Read an Excerpt
Ten Tall Trees
Poems
By Kevin Patrick iUniverse
Copyright © 2015 Kevin Patrick
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4917-6026-0
CHAPTER 1
Pen on Paper
I stared
at the translucent pen
for longer than what felt
like a normal amount of time.
Then
I picked it up
and held it high
above my head
to the natural light
shining through
the window.
And then suddenly
I could hear
the distant whisper of a voice
call to me.
"Let this be your light,"
it said ...
"Let them feel;
let them love."
I AM
You cannot see me,
touch me,
or feel me—
but I AM always with you.
I AM the morning sun that shines on your face,
the loving arms of a warm embrace,
the shedding of tears through the difficult years
and the caring hands that brushed them away.
From the reddish-yellow maple leaf
that gently falls in fall
to all things living,
both great and small,
I AM here.
Freely given
in you
and in everything,
I AM.
The Song
Lie back,
close your eyes,
and listen to the song—
the song that soothes
your weary nerves,
the song that sings
like the springtime birds.
Listen carefully
to the gentle chorus
of your heart's
drumbeat drumming ...
drumming the benevolent
sanguine sea
of spirit and love.
Let your mind
fly over clear seas
and golden valleys.
See the perfect sphere
of rainbow colors
penetrate puffy
white clouds
above
in endless sky.
See the snow-white swans fly
over tranquil lakes.
Listen to the song
that sings—
the song that beckons you
no matter who you are
or where you have been.
The song is calling to you,
summoning you
to live the life
you have always dreamed.
We've Not Known Love
We've not known love
till we've felt its loss.
It's the kind of loss
that takes its hold
on the fragile fabric
of hearts longing—
longing to reconcile
the irreconcilable.
Emptiness is the virus
that consumes our souls ...
emptiness that accompanies
the quivering lips
that can't find the words,
the invisible lump
in our throats that comes
and goes
like the sun's rays
on the cloudiest of days.
Guilt and innocence
play tug-of-war
with delicate nerves
that link
our hearts
and minds
together.
Where did I go wrong?
It wasn't my fault.
The beauty of nature
is not as beautiful
as it once was;
in the subtlest of ways,
we've not known love
till we've felt its loss.
Old Man Reading There
Here we are,
you and I
sharing this serene,
cozy space ...
Old man reading there,
I wonder what you are reading.
Grandfather? Widower?
Whatever your station
in life may
be,
our paths will likely not cross
again.
You could be mean, for all I know,
but somehow,
I do not think it so,
for you look so peaceful—
so utterly engaged with that book you hold there
in your aged, sunspotted hands.
I'll bet you have such stories to tell of
love, sadness, and joy.
So practical are you with your liquor-store bag full of
library books, your modest cane, and beige leather shoes,
old man reading there.
So It Seemed
My mind
was a rain cloud
of memories—
memories of days gone by—
and yet I know not where they've gone now,
those faceless, famous ones who came and
went in an instant of time
for a flickering, fleeting moment
as though it were not to happen
naturally
by Mother Nature's design
or the beauty of her,
for love cannot exist in such
lonely, vacant places as these.
Love's confessions cured and furnished
the light that vanquished the darkness of my heart
forever,
or so it seemed—
so it seemed the songs of summer
had begun to
relax me now
and call to me now,
rescuing me from confusion while
the warm sand pressed gently against
the back of my neck.
I closed my eyes and
vanished ...
forever.
I Love You, Drew
The tides ebb eerily outward
toward sea and lands.
She cries,
but only in vain,
as she reaches for the water
with coarse, grainy hands.
No one,
nothing, can save her,
not even the rain.
The saltwater is resolute
and demands,
undressing her ever so slowly and surely,
revealing all at once her wondrous wet,
smooth,
naked body.
But now she is not so lonely.
Someone has tattooed a heart on her fresh, sandy skin:
"Happy Valentine's Day. I love you, Drew."
Love the Ocean
The sea ...
she is so calm,
her surface like glass
on this most radiant day.
Refracted sunlight
Forms cobwebs and capillaries
On her soft, sandy floor.
Ubiquitous barnacles
and algae
hold stubbornly
to the submerged rocks
and aquatic clay.
Long algae leaves,
like green mermaid hair
suspended by tide,
sway gently at Mother Nature's door.
The tankers float idly
like ghostly apparitions
out on English Bay;
driftwood litters the beach.
She hypnotizes me—
so inviting
and magnetic is
the wondrous brilliance
of Mother Nature's reach.
CHAPTER 2
Behind Snow-Covered Mountains
The bright yellow faces
of daffodils
turn toward waterfalls of morning sun.
Robin sings her song of seasons
atop the bone-white birch in March.
Sometimes, I close my eyes
and wonder about my destiny,
my fate
in the nature of things.
Meanwhile,
the mink still lopes along the meadow
like some kind of soft brown snake
with tiny legs and feet.
Meanwhile,
the ducks float by
on the black-matted pond of
painted lilies
and brown fallen leaves.
Tell me your story,
and I will tell you mine;
no matter,
because the world
will keep turning
in perfect harmony,
and the sun will rise from the east
and set in the west
behind the snow-covered mountains
and lush green valleys.
Seed Below
She is springtime serenity,
a vision of natural beauty
and wonder
to behold,
delightful to the eye.
As she tenders her gifts to me now,
all packaged in pink
sun-soaked petals,
and as the morning dew reflects
a rainbow of thoughts and words,
words give rise
to ecstasy
draped in shafts of morning sun.
So I close my eyes and meditate
as those words
slide down
her long,
soft green neck ...
to
the
seed
below.
Season of Birthing
The cherry-tree buds
begin their blossom,
tiny pink ribbons
ready to be undone.
Undone by morning sticks
of orange sun and showers,
undone by nature's call to
reveal her undeniable beauty.
Timeless vigor
and ethereal essence—
I have seen her before
the rains came on the forest floor
when she was but a seed
that once cracked underfoot,
a sound so curiously satisfying
and sad ...
All at once,
I knew it was the
season of birthing.
Minoru Park
It's quite simple, really.
The sun shines brightly to warm my face.
The rabbit hops nonchalantly to munch on
the green grass by the peaceful pond,
and yet simplicity seems so secret while
the three aged practice their morning tai chi,
stretching and contorting, so healthy,
and at times I chuckle, watching them exercise, so
timeless at times like
these by the bubbly, shampoo waterfall that
glides effortlessly over the cool, shiny, sun-soaked rocks.
How can one escape this feeling of inner peace
and comfort in such a place?
Let me be your conduit of solace;
let me be that contagious peace that passes from my heart
to yours, forever through time and treasure
in morning sun that kisses my heart—kisses I want
to share with you, with everyone in return.
How could I be away from this for so long?
Silently still, I imagine there is no end to my life, to yours,
and yet there is no end to my loving now.
Now, as the shiny lily pad reflects a distant, clear bead
of water,
a clear bead of salty sadness trickles slowly down—
slowly down from the edge of my eye.
She sends me loving, revitalizing energy now;
I don't know how I know, but I can feel something
that moves me now,
soothes me now—
not just the mother duck who watches me carefully
from the corner of her beautiful, unwavering golden eye,
nor her nestled little brown and yellow chicks all
bundled together
by the edge of the black-matted pond, but the Far East
grandmother
who practices tai chi with such elegant grace and ease.
Thank you, Mother Nature, for your grace;
thank you for this feeling that flows from
your heart to mine and back again.
No stranger is it to deny my feelings of love than it is
for the unexpected gift of witnessing the squirrel that
dances delightfully by my toes and promptly, playfully
gives chase to the
unsuspecting, grayish-brown hare.
Yes,
it's quite simple, really.
Fly, Butterfly
I marvel at your graceful flight, butterfly.
You expend so much energy with your
white, powdery-soft wings.
I know not the direction you fly
nor the reasons why;
it matters not, though,
for I find myself so lost, captivated by your
beautiful, dreamy flight to nowhere,
seeing you only for a brief,
hypnotizing moment
before you disappear
mysteriously
behind the pink lotus tree,
the bone-white birch,
and the green sedge grasses beyond.
It's like awakening
from the most pleasant of dreams,
not understood by my conscience
yet treasured like a precious gem—
a jewel
held dearly
in my heart.
Until we meet again ...
fly, butterfly,
fly.
We Two Were Sunflowers
The seagulls cry out overhead,
scattered shreds of white paper
in the blue morning sky.
Oh, how I wish I could fly;
I'd fly to foreign lands
over golden fields
and green valleys,
an undiscovered countryside
like a secret childhood
hiding place,
safe and out of reach
from the dark bars of humanity.
I saw it once in a dream:
we two were sunflowers
kissing the setting sun,
and together we swayed side by side
in the evening
summer breeze.
Minuet
I want to know
which way the
wind blows.
It is hard to tell
even though leaves
dance by me
like ballerinas learning
new choreography; they change direction,
pirouetting in waves of morning sun.
Some fall to the earth
motionless,
still ...
still as my
mind may struggle in
watching them,
those that dance effortlessly past.
I want to know
which way the
wind blows.
Ten Tall Trees
Ten tall trees stood together,
naked,
still frozen by ice,
their tops a silhouette
of many fine tentacles
in gray, cloudy weather,
yearning, reaching out for sunlight—
something better, so nice.
Ten tall trees stood together—
their age, I do not know ...
looks like they've been here forever,
standing in the cold winter snow.
Ten tall trees stood together,
timeless ... eerie beauties,
organic wonders of splendor.
With glorious grace and ease,
ten tall trees stood together.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Ten Tall Trees by Kevin Patrick. Copyright © 2015 Kevin Patrick. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse.
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