In March Time

March 2013    (Content will be added during the course on the month. The selections included here are all taken from Sometimes Grief- Barks up the Wrong Tree 2012)

Still time

*

The Romans named

The month March

I always thought

Drag would work

Here much the same.

 

Not a new year anymore

Quickly the cement days

Harden

Into a pattern

A past

A clear path of either

Charge or retreat,

 

But in this illusion

Thinking there is still time

Fading winter evenings

As spring light lingers

Longer in the sky reach

Forestalling twilight longer.

 

The anchor of the passing days

Leaden, barbed, heavy in ways

Digs into the bottom of

Every passing wave

arrest progress in the cruelest of ways

Restrained

To drain away

In being held back

Securely in place.

 

March nowhere

Drag all the time

Crying some feeble

Consolation…

 

There’s still time

           Still time…..

 

No

There isn’t any still time…..   ever

In fact ?

 There is no such a thing

3/11

 *

Mad March World

 

In this light

March simply has

nowhere to go

but……on.

 

The step in the day

a longer presence

of illumination into

the afternoon later now

every new year born

in this same way.

 

There is this sense of urgency

a sort of headless Madness

that ignites

brittle tree limbs to

fan fine struck fingers

in complicated silhouette

 

flung across the horizon

like a bottle of India ink

spilled and splattered

upon a pale blue sky page.

 

I send these words

mere reflection

auditory stenography

purely dependent

on perception systems

beyond my grasp or control

 

Along the prescribed channels

as the pale blue light

drains the light

from the sky’s page.

 

3/11

*

             Fragments of the March

 

Light upon the lake

Waves frozen in mid-break

 

Broken Shafts of weak March sun

newly poured upon cracked and

shattered sheets of hyper-white

entrenched ice

a history of persistent bitter air

trapping flowing waters still born

beneath.

 

Light upon the Lake

waves frozen in mid-break

 

Barely Marching sun

arrested impressions

strange frigid contours

rivets of pressure

compacted tighter

isobars deceptive surface

unlikely to support any weight

 

Yet enough to entrap

a fool’s misstep

 

Light upon the Lake

Waves frozen in mid-break.

 

3/2011