The Long, Cold Night

The Long, Cold Night

Earlier, a radiant,
Dancing Maiden;
A coy, toying
Vision behind cloud-veil.
Here and there,
Now and again,
She would reveal Herself
To bathe frozen firmament
In Her familiar, pale glow.

Every exhalation hangs
Long
As it drifts into ether.

Now…
Gone,
Her countenance eclipsed,
She leaves only
A low-strung dome
Of inky deep.
Not a sound,
Neither star,
Nor light
Mark the crisp, cold night.

~ David Jay Spyker

This morning is the Winter Solstice, the longest night of the year; the moon also happens to be in full eclipse – it was 1638 when the moon was last in full eclipse on the Solstice. It was cloudy here, and once the Moon was eclipsed the entire sky went dark and inky, something like being deep under water where there is both depth and nothingness.

Tomorrow begins the rebirth of the light.

A Poem For The Longest Night

The Turning

This first Winter night,
The dance eternal,
In elegant circuit
Our Mother turns
Away from the dark…
Face to the light.

~ David Jay Spyker

Again and Again

Again and Again

I am the Lake.
I am the River.
I am the Rain.

I am
Again,
And again…
And again.

~  David Jay Spyker

August’s Arrival

August’s Arrival (Lughnasadh)

Crash,
Splash,
Gasp.

I taste the Lake midair
(a taste of crystalline, aquamarine)
As we wend onward
(feet bared to velvet sand that shifts away)
Between pebbled concrete, slippery rock, and tilted, rusted steel
(our fingers touch, tangle now and again)
Holding back Nature’s persistent,
Indifferent
Hand…

…But only for so long.

Crash,
Splash.

~ David Jay Spyker

Today It Is Summer Still

Today It Is Summer Still

It is just a taste,
Just a tingle upon the tongue,
But still something I can lick from the air.

It is something like a fleeting shadow,
Like something seen from the corner of the eye
At the edge of the woods under Harvest Moon
– palpable,
Yet, intangible all the same.

It is borne upon the wind
With birdsong that speaks
Of water in the sky
– a cry –
And hope for a too-long-thirsty land.

twah-LURP, TWAH-lurrr
twah-LURP, TWAH-lurrr

Roiling…
Moist and cool…

The Sun struggles
To bake the Earth today,
But clouds surrender
And burn beneath his fervor.

Birdsong’s hope would have to wait.

Today it is Summer still,
Though tomorrow lies spilled out ahead,
A question left open-ended.

I feel already
The answer that is soon to become.
Still,
Today I leave that to the Future,
Because today it is Summer still.

~ David Jay Spyker, August 1st, 2009

Today was one of those days when you know that Summer is turning a corner, but is not quite there yet. It’s a little melancholy, and you want to hang on to the season while it lasts.

Inauguration of Hope

America Waits

Waiting,
A breath held for fear of exhalation,
Perchance to dare,
to hope again.

Frozen,
The paralysis of fear begets timid inaction.

Breathe!

Move!

~ David Jay Spyker

~~~~~~~

Congratulations, President Obama.

You have shown us the audacity of hope, now show us its tenacity. Be that beacon of honesty and wise leadership, which we so desperately need to see shining at the head of our nation.

Above all, always remember, your greatest strength lies in your ability to inspire others to action, goodness, and greatness. Never let us forget that change for the good of all begins with the individual – that each one of us can find a way to make a positive difference in the lives of those around us.

Autumn Poems

Autumn Silence

Falling.
Falling.

Float down.

Jog left,
Sway right,
And fall
On a tumbling course
Until…

Sky meets base for the first time.

The demeanor of the wind changes
– a scent, imperceptible at first –
Until there is earnest,

And the crow begins its song of gathering
(for it knows it is a songbird).

Rest
Upon loam
And earth.
Curl
Upon self.

Shushh.

~ David Jay Spyker

~~~~~~~

Web

Silver thread,
As tenuous as life,
As persistent as life,
Is strung ’round to capture
Autumn harvest on the wing,
Sustenance,
And chill morning dew.

Nightfall comes
To mask the fleeting warmth
(too soon),
And then…

No more.

~ David Jay Spyker

Older Poems

No Relief

People swim slowly by in a sea of ties and business attitudes.
The air hangs heavy in their lungs.

Engorged raindrops, fat
With midday Sun’s heated spectrum,
Crash upon skillet sidewalks
One by one
– all at once –
Hissing.
Steam is rising.

~ David Jay Spyker

~~~~~~~

Regret

Rushing through life,
On and on,
Never stopping to see,
Nor to feel.
Never stopping to say what
We never stopped to say.

~ David Jay Spyker

I dug these two out of an old notebook, and I can’t be completely sure, but I think that I probably wrote them sometime in 1989. Nearly twenty years ago. Where does the time go?

19 May 2007, 11:26pm
Poetry:
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Doves Do Not Cry, But Murmur

Doves Do Not Cry, But Murmur

The grass grows with equal severity,
Temerity,
On either side of the wall.

Dark headers bloom,
Roil,
Boil,
In a raucous assembly,
Wing beats, breast ruffles, heart croons
For the onslaught of Spring.

Diminutive blades bow
Low under splatter and spray
Until moist warmth settles,
An ever-increasing, palpable blanket,
On both sides of the wall.

And, doves do not cry,
But murmur.

Reaching, twisting, growing fat and heavy;
Heady, swelling, reaching still as though
Otherwise all life would be for naught.

A sway begins
With precise synchrony
On the left,
And on the right.

~ David Jay Spyker

~~~~~

"Which Side of the Wall?", 1996, Acrylics on Canvas Laid on Hardboard

"Which Side of the Wall?", 1996, Acrylics on Canvas Laid on Hardboard

I wrote this poem sometime in 2002, and wanted to share it as Spring unfolds and grows into Summer. It is always a mystical time of the year, filled with anticipation, potential, and even danger. Just as the title of a painting is extremely important to me, I feel that the line arrangement and punctuation of a poem speaks as much as the words.

 
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