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Poems

In the Tented Field Beneath a Wild Sky

Years past, the tented field was one of war
With cloudbursts of bombs and grave, martial light.
Though those times ever, unwelcome, appear
They are not now here, and the field is bright
Beneath a northern sky flashing colors
Of electric shades in the weird gloaming.
For these tents lie beneath a grand aurora
Whose lights, like sailors, are ever roaming.

And what lights!  Like nebulas brought near us,
They make a great glow of serpentine greens,
Blushing pinks, coronary golds, purples
Whose hues before appeared only in dreams.
Such wild and brawling hues that fly by dusk
Make, like dread skies of war, mankind feel slight—
But whereas war’s thunderheads bring horror,
Nature’s aurora brings awe and delight.

Categories
Poems

The Wind

Born in a cosmic, ancient time unknown—
Neither with a beginning nor with end,
Roving the globe with no destination,
Scaled from gales to zephyrs—exists the wind.

Never truly stilled.  Wind wafts through tall grass,
Strokes a woodpecker’s pileated back,
Eddies, whirls like an Istanbul dervish,
Then rushes to autumn’s gold tamarack.

Along a purling stream it courses.
Unconquerable, the wind keeps her head,
Dashing over the solemn pine forest,
Toward the boreal Arctic’s stone swept shore.

Then out!  Out over the cold raging sea,
Of black waves, fractured pack ice, and white spume—
Out amid lightning’s ribbonlike white wires,
Where auroras blaze in electric bloom.

On capricious currents come chance and change.
Historic, progressive, shaping wild rain—
On wind ride voyagers, eagles, and hopes:
Hopes to be fulfilled, hopes that are in vain.