An afternoon at the Guthrie greenhouse

rena i sit before a fish of glass
visions of love reflected
bouncing off oddly composed planes

having wandered your city amid dirty streets
i felt my eyes straying upon the sights
behind the wheel of my half dead automobile

pausing now & again at random locales
used bookstores & new to me cafes
solitary i ventured to a glass house

here it is silent, sounds of traffic muted
warm, moist inside contrasting outside wind
venturing a poem for you

i wonder at the sights you must be seeing
old gothic strewn about cobbled streets buried
noise & filth which are ever our human mark

do you also pause in occasional peaces
where a color strikes your fancy
or a thought unbidden gives rise

where in all the signs of our human creation
do your feet carry you now
or your backside gives cushioning rest

so odd as i am flitting about this city
does it strike me foreign
to what i know or knew

hustle & bustle so marked to myself in these streets
contrasting to my old home
a casualness given rise by thicker air?

beyond the givens found in breaths exhumed
do the streets you're walking belie
a quiver in the breast, a weak knee?

how fascinating the places we choose
to live to love to eat to sleep
or forget or leave or change or mark

at times unsettling to discover how little of god
sparks our building of these lands
the day to day necessities made of ourselves

it is silent inside here where i sit
conversations still as people stop to peruse
the air conveys an unspoken reverence

there are but a few content with the peace
who relax on metal benches near me
reading a book or journeying thoughtful lands

more often than not i have noticed
it is couples who stroll these guarded gardens
arm in whispering arm...

yet i will conclude this too soon
to say i saw a glass fish constructed
who reflected my thoughts in a glass house

a ways a part might we be
in a quiet means of writing
i thought of you and loved.

view from a window in the spring fog

the mind at its own awakening
discovers itself found in the divine
even as mists roll across 2 am dark

unable to shut still the camera lens eyes
an innocent affection for the fog
shrugs off sleep and unaware stares

streetlamps pervaded the telling haze
angelic glow of our own creation
slowly worming through the dense

sound of the world of society asleep
church bell ring ring in deep succession
the nights only noticed traveller

all the breaths breathed from out the mouths
hide amongst this bright shadow sight
reminds of life or a dream fancied

there's god out there in that wet blanket
scattering seeds to immaculate minds
some'll give birth to salvation science thoughts

most windows though glare back at the scene
are black and shuttered to these wonders
occupants inside being dream creators

where incarnation abounds these muddy grounds
a sight made sacred for the few
who bother to sit quiet and sing a psalm

those creators tonight will rise soon enough
wander from one place to the next
believing themselves something righteous

walking with each other to talk a lot
bout sites they seen in temporary death
songs sung in the presence of a crossed martyr

for now though, all is holy in the moment
as snow exhales a moisty talk to the bells
god whispering virgin kernels to any who care to listen.

^

Biography

An aspiring writer with no marketable job skills, currently nearing completion of a BA from Gustavus Adolphus College in St. Peter, MN (snow 8 months out of the year). originally from Atlanta, Georgia where discovered the rich complexity of a southern heritage of welsh, irish, scottish and german ancestry. usually to be found down at the bar with a pen in one hand and a glass of bourbon in the other, this is his first time being published on electric acorn.