We Used to Walk

We used to walk here to this table

above the creek, take notebooks out

and pens of course, companionable,

we sat just here together, wrote

by trees and water: calm delight.

I see, returning to the spot,

it’s been repainted, this old table....

We used to walk

for twenty minutes, rest in quiet

right here beside the creek, and write.

Now here again alone, I’m able

to view the place at last — oh, sweet! —

we used to walk.

Submitted for dVerse Form for All: the Rondeau

Different Hemispheres

(a sedoka)

Autumn in the park —

a photo like a painting

of golden trees, calm water.

Even as I gaze,

in my country Spring bushfires
are spreading fast, and merging.

Sekhmet (Small Statue)

Sekhmet is gold-skinned,

dressed in blue,

with bands of red and green

around her arms and neck.

Her dignified lion head

wears a black wig

down past her shoulders,

striped with gold lines

equidistant,

and neatly cut

straight across.

Crowning her head

is a lump of gold

shaped like a rearing cobra.

She sits, eye height,

beside my desk.

I am looking for a better,

more suitable spot.

But  perhaps not.

Here, we keep
good watch on each other.

This started out to be a'small stone', but it grew! Then I wrote the small stone.

Seeking to Touch the Wind

I scry your face.

It is speaking mystery.

I listen like a lizard.

Shuffling my chair,

I tune in as to a dance —

one that cuts the air.

Would you clear this picture,

spread gravel over its lines?
Let me hold it, though it’s fragile as a leaf.

Submitted for Verse First ~ Half & Half, using a 'prescriptive' rather than inspirational construction.

Why I Love Mary Oliver

It was her poem

about the shy, sweet creatures

who paused a moment

to look back at her

when she rounded a bend on her walk

and there they were.

It was the glimpse she noted

when they turned and fled —

that glint of horn

on each tossed head.

It’s her clarity

on what to do

with her ‘one wild and precious life’.

It’s the way

she looks closely, deeply, simply

at every pebble, puddle, cloud.

I walk around my world,

these few streets and parks,

trying to be her —

looking.

I take my camera.

It helps me see.

I take notebook and pen.

I pick up stones.

My words are clear, direct …
while hers are crystalline.

Submitted for Poets United's Verse First: Poets are Lovers (of other poets).