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

 

July

 

ONE SMALL ERRANT FOOT
By Steve Palmer (July 2011)

Drowning in tears she took as her own
Painted in corners where lonliness worn
Out all her colors she once had drawn out
On pages where all of her feelings could shout

A hustling mother stood vigal each night
At the doorway ever so close to his sight
Under a huddled ball of blankets and sheets
That could not suffice to warm his bare feet

She tipped close for comfort to the edge of the stairs
While knitting a cap that would match his hair
Fiddling evenly without any long pause
To bring her mind back from a stolen lost cause

Checking and wondering if she could make a break
To pull the end of the blankets to make
That one errant foot covered at last
So all would be finished and left in the past

But a worn out wood plank could jostle the youth
A slip of the rug would revisit in truth
Dreaded dry coughs and of uneasy nights
Where both had grown tired, uneasy in light

But left to nature’s path, a danger still stood
If the brittle crisp air hit a nerve as it could
And awoke from sweet peace, a tired sick son
Leaving behind all the work that was done

She raised her eyebrows while twisting the sticks
That moved like a needle pulling a stitch
Of thread in his pants or through buttons that fell
From his thin faded shirt that next year she could sell

It seemed clearly known of more lasting peace
And time to knit gloves and socks for his feet
So with that hurdle made, she took a deep breath
And put off stray thoughts that appeared in her head

Maybe tomorrow he would venture to school
And leave her to spend some time on a stool
But for now she sat tight, close to his bed
Eyeing that foot and her worries instead

So comfort stayed course and well for this time
And later she raised herself just to find
One more errant foot pointing up in the air

To which she smirked and flung back her hair

 

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