Irises


Irises by Vincent van Gogh
Irises by Vincent van Gogh

I watch from my folding chair,
the low autumn sun measuring out
the remains of the day.
She, genuflecting in the garden,
places four purple seedlings
into the dark damp earth,
pushing each with a jab of her fingers
and a prayer to bloom their beginning –
(those same fingers that used to softly
trace the curvature of the small of my back
when we made love)
purple irises close to the ground
She says they are insanely beautiful
and I say, “Did you know van Gogh painted
Irises from an insane asylum in Saint-Remy,
locked in the grip of unimaginable pain and suffering?”
She looks at me…looks through me,
as a small tear appears in the corner of her eye.
She knows.
She knows her garden better than she knows me,
but she knows that once these flowers root,
I am leaving her.
Turning back above these flowers,
my sweet-faced wife tilts a rusted watering can,
wanting more leaves, more flowers,
more life!  as water pours from the spout.
Five tongue-shaped petals fall ever so slowly
onto the black earth before she bends
and picks up each severed petal
and puts them oh so carefully in her pocket.

Celladora


Celladora,
whose softly curved lips
reveals a smile beneath
my soft-pressed kiss;

she takes me to the place,
exactly where I always meant to go;
outside of time and place,
past flesh to thought –

I dissolve in her radiant reflection.
Her love is an image of the world
made small enough to hold inside my mind;
an exploration of that inward beauty
where the borderlines  of “she” and “I” meet
between the real and the imagined,
the present and the past,
the lost and the found,
the lasting and eternal.

Time seems almost to dissolve.
With her, everything is an
infinite exploration and discovery
of the self and the universal,
and I, the jouncing and jostling
wilderness traveler,
constantly adjusting the gear
on my back, steeling my resolve,
finding my footing and heading off
upon unchartered paths.

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The Poppies of Castelluccio


Poppies
©Photo Courtesy of  Hardik Gohil*

in Castelluccio,
where Heaven’s angels tread
through fields of autumn
sweetly dressed in red.
kissed by Italian winds,
inflamed poppies dance
swaying gently
where wild stallions prance!
oh, Umbria,
where the saints have dined
in the meadows flowing
‘neath the Apennines,
such beauty lifts
the tired souls of men,
setting mortal feet
where only God has been!
in Winter’s grasp
each velvet petal weeps
for these fields of poppies
should never sleep!

*This poem is dedicated to the photojournalism of Writer and Photographer, Hardik Gohil.  You may view additional samples of his work at http://mang0pe0ple.wordpress.com