Rumi in the Grass

Underneath the oak I lay
on grandmother's patchwork
looking up through the limbs,
graceful architecture in silhouette
against the flawless blue
heaven above us.

You sit with your back
against the tree, reading softly
in a soothing cadence
that calms my soul
like only poetry can achieve

in elegant arrangement.

The sun warms my face
The wine drenches my heart

There is no past
nor future here to torment
my restless spirit's
imperfect reflections,
only this moment of
unconditional bliss,
lingers in conscious rapture.

Good Enough

Sleepless

The silver grass of
a moonlit field
sways in blue waves
from an unseen wind,
gleaming with ethereal light.

Out of the dark caves
the night birds fly
in black clouds,
circling the trees
before settling
in a shiver of dread.

The eyes of the beast
open slowly,
contemplating evil
with hungry amusement.
Clouds cover the moon
in nervous submission.
Fear erupts

and the night birds
take flight.

Love

it grows

like the fledgling spout

shivers on the scorched floor of the forest

after the great and savage fire

it soars

like the bird escaped

from its gilded cage a prisoner

long held captive and forgotten

it dreams

like the child asleep

sweetly in her mother's arms a haven

from fate's melancholy injuries

it shines

like the first full moon

brightly on the winter snow unblemished

by destiny's misguided course

The Invisible Man

The old man sits

with his back to the wall

collar pulled up and

cap pulled down

fighting for warmth

He holds a paper

cup in his trembling hand -

three quarters and a dime

as the people walk by

unaware of his predicament

they hurry to get out

of winter's way

He watches their feet

in shiny leather shoes

and high-heeled boots

always in a hurry to

get somewhere

Remembering that

distant life he swallows hard

against the sand in his throat

and the fear

in his heart

Breakfast in Bed

Pull the covers over my head,

don't want to face this day.
I can smell the pancakes and
coffee downstairs
but the only sound I hear
is the melancholy tune
of my heart strings playing
please don't go.
Winter's cruel game sets
time on a crazy,
high-speed wheel only to
crawl when things get real.
Damn that clock.
Sip the sparkling slowly
and remember that I'm
here waiting for a wake
up call from this
lonely dream, singing
please don't go.

Winter Pane

I touched the window yesterday

the pane was cold beneath my hand

for winter dwelt beyond its plane

and dipped in frost the very land.

I thought if Spring would ever come

my window would again be warm

and tell of climbing Summer sun

and mirror flash of midnight storm.

And then again the wind would blow

and glaze the earth with solemn white

my window would of Winter know

a paler sun, a deeper quiet.

Written in my journal from 1983.

As I've gotten older, I've learned that life rarely rhymes,

and so rarely does my poetry, anymore.

Carousel

Out on the field where daisies live

and elements of men remain

there stands a haunted carousel

silent now, and just as well.

The ponies still in frozen prance,

the wind and rain made colors pale

yet once their brightly painted hooves

fell softly to their merry dance.

And children's laughter echoes 'round

among the ponies' gilded heads,

or is the wind designed to mock

and conjure up that mournful sound?

The mirrors, cracked along the wheel,

and blinking lights no longer shine

the moon reflects in still, black eyes

the daydreams of a child to fill.

Now paled by sun they fade away,

the carousel, a silent tomb

some say that on a summer's eve

one still can hear the ponies play.

Sweet Nothing to Do Time

I'm on vacation until February 15th. I'll have my journal on my journey and hope to feel inspired to put pen to paper. I've been in a bit of a slump and believe a vacation just might be the thing I need to help me over the crevasse, a.k.a., get my groove back.

Thanks for reading.

-Itsa Mystery

Campfire

Stars above us

Blanket around us
Fire before us

I hear your heartbeat

Earth beneath us
Past behind us
Hope inside us

I hear your heartbeat

Night surrounds us
World below us
Love between us

I hear your heartbeat

You smell like smoke

Kiss me

Counterfeit

I painted a picture
that wasn't real,
glossed over the truth
with rosy strokes,
altering reality
with Love's false media.

Honest rain came

and washed away

my revisionist design,

revealing the genuine

in unvarnished clarity.

And though the

art beneath

is regretful and bittersweet,

I must accept

its authenticity.

Journal Entry: March 15, 2009

Though years have passed,

I love you still.
The sun, the moon,
the universe, was ours.
Yet all that remains
is a blanket of stars
shaped like an arrow
through my soul.