Donald Coonrod

Awakening

I  remember, I remember
the house where I was born.
            Thomas Hood
 
Baby in a cradle
helpless, bound,
earth flowing by,
lost then becoming
sense and mind;
eyes opening, delicate
high pitched chords
wonderful to hear.
 
Yeats’ great rooted blossomer
covered with snow
holds memories as secret
as sex and soul; mother’s red
breasted berries so sweet,
are soon joined by brothers
and sisters flying in space,
riding out great storms.
 
Einstein’s rivers run to the sea;
life, unconcerned, sends us forth
with uncertainty—beautiful
bulbs of love survive, bursting up
from dark earth.


© 2008 Donald Coonrod

Joy

An unexpected breeze rises, a pleasant
draft of air that comes sometimes
in late winter warming the floating sky
and melting the pillowed snow.
 
Roof gutters come alive with a marching
beat, staccato drip—drip—drip—and I
follow the parade in my ears.
 
Suddenly I’m melting a little too,
soul juice flowing through my veins,
liquid expression with something to say,
something like joy.


© 2008 Donald Coonrod

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