#110 POETRY =

By Charles Robert Lindholm

Poetry =

#48 POETRY =

By Charles Robert Lindholm 

Poetry =

#11 POETRY =

By Charles Robert Lindholm

 

Poetry =

Me

Tea Leaves

Mangled leaves and withered dreams
Torn from their stable branches
In a final flurry of beauty
As they float down on a cold breeze
To join the Turkish rug of autumn.
There may yet be a child of wonder
Who makes a pile as tall
As their tree once was
And refuses to give up on them
As he leaps into their embrace.
But eventually, the snow will fall
Like a curtain on the stage
As the what-ifs and what-could-bes
Take a long, final bow
And melt away into the dull gray
Of the winter’s cold soil.

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Highland Hallucinations

Lanky four-legged beasts,
Macabre silhouettes in the morning light,
Cast shadows into the icy valley below,
Prolonging the slumber, if only for a second,
Of the yet-snoozing in their colorful caves.

The creatures slowly creep skyward,
Laboriously climbing to the rocky ridge,
Taking long strides with gaunt forelegs
No thicker than sticks and just as straight.
It seems the giraffe of Broadway gave up the spotlight
To graze the vertical savanna of Japan’s mountains.
Packing our gear, we head out on safari.

The Sneaker 外岩の詩

Damselflies flutter about
Among the green, broad leafs
Above the mountain stream,
Darting through the river rocks
That make a natural bridge
To the mountain boulder field,
Where stone goliaths lie in wait.

Halfway up The Sneaker,
My love fights to hang on
To nothing more than a pebble:

Floating Fish – December 15, 2017 (shadorma)

Floating Fish

 

December
cold grey morning sky
first flakes fall
ice crystals
softly blur my world from sight
hills of snow – growing

#110 POETRY =

By Charles Robert Lindholm

Poetry =

#48 POETRY =

By Charles Robert Lindholm 

Poetry =

In Days And Dreams

Follow, and step, and step,
the stepwells of India, imagine the high sun

arcing upon the bare back of an old god, a woman
peeling off the strips of yellow light, and eating them
like pieces of an orange.

#11 POETRY =

By Charles Robert Lindholm

 

Poetry =

Me

Saturday Service at the Church of ING

Dank air, thick and heavy
As gaseous molasses,
lazily ferments in this amber rusted barrel
Of soulful blues and bad tobacco.

Faithful, old drunks slowly sway,
Inebriated from breathing kill-devil air.
They sing wailing gospels of woe
In harmony with Lucille on the record player.

in the belly of Morning

sometimes my dreams arrest me
holding me by the wrists deep in the
belly of the Morning, i use her ribs as
rungs to climb out – i hear the wind sleeping

Concomitant

There is a slight twinkle
near the sun, and it brings a magic notion

Building

Knocking about the blue Mylanta bottles
we built forts and cities
in the shadow of a giant.

blink

In the green, a want
is growing – still and hopeful-
rapt. And knowing that the spell
is brief,

How Be It Dream

If, in inner eye

of languid 

somnolence

is felt

is seen

Legacy

It’s okay to steal the flame and run

From gods, a-hunting down audacious

Mercy given, gift of heaven,

It’s okay.

It’s alright to burn your fingers,

Singe a little, give a little, carry some

~ Trails ~Haiku

Cawling of the crow
Misty morning fog ascends
Cattle clog the snow

O’Prunty

Doubt

You are happy and joyful,

in your mind comfortably sorted.

You know what your decisions are,

and the hurdles you have thwarted.