Poetry
by
Ariion Kathleen Brindley
Love's Valley
A meteor cuts across the dome of darkness
and a thousand stars rush to mend the rift,
lest we might catch a glimpse of reality.
While we, asleep in dreams upgathered,
cuddled in warmth and tenderness,
mark the slow cadence of the night.
Just outside our window pane,
philosophers mate with quadrupeds
and the devil's tears roll like thunder.
But we dream on unbeclouded,
serene undulations rocking our heart tides
and floating us down to Love's Valley.
Coin of Love
Trust is the coin of love
and a woman collects it
in silver, copper and gold,
saving for that lonely night
when she counts her wealth
and waits for me.
Why is it so easy
to impoverish her?
Be Not Afraid
When the day's last minutes sink,
the sun gives up the sky,
and the moon ascends the night,
the old dove wings alone.
At a starshine pool,
he alights and drinks,
then starts at words nearby;
Be not afraid, I will not harm you.
Tiny heart pounds, eyes wide;
Beholds the swan, brave and lovely.
Your mate, said she,
has passed, I see.
Aye, stepping back the dove,
and you, I see,
are alone tonight.
Are you without your love?
Tis true, he has flown.
Long graceful neck arches,
eyes close,
stars drift.
Then, Venus rising,
starlight shimmering path,
and spoke the dove;
Will you not linger a while?
Down blue hollows
pale memories drift,
and quietude descends;
tears be not proud.
As the tide roams the sea,
quote the dove,
so love wanders the ether
to roll upon new beaches.
Be not afraid,
my sky-water friend,
to let that precious thorn
prick your heart again.
One Answer
Does the river reach
deep into the ocean, or
does the ocean reach
high into the mountains?
How long does it take
a snowflake falling
on K2's brother
to reach the Bay of Bengal?
The snow of 87 winters
danced on her brow
and tumbled onto her shoulders,
but still she asked questions
every day of her life.
I could never answer any of hers,
they had no answers.
But she answered all of mine,
they were simple-minded;
Why can't I feed the goldfish anymore?
Where's my collection of rabbit droppings?
One thing I have learned;
death trivializes all things, save love.
On The Eve of Springtime
A diadem of starlight
rings the moist brow
of a loblolly pine.
The sound of moonlight
falling on rotting river ice
echoes across the tundra.
And on the Ides of March
the sleeping bear's claws
begin to grow.
What Shall I Give Her
I want to send her a gift.
She‘s given me so much,
And asked very little in return.
But what shall it be?
I could give her a shiny mirror,
With golden frame and ivory handle.
But she is not so vain
As to ever look into it,
Except perhaps when her hair is mussed.
I could give her a jewel.
But of all the stones I’ve ever seen;
Ruby, sapphire, emerald, diamond;
Each one is dimmed to shame
By only a blink of her soft brown eye.
I might give her a flower;
A rose, an orchid or a daisy,
But it would surely wilt
At the sight of her lovely face.
I should write for her a poem,
But what words could I choose?
Love, beauty, wit, intelligence?
She has no need of any of them,
She knows them all too well
And heard them much too often.
What then shall I give to her?
The one thing of mine she doesn’t have?
Something for her to hold always?
In the end, all that I can offer
Is my able and willing love.
You can write to Ariion at
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