Thursday, May 8, 2008

good yellow, pale

good yellow, pale

there is much of she
in that yellow rhododendron bloom.
look down into the garden bed,
see how every bloom
lays upon the twilight air.
every time i see that shade of yellow,
i see the soft pedal;
you would wish to see it,
wish to see how every flower,
co-insides with her aesthetic meaning.
each is subtle soft white skin,
each holds the shade;
the golden light of middle spring butterfly wing,
tucks and seals the hue
as it is made.

the stolen light, sifts
this time on the rippled fingers of her touch.
a tender mouth,
has electric softeners,
it molds and preys, at times.
the courtyard greyii, senicio
two toned, a kiss
waits upon its own,
has a two level lift.
with the hybrid sunshine,
the four oceans at my feet.
wait upon you,
with your soul, my hand upon your cheek,
eyes meet, soul hardens,
as the humid air unsweats
the precious pod to perfect ripeness.

the river water makes down the cress,
lush, whole, seeded with the spicy avolander.
the heart of darkness, shed a light on.
the whole system in the breast
the sweet smell of breath,
and the way she would writhe, and moan;
how would angels sing of god
or men at any less a loan.

the good native snowberries,
with their flat and hovering leaves,
flatter the wind,
hold their shape in that refined logic
which holds together simple to immaculate.
the whole course of she to he
is causeway, byway,
the shoulder on the road would grow a certain grass,
or her subtle pass.
how wholesome and how intricate.

the soft subtle rhododendron flower,
yellow, full of hope.
the course slow,
day upon night,
it slumbers, nourished;
it knows that admiration,
the seer would entreat.
the chickadee or finch,
has a certain liker,
as she continues with her kind;
knows a certain nest,
a good yellow, pale.
he has been there with his mate.
they circulate and chatter,
then fly their bodies close, sail
as that which makes the fire hot,
in the sorrow of that scented mourning dove.
you or that sweet flower,
she or the woman that you love.

how are the pine needles situated?
do they fall with the wind's harbored holdouts?
as the tea leaves linger on the bottom of your bowl,
the angels of your destiny would
say the obvious first:
oh, she is beauty.
and truth.
and also love.
the seven stars of that large ladel
shine, have upon their rim,
the beginning light form, brimming of,
as good, yellow, pale, dim,.
your watership is loft in time,
and hailing railroad lights are shining.
the soft trail moon, wanes,
and is aloft upon the light
of that yellow rhododendron,
with her flowers,
and their shade.

C 2008


Shari Zollinger said...

Rod, I am really enjoying your words. I wonder, if poet, does work for more than one member of this family. I would like to start seeing, perhaps a manuscript formulating for you? What do you think?

my-yo said...

yo - way to mount your subject and move words through our northwest landscape leaveing reader pleasently bothered.