Morning in America
Look down
and see how the valley wakes.
Beneath these rolling ridges,
dark houses steam and cluster
into tight, thin streets,
the morning mist
softly washing
ranks of backyard fences
into spectral smudges
between still, red
autumnal trees.
The city begins again
after its long, November night;
cars and trucks flow
into highways, slowly
edging east into west,
and complete at last
the long, twisted
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poem by Steven Federle
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Saint
Louis Tiffany and Company, 'Dogwood' Design Window: 1910-1915.
"The pale flowers of the dogwood outside this window are saints. The little yellow flowers that nobody notices on the edge of that road are saints looking up into the face of God." Merton, Thomas, When the Trees Say Nothing: Writings on Nature
Her black eyes gaze
with pleasure.
My hand
flows slowly over her sinew,
ears, fur; she purrs in praise
that life is right,
hunger sated,
love remains.
Looking into her eyes
I see a flame
beyond her understanding
beyond my understanding:
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poem by Steven Federle
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The Real Hope
Spring proceeds,
despite the cold
Pacific winds.
Storms that should have
blown through months ago,
now come lately,
blustering that late is better
than not at all,
and gather clouds, complaining of the hour;
they huddle and decide to get it over with
all in a day, and squeeze
fountains out of the
heavy April air.
This is the moment!
At last the iris arises,
sleek, and slender, and plain
curvaceous head,
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poem by Steven Federle
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Afternoon Moon
On this concrete pad,
worn thin by time and rain,
our two iron chairs
stand empty and lifeless
when two blackbirds descend
onto rusty iron arms, waiting
in uneasy repose,
glancing sharply,
their beaks parted, tasting
the constant wind,
and rise when they decide
the time is perfect,
perfect like this brilliant
California day and
this endless
California sky
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poem by Steven Federle
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Fifteen Million
Earth reels to cold night
yet everything
stays
the same.
I wait for morning
when grey light
might brighten
somber skies.
Another day’s lies.
I don’t understand
my sadness,
for my life is good,
full of love and rich in faith.
So why do these clouds
hold me fast
in this dark place?
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poem by Steven Federle
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This Rising
I wanted to be the thundercloud
pounding fury in electric flashes,
but impatiently the earth pulled me down,
and trapped me, like silent, winter tule fog,
pausing over dark, delta waters
until I rose over the darkening valley
and observed the crescent moon
ascending over seaward hills,
effervescent disc
dissolving into death,
while radiant, scimitar edge,
rent the black night.
In the pure air at last,
just beneath the black vacuum of my limit,
I discern the elevated host,
this consecrated, bloody body,
in the agony of redemption,
in the glory of this perfect moment,
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poem by Steven Federle
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Sonnet for a Grey Morning
Another grey morning, much like the last
and for tomorrow, more fog’s the forecast.
When days seem the same, life always seems cold.
Night flows to night, the sad world grows old
as clouds wrap my soul in still, fatal pall
but hearts must be silent, though bold blood calls
for death to cruel winter, and end to dark days,
fair spring to release enthralled golden rays.
But looking at you, I see in your eyes
the brilliance lost from blue summer's last sky
and when you smile, in your warm glow I feel
your love overwhelm me, new suns revealed.
Overcast, confined though the earth may be
with you in my day, spring’s born endlessly.
poem by Steven Federle
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Above Berkeley (For Connie)
Past stone houses
Along the dangerous road
We raced, top down
Past the homes of the rich
Laughing
We flew into the night
To the top
And when we stopped
The marchwind still filled my hair
And lifted my breath
High above the bright city
(its streets were constellations Carelessly glittering
Diamonds
Cast into black waters)
But walking past dark bulldozers
Beyond the battered, red, warning sign
Our laughter suddenly fell
Startled by the silver presence
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poem by Steven Federle
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Motion
My body’s always in motion
running through unseen routines
forcing air, chest rising and falling,
heart-blood coursing
through a million small chambers
to glow red again.
Even at rest
my chest rises to cold air
and drinks it in, clean and clear,
and with heady ambition,
I run,
my aging legs pounding
this treadmill
to nowhere.
But I know this
is a temporary condition.
Soon enough
my blood will congeal and
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poem by Steven Federle
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Ordinary Time
Counting
numbering days and nights
calculating the length
and breadth of
our alloted
breaths
we live
by the numbers.
It starts in a split second
of passion
in the darkness
plunging headlong
to a date certain
when savage lights assault
our tender eyes
and we see
how it will be
in this clock-
work world.
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poem by Steven Federle
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