Will you run to the mountain

Posted on Jul 6, 2016 in Poetry

Will you run to the mountain,
to the hill with its fractures,
were just fingertips fit
as if someone had measured
and planned for the swell in your heart?
Will you rush to the water
the cool of its bed
your toes squishing into its mud?
Strip off the sin garment.
cast off your shame—
the animal skins of hate,
the knowledge!
Be like the dog
his excitement unconfined,
his intellect gladly restrained.
I speak with words
that aren’t real.
I notice nothing dreamed up
by a lonely, bored dreamer.

It’s early

Posted on Oct 18, 2015 in Poetry, Writing

It’s early and
the neighborhood birds are
just pulling themselves up
by their wings
to begin their song,
having slipped down between
the twigs
and the miscellaneous things
gathered from backyards
around town
and weaved into a home.

The snowman – Cary Briel

Posted on Jan 13, 2012 in Poetry, Writing

The snowman looks like
a debok, more
than the happy pipe smoking
chap we built this morning.
The dog huddles warm
inside his house,
and I hide til Spring.
Chris says she loves it,
but I’ve not yet seen her
rosy skin,
nor wave her wings-
a snow angel in our lawn.
The birds have hidden in their
nests, in branches,
magic, somewhere in a tree.
I can picture the scene-
limb and grass, nest-woven,
covered white.

Monarch – Cary Briel

Posted on Dec 20, 2011 in Poetry, Writing

She knows,
as do all unassuming.
She steals away
the lover’s eyes,
the businessman in his meeting,
the child from her mates,
when her feet take her
scampering after.
God, don’t let her trip!
But she’s taken,
entranced,
by her orange and her black,
by her shooting to left
and then right,
her ascensions
and falls,
this butterfly’s far more majestic
than all.
Mamma sees
and makes chase.
Oh, Helen, you can’t run like that.
But Momma, I’m flying!
Look, I’m flying like her, look!
Yes, Helen, but be careful.
Oh, Dear……
Between willow
and cattail
she dives and she swoops,
Oh, Helen!
Oh, Momma, did you see
how she flew?
Then landing on Helen’s
pink nose,
the blur of her wings
does switch to slow flapping.
And Momma’s tears
escape Helen
for years and years.

Your feet are peas – Cary Briel

Posted on Apr 26, 2011 in Poetry, Writing

A waif, an angel.
Run ’round our garden
calling til I wake.
I’ll shed my shame,
my Calvin Kleins.
Let’s be shameful
for the kids’ sake.
You sweat.
Your hands,
your lips,
your smell.
Sticky girl,
I’ll never tell.
Then flash it back,
and feign,
pretend,
crash flesh and wet
into me again—
crash sin.
Your feet are peas,
my hands reveal you—
make a meal of you.

Goodnight, you – Cary Briel

Posted on Apr 10, 2011 in Poetry, Writing

The world spins ’round,
and I must, too,
turn in.
Goodnight, you.

The mud – Cary Briel

Posted on Jan 15, 2011 in Poetry, Writing

Vainly try, tall, soft grasses,
to emulate what passes
you by.
Bare leg and thigh.
You and I glide,
dizzy and dew streaked,
past oak and elm,
each overwhelmed.
Past otter and eagle,
sparrow, the stray beagle.
And we drop in the mud,
you and I, it dulling our touch.
But I’d become it with you again.
scrawl, sin’s dirty pen.

The old oak – Cary Briel

Posted on Nov 1, 2010 in Poetry, Writing

The old oak swayed
as I drove away,
my oldest friend
though I not his.
Many he’s known
for many a year
of creak and groan,
from acorn
’til I bought this home.
And now he’ll know another.

The red maple – Cary Briel

Posted on Sep 25, 2010 in Poetry, Writing

The red maple dies
but the birds don’t know.
They stand amidst
bare branch and leaf.
They nest in rotten knots
that serve their needs.
Woodpeckers
mark their calendars.
What disease,
so unwelcome
and untimely,
found you my friend?