Eleanore Kosydar

The Poem as Pilgrimage

Shape thought; give it form
and burnish with fire — red
purple, gold.

Swirl through ether
and the black
hole
of your larger self

absorbing the sensate world.
Be feather and stone;
become other.

Flesh out the bare bones
of your spare truth,
words now
a red maple in vivid leaf
beneath your harvest moon.

SHORE MUSIC, Lake Superior

Great Lake
you are  a maker of music
player of pebbles
sayer of stone

Your sonorous voice
born of wind
is spoken with water
is carried on waves
Surf pounding hard you tell of sheer power;
lulled to a dream you whisper love poems.

You make shore music
playing on rock:    rock broken and worn
by movements and rages
by ceaseless movement through thousandfold ages

Your rhythmic music
is borne on your breath
your deep sea breathing   sighing   heaving
swelling     peaking      spilling sonatas
drawing for pause
on the crest of a wave.

With stone you score
your lovely shore music
orchestrate   magic
with countless percussives

Crashing crescendos  you play   hard rock
driving and drumming  on huge solid blocks
Tumbling shoreward you roll rounded pebbles
in water-worked strumming of smoothness and foam

Great Lake
   maker of music
your shoreline concertos are etched in my bones;
your rolling rock music    resonates  deeply
thrumming   and thrilling
telling of home.

Waterfall Meditations

Insistent, urgent power
draws me downward
atremble, losing
ground
rushing
headlong
into the abyss . . .

From the base of the falls
all is thunder, mist
and torrential
sounds
of descent:
deluge racing
through swirling air

Eyes drenched, I see
with rare clarity­, insp­ire
the essence of thrust and hurl
­ like an aphrodisiac

aware of water’s variable
volume, slant
and speed
in her songs:
mellifluous ripples,
deep, throaty outpourings,
sweet dribbles of treble tremolo

Saturated to the bone,
blood coursing with music
and all around,
effervescent avatar
of Icarus sparkling like fire —
my every nerve’s
a falling star . . .

Winter Love Song

Thigh-deep we wade
through pillowed drifts
of softest snow:
a dream world
swirled
by yesterday’s gusts
into this thick blanket
of white undulation.

Feather crystals yield
to our advance
collapse
like down
in loose heaps
around our feet
movement half-frozen
in the sanctuary of
frosty air and icy branches
melting hearts.

In this the deep heart
of winter, we are in love
with flesh and blood
and white,
profoundly embraced
by cold and fire,
propelled by desire
to be in these woods,
blanketed bodies
etched in light:

breathe crystal —
knowintimately
the soul of snow.

Moonlight Shadows

I

On moonlit snow the skiers glide
enveloped in soft bluish light
shining gently off sparkling white.
With long strides skis whisper and slide
cadence hypnotically rhythmical
in a dance verging on mystical.
Serene the flowing shadows
blend then recede into
the luminous
crystalline
night.

II

Upon a brilliant moonlit eve skis seem as wings
bearing wingless shadows o’er silvery ground.
Soaring through the unearthly glow
scarcely feeling the touch of snow —
it seems the graceful shadows     fly     above clouds.

III

On a still night when the full moon's light
filters silver through clouds of frosty white
gleaming crystals sprinkle a fine icy mist
while speeding shadows skim the sleek silken crust.

IV

This night surely they ski on velvet!

Shimmery clouds of breath shaped by sharp cold air hover —
a crescent moon shines brightly from the dense dark sky.
Swiftly sliding skis caress the snow-white luster
silent as wisps of evanescent shadow.

WINGS

Feeling low, not knowing where to go
I trudged through narrow
valleys,
over hills and far below
saw a stream unwinding tightly

and I followed
paths that wound
like streams
within cool basements
of steep ravines

worked my way up high
along a trail that rode the crest
of falling land
and all around me,
forests dark and deep:

stood there awhile gazing straight
at leafy tops of towering trees when
startled I stared face
to face into the depths
of a golden eye!

Feathered trunk camouflaged
but for a meeting of eyes,
the Great Horned Owl perched
motionless on a sturdy limb, mottled feathers
merging perfectly with speckled canopy

That great bird blinked — then spread wide
its massive wings and silent, flew my breath
past shivered leaves,
slipped a shadow
through the copious wood

Further on the rim of height
an opening
brought me back to light —
doe with fawn in low meadow
a golden sight

and there the breeze bestowed
upon my cheek a kiss:
spirit oh so lightly grazed
by love, lifted free of care

On the edge of earth
where ground falls sharp
to left and right,
unfettered soul grew wings, knew
boundlessflight—

YOUR HANDS

Since we first met
I have loved your hands.

They speak to me
straight from your heart,
speak of strength and
gentleness, and love
of beauty and art.

I am touched
by their aesthetic form:
manly hands, well proportioned;
not over-large but broader than mine
(which tuck into them neat
and snug), and slightly longer.


Richard Kosydar

I marvel at their deftness,
am moved by the crafting
of gesture:   sensitive hands
that hold and cradle all you handle
with caring respect, materials
and I responsive to their touch.

Radiating warmth
from your inner core,
they seem reservoirs
of the very breath of life —
express the essence of you,

reveal why from the first
I, thirty years your wife,
have loved your hands.

BENEDICTION

    with thanks to May Sarton
    for "The Work of Happiness"

Solitude.
A familiar, loved place
where wind blows gently,
washing mind clean.
A place of worship
amidst the green.

Inner quiet.
An open space
for the new, the unexpected.
Invisible expansion deepens,
shifting upward
to sing.

Here
rooted in
timeless dreams,
a happiness grows.
We are blessed by the air
we breathe.

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