cleric's morning

Harvey S. Mozolak

fingernails of night
cold wicks clipped
some lost in the darkness
falling to the stone chancel floor
as scraps of day-directed thoughts
and guilt assuaged
are assembled
in candlelight
awaiting empty paper
a leaking black nib
and the flame of a convinced
tongue fumbling for words
beneath the shadow
of the ruminating rood

change of scenes

Harvey S. Mozolak

fog’s cool wet pat
on the warm land
wisps sleep unseen
longer
beneath grey fingers
extending
here and there their knuckles
quietly rising
above the trees and hills
to silhouette with silence
the sky and sun’s impatience
the clap and blink
flutter of flared wings
from startled nests
roar of engined breath
splash of a storm’s passing
awake
short the clawing hold
on hard slippery stone
and muddied earth
then on to hunt and prey
the seen no longer hidden

yellow

Harvey S. Mozolak

butter on bread
not yet harvested
a Picasso plate
of a-maized yellow
palette-knifed in a slash
toward the light
afield high to the east
growing brighter

flexible inflexibility

Harvey S. Mozolak

futile waving at a wave
gnats in a midair undulating net
swirling the air in currents they create
with some unified
matted will of obstinacy
swerving to block my way
too much a nuisance not to swat
but mostly miss or merely alter
some course but not the sum
readjusted in an instant
to conform to whatever curtain
is deemed the best obstruction
opening closing
their wings an almost heard
applause
staging directions

arbor vult

Harvey S. Mozolak

a pine cone
in the middle of the road
awaiting what?
a wheel to crush it
allowing it more easily
to move to dirt
and seeding
the swirl of a hind’s passing hoof
scurrying squirrel
to move it beyond the middle
a rabbit’s interest
to stop and investigate
it closer to the side
either one
although it fell from the east
and was hoping
in its own unthinking way
for some help against the wind’s will
and toward the treeless meadow
and the rock
where a fat snake
suns itself

no memorials

Harvey S. Mozolak

a seed awakening
in a moist pot
does not remember
the field full of its flowers
and fruit from which it was plucked
and sacked
but only now the sun’s angle
to which it must lean
its sprouting head
unthinking of past seasons
but only surging hope dark buried
unseen but furrowed

song of the Spirit

Harvey S. Mozolak

when the dove
sings of heaven
nesting on earth
hear the holiness
angels understand
near in lullabies
as night-piercing gloriae
with a cup containing
garden-groaned tears
and a solid stone
setting for death
split open in descant for life