Quatrains

 

I. I’m trying to assemble

   A new life from beach sand

      and Wild Avocados –

           Cold nights and desert sky mornings, alone

      While the mystery of life flows

        Around me in wind blown sage

            and chaparral on the mountains

                called San Jacinto

 

Only your voice and bright hair can tame

     the truth in my infectious mind.

 

II. She is the wind

           though canyons winding

               In god’s grace through a

                 horizon that begs on

                    it’s hands and knees

                     To be touched where her

                         Purity lies in wait

                           For me to come to

                               Brush past in

                                Painterly backbrush styles

                                 Toward a dawn that

                                     wants to be born again

                                             until dawn…

 

III. .  All of the old musicians,

             have gone home to rest

               To their happy heady homes

                      Away from this midnight caress

                            of dreams and youth

                                 that spin from nimble fingers

                                     put to the maturity test

 

    It’s open mic – to anyone

              including you Josephine…

 

IV. She so babied, and candied

           that the sky whistles when she walks,

             leans forward – smiles heavenly and then

               whispers a quiet night verse that is more like

                 a monologue for valley girl mentality then

                  a poem for the ages – so sweet –

                     insecure, solemn and sexy for the sound of words.

 

Brett Simpson - 1996


California Writings

Copyright © 1996 by Brett A. Simpson, All Rights Reserved, World Rights Reserved