Poems Of Emediate Moment
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Sunset At Hawk's Nest Platinum pupil and golden orange iris, Pure rose and turquoise the lids of the eye, Lashes of evergreen and the gliding hawk's wing, Dark umber brows of the rustling oak bough. Plato's puppet dances without strings, Tracing the shade of the fair plane tree, Yet under his gaze nothing is new But shadows cast from high platitudes. The eye of Horus gleams in the hours of twilight, A thousand eyes dreaming now wake to the sight: A crescent smile, mother-of-pearl and silvery bright, Beaming with warmth on the face of the night. Jon Awbrey Glen Arbor, Michigan August 25, 1990
Chrysalis Memories of being held In closely knit spheres And guided beyond the orbits Of childhood fears Entrusted with a word That rustles in a breath And warrants respect for The not yet beautiful In Honor of My Parents' Golden Wedding Anniversary Jon Awbrey, Amherst, Massachusetts, March 21, 1996
A Well-Known Rock On Tour Suppose you come to a rock on the moor: That may or may not have fallen there as a meteorite burrows out of the sky, or lava drops cool in a vanished lake. That may or may not have rolled there on the impulse of a rough-hewn hermit, or the reverence of a primitive tribe. That may or may not have been crafted as an architrave, a bourne, a caltrop, a dolmen, an epistyle, a fenestration? That is the sort of ambiguity that I have been wrestling with, the type of uncertainty of type that arises in trying to read the "Book Of Nature" (BON), the unsettling noise that will at turns shock, surprise, and surround us as we strain to pursue this "Dialogue Involving Nature" (DIN) as one of its partners. This is not the brand of sort of type of ambiguity that will be extinguished by our impoverished attempts to control the speech of our neighbors, nor would it serve us well even if we succeed. Jon Awbrey October 16, 2000
*ships of yore on the trailing edge of an icy winged age, semele lies enleved in the foils of hades. when shall we see her depart the departed? when will i mark my recue from the shades? not till signs of spring charge the skies, not till summer gives voice to the air -- a dove outside my window this morning? if only it were that kind of year! jon awbrey, in honor of his father, 11 march 2002
My tables, My tables -- meet it is I set it down That one may smile and smile and be a villain. ~~ Hamlet, 1.5.107-109 Meet it is -- or is it join? -- That error and information Bear our cognate strife With us in the middle, As ambits torn from A singular womb. But leave the space That promises peace, With wile enough and The wareness to boot: 'Twill amend thy selve. Jon Awbrey, 18 Feb 2004
Coriolanus Banished at birth, The wings of your soul torn off, You are but a block of wood To be carved by the makers of chessmen and marionettes To be placed on boards and stages That cannot be won with the pieces that are left. Jon Awbrey Stratford, Ontario July 25, 2006
✻ Snow ✼ just a glimmer ✽ and a charm ✾ of finches ❃ grey not gold now ❄ huddled around ❅ their thistleseed feeder ❆
Jon Awbrey, December 1, 2010