A Poem

Moment Spice

A single vine high in the tree

Different from the others--

A moment in time

As a strand that nearly smothers

The limbs--

I see it climb

(The light it dims)

With its many leaves

That smell like spices--

Sweet fragrances that rhyme

With harmonies somewhat tense

Yet incredibly pleasing--

Dripping down like vices

Of ginger and cumin with jasmine tea--

I cannot see how high 

It rises--the green is dense

My heart is won--

Yet yet yet

My breath I fear it’s seizing

Because I get the sense

With a deep and desperate sigh--

Why must it be--

(The die is cast)

Though I twist and reach and run

To keep it--

The moment cannot last.

Mark Absher

April 2018

A Song

Just a Dream

When you walked in and looked at me,

I thought for sure this wasn’t true.

Your siren eyes called to my heart

and pulled my soul inside of you.

I asked myself, “Are you the one,

or am I walkin’ in my dreams?”

This sudden love just feels so surreal,

‘cause nothin’s ever as it seems.

Is it just a dream

or are we really here?

Are we one together, and

will we love forever . . .

As you’re walking near--

things are getting clear,

or is this just a dream.

Then you walked up and looked at me,

and I turned to hold your hand.

I moved the veil aside to kiss your face,

and I could hardly understand--

how the two of us

could find our way into this sacred place.

I never knew love could be so real;

it can’t get better than it seems.

Is it just a dream

or are we really here?

Are we one together, and

will we love forever . . .

As you’re walking near--

things are getting clear,

or is this just a dream.

But when you walked in and looked his way--

I thought for sure this wasn’t true.

Your teasing eyes had lied to me

about my soul inside of you.

I asked myself, “Is he the one,

or is this just a dream?”

How could the love I thought we had

just disappear without a scream?

Is it just a dream?

Aren’t we really here?

Weren’t we one together, and

can’t we love forever . . .

As you’re walking near--

things are getting clear,

or is this just a dream.

But then I woke and realized

that only you and I are here.

I looked at you in your sleep so sweet

and whispered softly in your ear:

It was just a dream;

we are really here.

We are one together;

we will love forever . . .

As we’re lying here

things are very clear--

you are just a dream.

Mark A. Absher

Copyright 2008

A Poem

                                                 A Lion Crouches

A lion crouches—

its solid frame prepared

to pounce—

such power!

A low, guttural rumble

shivers all who hear,

making even the mighty humble,

yet the creature’s strength’s restrained

by silent ropes—

humanity offenses.

Over time the lion gnaws

the bands

and hopes

and breathes a slightly louder growl—

its force commands—

it senses

freedom’s near,

sinking gently its great claws

into its pleasant lands.

One by one, the ropes are torn;

they fall without a sound.

Only one remains—

a wicked cord and tightly bound;

it keeps the lion from standing.

The lion dreams and sees

the rope being ripped

from its being;

It awakes, it breathes deeply,

and it suddenly leaps

and all gasp

as all are seeing

the last cord stripped—

The lion roars!  The lion’s free!

Free at last!

Its mighty presence landing

atop the steeps

itself a resonant scream to the world—

but its roar of freedom

reverberates a truth

that shakes the heights and the deeps

and the core of all who hear—

the king of land is now free

and mighty standing.

Mark Absher

Spontaneously written immediately after the announcement that Barak Obama was declared to have won the presidential election in 2008. (I didn’t vote for him, but I recognized the significance of his election.)

A Poem

 

                                                        Apathy

Ages’ erosions and pressures

finely slice

dampened limestone walls,

leaving liftable curiosities

that are 

indifferently danced

across the stream 

by a

bored

young

fisherman.

Mark Absher

1985

A Poem

                             Seawaves

Seawaves chant and scream

And leave the coast

In thunderous tears of saline taste--

A bitter recess from the work at shore.

Seawaves crest and trough 

And fill the little pools 

with fitful years of aquatic wisdom--

A hoary wash of unrhymed liquid lore.

Mark Absher

1986

A Poem

                                        This Color Thing

Why can we see color?  Why is it here?

If everything were shades of gray

wouldn’t our picture be as clear?

But instead we see a spectrum—a wide array

of light—striking everything that can be seen

with multivariations that make our sight

a visual elation of something more than white.

We swim in the saturation of blues that cause the clouds to float

in the lavender height that turns orangish red at night.

We smile at the greens that luscious gloat

from plants whose tinctures sometimes dance with just a change of glance.

Vivid chromas paint tomato reds, crocus yellows and deep sea teals,

while tiny rainbows flee within the whites of shells and pearls—

both at once adazzle dimish beryls.

The cast of brilliance also screams from things that fly and crawl and swim—

the acromatic black of penguins, bats and seals

for instance stark contrasts against the winsome gilds

of parakeets and the backs of flies

the shades of which are like the dyes

and hues of things that dream their colors’ names—

like gold and silver, orange and peach and lime,

salmon, copper,  indigo, wine, ivory and cream,

the royal blue of robes on kings, and the gooish green of slime.

Think about the tasty red of cherries

and the blues and tints of other berries

that share their color coats with emerald and ruby gems

as well as with the lilac tones that walk in eggplants

and also run through flames.

The panoply of color demands an explanation;

it’s so all over in underrated names.

The optic experience is so intense

that we cannot help but sense

it isn’t chance

our eyes can see the hues of our habitation.

We simply see that this color thing must be caused by a designer

who is concerned with our sensation.

 

 

Mark Absher

Copyright 2007

A Poem

 The Scream of Symmetry

 A spinning sphere, its halves the same, glides through silent space

in perfect orbit teaming with other planets screaming

that their symmetry of shape and path has a source in something more than chance.

 

In fact, this symmetry extends to every place

from the very microscopic to the reach of the expanse,

quietly declaring with a breadth quite overbearing

that each whole is halves—each half alike

in nearly everything that matters.

 

Is it for matter’s sake

that such symmetry flatters

such quirky things as the fishy shapes of clams and stars,

stingrays, whales and pike

as well as coral, shrimp, anemones, manatees and gars?

 

The forms of viruses and germs,

and the parts, the whole, the half, and the path of every snake,

the contour look of spiders, moths and gnats,

beetles, flies and worms,

and a billion other bugs that hide in dirt or share the skies

with other symmetric creatures

having halvish sameness aspect features

like finches, terns and hanging bats

or birds of prey,

whether soaring, diving or even perching quiet—all say

quite a lot aloud without a word about the symmetry they share

with our selves and cells and fingers, teeth and lungs,

our veins and ribs and ears and heels and tongues

and even tears sneaking

from and past each configured part of our very balanced faces, speaking—

with drops of mist in clouds and fountains

or as frozen flakes each alone

or combined in colored spectral bows that display

in each arching tone

with each atom making either dust or mighty mountains

as well as with the roots and stems and leaves and fruits of plants

and in everything with legs or wings or DNA,

its twisted ladder shape with every wave or bolt or spark

of light or sound—

a simple truth that’s quite profound:

 

This common feature isn’t happenstance

or the result of some explosion;

nor is it an evolving growth or some fortune quirk of time and motion;

 

it is rather—its uniqueness stark—

a glorious and clever, clearly loving maker’s perfect mark.

Mark Absher

Copyright 2007