Return

You wind and unwind the day on spools of restlessness.

Sleep, that old dog you love, whimpers outside, nose fogging cold glass.

When you let him in, he shivers off flakes of moonlight and shadow,

snuggles next to you as you lie down again.

You are outside alone,

lifted from your bed by dark wings.

Around you trees conspire to reclaim what has been stolen.

They call out, a sound like feathers drawn across harp strings.

Your oak door pops from its hinges, 

roots and sprouts branches in response.

Your cherry tables and chairs do the same,

then wait for dawn to bring birds.

The trees ask you to take off your shoes,

dig your toes deep into the earth,

shred the sky into streamers of light with your leafy fingers.

© Jean Sampson

Trees reflected in water
Photo by Tony Russell

Dog

When lonely, his whimper

sparks across the dark

gap where the heartbeat's born

like a wolf howling

a bridge of sorrow

to the moon.

Once I left him too long.

He dug a hole so deep

it became a throat

that swallowed night.

I climbed down to get him out,

saw stars shining overhead

at noon.

If I forget to feed him,

he nibbles 

crumbs from my childhood,

that place swept

and left  long ago.

When I dream

he runs, leash-free,

returns to lick my hand.

One night

I will follow him

to the river,

step into a weathered boat

floating on the cold fire

of captured stars,

then walk with him

into his world.

© Jean Sampson, 2015

Canis Major among the Myth Constellations
from the Universe Today website

Stories

In my mirror,

house of sacred myths,

lives a warrior

whose wounds are mouths

reciting stories...

           rare mornings of peace

           when the breeze made marionettes

           of wind chimes

           as oaks stood guard,

           and evenings 

           when a shadow of fear

           or grief escaped

           from her nightmare

           and wrestled her

           until dawn chased it away.

Her final story

the wind will erase.

I will write

in black dust

from charred bone

how she climbed

the holy mountain alone,

its halo of mist

hiding her familiar home

in the Valley of Broken Wings.

© Jean Sampson, 2015

Misty mountains ~ Cochamo, Chile
Photo by McKay Savage
from Wikimedia Commons

Caught

I am not alone here.

Fragments of unwritten poems

drift before me,

ghosts begging for language

to give them form.

Some try on tattered clichés,

parade by me like orphans

in worn out hand-me-downs,

hoping for pity.

This task seems

harder than clothing smoke,

tethering clouds to trees

or giving the evening breeze a face.

I should refuse,

tell them to haunt someone else,

these waifs who taunt me

like hungry cats.

Too late. I am caught in their familiar trap.

They believe I can conjure breath from stone,

can weave gold thread from milkweed fluff,

see the moon in my left eye,

the sun in my right,

hold fire in my bare hands

if the stars allow.

They compel me to dress them

in words spun from imagination and luck.

Finally, I have to let go,

trust that I have given enough.

They are, after all, wild spirits

who, century after century,

find poets who will weave words

into any form they desire.

© Jean Sampson

Milkweed fluff
Photo by Tony Russell

Simile and Metaphor

On the dance floor,

holding you at arm’s length,

Simile, with one finger,

will twirl you like the last leaf

spinning in Autumn wind.

When the song ends,

he is content with a quick hug, 

a tiny peck on the cheek.

Metaphor, on the other hand,

holds you tightly enough

to take your breath,

gives you the deepest French kiss.

It all happens so fast

that before you can say “stop!”

you find yourself in an unfamiliar bed,

pregnant with images

ready to be born.

© Jean Sampson, 2014

A couple dancing tango
Photo by Jorge Lascar
from Wikimedia commons

Death and Poetry

for Penny Holt

1

I think dying is a lot like writing poetry.

There is some fear when you approach each,

but you don’t let that stop you.

You notice how death and poetry

only deal with what is essential,

the essence of yourself, your spirit.

You see your flesh as a thin membrane,

separating you from that ladder of light

you must climb

to weave words together 

or to die.

I expect there will be kind angels

to help you climb, and others

who will wrestle hard with you until dawn

so you will become strong enough

to bear blessings

that flow from their hands.

2

I know that when you write

it is a sort of death,

a birth into a new world

you have been creating

since the day you were born.

It is probably the same

when you die.

You will bring your own 

loves, fears, dreams

with you, creating your own Heaven,

bearing it like the shell

a sea creature forms

from ordinary bits of life.

Then, there is light.

Both dying and poetry

are all about light,

how it leads you through shadows

you think you might drown in,

how it is the thread

that ties together

your past, present, and future selves

so you can write or die

with your whole self,

a plant with buds, flowers,

and seed pods bursting.

3

To write poems, you must trust

the path to appear before you,

but only as you plant your feet.

Dying, I think, is much the same,

an act of faith,

or maybe a wild leap

into invisible arms,

that like the earth,

have always held you up.

© Jean Sampson, 2014

Hearts-a-bursting
Photo by Tony Russell

Seasonal Haiku

1

Hurricane season---

waves rear up like wild horses,

the wind goes crazy.

2

Summer is ending.

The first few leaves turn yellow---

at night the air cools. 

3

The days grow shorter...

at night the stars seem brighter...

morning mist lingers.

4

Halloween tonight...

children hiding behind masks,

Ancient Ones watching.

5

Pumpkins with faces

carved to keep away evil,

fire in their eyes.

6

Early November...

sun sleeps on the forest floor

blanketed in leaves.

© Jean Sampson, 2013

Ancient Ones Watching
Photo by Tony Russell

Last Train of My Childhood Dream

In this tunnel

where fear is an animal

smothering me

with unbearable fur,

I feel earth tremble

as if an ocean,

trapped beneath trees and rocks,

is pounding hard

against roots,

the way my heart hammers

against its own roots of dread.

I have heard the same roar--

tornados thundering toward me

like stampeding buffalo

until terror slams me awake.

Now this darkness

opens its one bright eye.

Light that does not mean hope

drives the future 

at me fast,

your death a black train

filling the space

between me and escape.

© Jean Sampson, 2012

Locomotive 45212
Photo from Wikimedia Commons