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Rainbow Followed
Clouds, they rise, then slip away,
obscure the stars, then kiss sun's ray.
Light drenches me, as does the rain.
My laughter seems to tears insane.
The colors of a prism fall
on my black dog , against the wall.
I raise my hand to intercept
bouquets of color the skies have wept.
My hand, it crosses space and time
to touch the chimering show, and shine.
But as it reaches Shammy's nose,
she turns her head and stretches toes.
Caressing light is but a game
that led my hand to stroke her mane.
The shades I see guide light to be,
violet on black, bright eyes on me.
© Brenneman T. September 3, 2003
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Aging Leaves
A leaf floats in the current.
Still partially green, it begs extended life from its turbulent chaperone.
Even severed from it's branch,
the sip invigorates it.
In the river gather the sagging bodies of old women.
Leaves and stems rippling at the water's edge
form rings against their aged knees.
As they wash, they laugh and tell stories
of children long since grown,
and reminisce of the more troubled days of youth.
Bunching and crunching them into practical use,
they scrub themselves clean with the leaves.
A man yells from the distance for water,
and is temporarily ignored.
Ferns open, shifting slightly towards the rising sun.
Another green leaf slips through crooked branches
and lands on the bank.
It bows upward, and the next breeze catches it,
leading it stem-first into the water.
The women sing,
"Drink the morning clean and bright.
Soon will come the murky night..."
as they slowly move toward the bank.
They drip and shimmer as they fill their buckets with water.
Wrinkled, wet brown feet step into withering leaves,
carrying many of them far up the hilly path.
A child is heard.
Toothless faces smile.
Water laps over bucket rims.
The pace quickens a bit as they round the bend into a clearing.
They pause a moment and view their little village at dawn.
It is a pleasing sight.
© Brenneman T. September 5, 2003
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Inedible Fruit?
Bending her tender bruised side
against her sister's bulging yellow ribs,
this she-bannana ripened
straight from green to black.
Just so, her cousin's orange blossoms dropped
in the unfortunate freeze of spring.
A sick father then froze her ripening core.
Now her heart is tangy-sour,
where it might be sparkling-sweet.
She's an old fig bursting it's purple-red skin.
An ant invades her crevice,
but is trapped where the bleeding began.
Soon hoards sip their brother free.
She is peaches, cherries, red raspberries,
all ripened well before the picking,
stealing nourishment from younger siblings.
Some drop thoughtfully to the fruit-laden ground,
while others still hang in various stages of decomposition.
Mine is a finicky hunger.
Her plant's fleshy eggs are first judged,
then only consumed when found fully acceptable.
An unwanted lesson of deprivation
might truly do me good.
© Brenneman T. September 9, 2003
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Mad Mellowing
The face of forgiveness
belies revenge.
It douses flames.
He smells the singe.
He wonders when
my fire will burn.
He worries, waits,
may someday learn
a moments pause,
a year, or more,
has calmed my heart
and healed the sore.
© Brenneman T. September 16, 2003
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Against Abyss
Imagine truth, imagine this,
on a planet hurled against abyss.
A billion kin, a trillion times
laugh in sunshine, cry in lines.
Spinning on rotated axis,
we meditate and pay our taxes.
Stealing light from neighboring star,
we plant a seed, or wash a car.
Our spirits are what planets do.
What speeds right by seems placed with glue.
In emptiness, in nothing, space,
we move, we shine, we show our face.
We think with eyes, then see with thought.
Our world is from minutia wrought.
All seems still, as etched on glass,
but spinning forward, moments pass.
Making beds, we scratch our heads,
and wonder at the weave of threads.
A strand we are, a fiber tied
to others in the blanket's tide.
Rippling, wearing, holding tight,
we keep each other warm at night.
Tossing, yearning, crossing, turning,
we awake in love, the sun is burning.
© Brenneman T. September 18, 2003
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Letting the Tiger Go
A dream paces back and forth.
It seems real, doesn't it?
What is it that the mind is trying to do?
The list of worries grows, then shrinks.
The lessons are few, but must be repeated again and again.
Eat well, sleep well, exercise, be kind...
Take in the morning gifts of silence,
and in the evening make your quiet count.
They say we spend much of our lives standing in line, waiting.
We spend even more time pacing in our minds, analyzing, worrying...
There's a stunning tiger we keep in a cage,
striped to blend against an appropriate, but foreign background.
We stare in awe at it's grandeur, however out of place.
We must now let it go,
but don't let it out at the zoo.
Take it to the jungle, and let it free at dawn.
The gift of age is perspective.
Still, for many, worries seem to only change, not disappear.
They move from cage to cage,
becoming at times a gorilla, then an elephant, then python.
We find them all in similarly barren habitats.
Beyond thought and information,
our answers are always present as a choice.
Move toward the wilderness, where giant paws have purpose,
and there are no fences.
A tiger splashes through the river toward an urge.
It has its purpose, and its soul is content.
© Brenneman T. September 21, 2003
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