Rowboat in the Black Sea



Last night in the black sea
on a rowboat slowly heading
for the Dreamtime

I dreamed my father and I
walked together

until we reached the end of a line
of people
saying goodbye

and sitting on a couch
to our left

sat my mother.

I floated like you do in the land of dreams
opening my arms

embracing
with everything that is me

knowing father
still stood quietly
by my side.

What did the heart say in the moment
facing his wife the beloved departed?

Such questions
you need not ask nor wonder

for upon waking
answers are never words.




For my father, brother and sisters,
she looked good.

Spirit of the Teacher



In the glorious day of the eagle
while the watchers danced and prayed
I asked the teacher:

Do you remember
when we talked about grief,
Norfolk happened the next day

and then we talked about balance
and the white egg cracked so its voice
could come to us,

and then we talked about Hope,
and honesty and patience,
and you taught us another thing
about the position of life

and possibility of death,
and you held onto us,
teaching in silence and words
typed into the white spaciousness
of the universe.

And you waited with us
as we played Native chants
and Enya
and prayed.

Then in the silence of the great mystery
a little life was spilled
into our eyes.

Alexandra Morton--new abundant vision
of all people--hatchling,
and now AJL you honor us
and vigilant more than most,
you count the small things
noting that all miracles

can be held and charted and
marveled over.

Above all, that these finer things
from a spirit who must love us
more than we will ever understand,
are gifts

to be shared. Teacher
in the treetops. Pointing a finger
into the darkness

for the watchers
in the woods.






for AJL

Snow Ghost

 

 

I am the lame horse in the blanketed field

looking out past a small ghost of a stump.
Nothing here has happened all day, then you walk
into the sticks and frozen grass of our field in the stillness of winter.
You move closer and I look to see just what it is you are looking at.
Ah, the cat’s eyes. White bowl of her face, the almost grin.
As if in her Arctic sweater dwells another universe.
You love her as you never have loved before;
she stays to have you take her photograph,
pretends it is nothing to her,
and you will never
know her name.

Water




I think God must love water
and perhaps is a water being
above all;

his laugh cascading over stones,
words floating like they do,
rising up on his elbows

in the morning
to be with me,

curious like a lake,
mirror turning down the bright flame
of his eyes,

and his mother heart
where did he pull that idea
from the void,

where in his endless body
did he reach into

carving off a chunk
and mold Adam and Eve's
lopsided muscle,

leaving space for the darkness,
for the empty seat

of rough glowing coal
sparked by rising words
God throws into the river

catching fire becomes the soul.

6th Place - Poetry Super Highway 2012 Poetry Contest

Elephant in the RV

 

When elephants gather I cannot look too closely

or watch windmills of mountains sway
or the water that comes as a trickle from the eye.

I cannot watch the long arm curl and curl
around the stubby youngster
or the curious mouth on the end
or the gushing coolness from it
blown with glee.

I cannot watch from the air
the dusty countless snaking
one-at-a-time foot plodding miles of path;

they look so thirsty.

Or the elephant’s eyelash

or cut of the small mouth, sad smile,
or imagine the size of the mediastinum,
space of the heart;

because they are almost too big to save,
and too small in number. I can’t take two
and hide them in the RV,

begin a breeding program.

I cannot feed them their favorite vegetables and fruit in season

while I drink coffee and write every morning;
or watch through the loft window with the black dog
as the two gray lovers amble down the slow slope
to the field, where they give each other the

most tender grasses,

lean their rough heads together,

earth quake of a quiet rumbling
like a cat begins to purr.

I cannot name them Wilson and Beth,

or Sebastian and Murgatroid, or Lily and Ben.
They came already named--Mary and Lewis,
and over the years of them living in the Northwest,

the trails they flatten have grown,

all the flowers around the house
are gone,

mud pit at the lower end of the hill collects

the rainwater. Mary runs when she feels the drops
on her back, trumpets to Lewis to come join her.

He walks steady and deliberate swaying trunk widely

until he gets to the mud where Mary is already wallowing.
He slides in next to her; they roll and giggle, skyscraper sides
darken with shine.

One day Mary came and woke me, pulled at my arm until I got up,

and there in the open barn I built for them, in the gold straw,
steam rose like a hand from the little one,
slippery from landing.

And I crouched down to get a better look;

round swimmer of remembering womb,
unlikely angel, wobble on little pillars,
a wet and dark cloud, old man skin baby
of the giants from the desert
I cannot admit I love.

_____________________

by T.L. Stokes

 

 

c2012 T.L.Stokes (all rights reserved)

 

 

Blog Talk Radio

 

September 2012 Worldwide Open Reading 09/09 by PSH Live | Blog Talk Radio
T.L. Stokes reads the poem "Dragonfly" on PSH Live hosted by Rick Lupert.