse the next breath of life
given its mysterious alternative
terrifying in the face of aspirations
dreams and longings and gloried ambitions
even the love of the moment of sunshine
or the joy of drenching in a soft spring rain . . .
your hands in my hair is salve enough
to stop the world awhile. our mornings
run to afternoon and together
means more than sunlight and april showers
to these may flowers we shoot on hikes
along the stream flowing toward the elkhorn
river with its willows weeping — what
is it these willows know? — but your hands
in my hair still the doubts, ill omens
haunting from experience and past
days, loves lost, abandonments, life’s soft
parade taking separate streets away
from dreams toward something . . . but you and I,
have our exemption from fate herself.
what is knowable
in dimensions beyond senses
it’s all speculation this side of immortality
infinity suggests all gods
as real as imagination
reality perhaps merely a single framed portrait
in our museum of senses