Revelry
A tiny bill is tapping at the edges of my pane,
I spy a gray ruffled feathered tuft intent a seed to gain.
Bitty-birdy head cocks, wipes each cheek upon the brick,
darts away a miracle, returns to rapping just as quick.
© Brenneman T. March 2, 2003
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Quiet Rush
In my silence,
don't forget I love you.
Your seed, it bursts the shell of birth
to bear good fruit, uncanny girth.
In your haste,
don't forget he loves you.
Your eyes, they touch the depth of him.
A squint, a tear, and he shall grin.
© Brenneman T. March 4, 2003
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Reasons
There may seem hundreds of good reasons to fight this war,
but there plenty more people who are good reasons not to.
© Brenneman T. March 6, 2003
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They're Just Not Me
Last night I heard the sounds of war.
My dog stood up and walked the floor.
The lightening flashed not far away,
then thunder spoke her rumbling say.
We shook a bit, then settled down,
and waited for another round.
I liked the passion in the cloud,
the burst of light, roars low and loud.
I was safe inside my house, you see,
and had a lovely soul to comfort me.
But those at war are not so blessed,
struck dead within lonely wilderness.
The gap for them is not so wide,
between flash and clap, no place to hide.
The beauty of the thunder storm
loses wonder when it is the norm.
I read the paper, and pictured there
are scenes of horror I wouldn't dare
to lift from print to reality,
but true they are, they're just not me.
© Brenneman T. March 6, 2003
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Mechanical Mustard Seed
All shades of green, smart kaki seams,
mettle medals ornament our dreams.
Gears shift, articulate the speed,
speeds war's mechanical mustard seed.
A tree grows best while we're asleep,
invisible to plans we hope keep.
It's iron roots and steely bark
wrap tight their grip in damp and dark.
Branch stretches broad as computer buds.
We wake, down comes our fruit of scuds.
Robot spores await spring's call to bloom.
We'll smell no flower in masks of doom.
©
Brenneman T. March 12, 2003
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Heroes
We once looked up to those
we later found were also needy.
As adults,
we find our bedroom closet room was not so big,
our street not so wide,
and thankfully, our mentors not so terribly unique.
© Brenneman T. March 15, 2003
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Escape From Reflection
I thought I saw the cause in you;
a reason for the things you do.
But I am learning that what I see
is mostly my image returned to me.
I saw the mountains in the skies.
Their massive bulk absorbed my eyes.
But when I sought to follow your track,
the biggest hills were on my back.
To reach beyond my mirrored room,
and know your joy or feel your gloom,
I'll leave the safety of my mind,
and let you take me where I'm blind.
© Brenneman T. March 16, 2003
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After Eight, It's Not Too Late
It's March 19, 2003,
6:48 PM Eastern Standard Time.
I feel the gathering weight of my country's fist
looming over the face of Iraq.
Will this be an hour I return to with regrets
for meeting the gift of my awareness
with only the relative inaction of poetic protest?
My antique clocks toll seven times, and keep on ticking.
All I do is think and write.
Others prepare to kill and be killed.
Oh God of liberty and love,
save us all
from the enemies
of reason, proportion, and justice.
Though threatened,
the guardians of peace will go on in faith;
Believing that the good in mankind
will protect the tender, nearsighted eye
from its neighbor's angry hand.
It's eight o'clock.
©
Brenneman T. March 19, 2003
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Sugar Dreams
Chocolate icing,
cupcake snack;
tell the real,
I'll be right back.
Full of sugar
I go to bed,
flush the toxin
through my head.
I fight, then fall,
or cause a wreck,
feel apple's worm,
squirm in my neck.
Maybe today
I'll watch diet,
then tonight
my brain won't riot.
© Brenneman T. March 24, 2003
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All Is White
As is her custom,
she'll defer.
Mist angel's dust on
conifer.
We cry beside
her bruise in snow;
a swelling tide
of indigo.
But in the end
her star is bright.
Pure sun or cloud blend,
all is white.
©
Brenneman T. March 26, 2003
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Beyond My Selfish Bent
I feign to speak my meaning.
My soul grows lonely
in the chasm of empty evenings.
I love you,
but passion does not only work Fridays .
I finally form words,
"have a great day."
I mean them, but I want more.
Be well soft spirit,
riding the cusp of scheduled love.
Be whole, and grasp the meat of my good sentiments.
Let my passion be sacrificed to your healing.
Be at peace my friend.
When time takes our breath
back to the whimsical winds of eternity,
I ask that I might have blessed you
more than once.
I live,
but only beyond my selfish bent
do I thrive.
© Brenneman T. March 26, 2003
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Revival
Cautious, I touch the guise of God,
in old red oak, then goldenrod.
I esteem the toothpick green of yew,
of honeysuckle, I nurse anew.
© Brenneman T. March 27, 2003
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Breathe the Trees
Peel back your focus from far and see
the blatant nose, love's face on me.
Put down your microscope and look,
beyond the mess, eye me, the cook.
I've potent dreams, am bordom's foe,
journey with me, a way we'll go.
© Brenneman T. March 27, 2003
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Follower
The advice she gave me articulates
the somber side of right.
I heard her voice through heaven's gate,
locked up, and out of sight.
"Take the high road." I listened,
and thought I heard her say.
So I stood up to count, to climb her path,
and struggled all the way.
© Brenneman T. March 28, 2003
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Autumn Appetite, Spring Leaf
Why is it, that when I feed my stomach and fill my mind,
my spirit often starves among the growing refuse of pages and wrappers?
Yet other times, in spite of my body's unanswered wants and hungers,
I find my heart grows strong and efficient.
I learn that the apple of comfort and orange of meaning are but fruitless
distractions
in of a grove of weeds, choking in me the exquisitely grafted gifts of higher
love.
My destiny is most fully met, and talents best developed,
in a moderate, disciplined life, absent the fineries of excessive
self-satisfaction.
Simple faith is bred in recognition of the rich organic soil beneath me,
securing the root, and baring up the only true and necessary nutrition of value
to the soul.
So long after the wind has blown away my last autumn leaf, and many times the
winter has come and gone,
I will still contribute one last grateful green testimony among the wonder and
mystery of a budding forest spring.
© Brenneman T. March 31, 2003
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