At Sandusky

"In the century old cemetery, where cracks
Etch the features of the granite faces,
Monuments to moments lost in the dirt,
See how the leaves, drops of blood and gold,
Burn off the many names of the
Mossy stones.

See the trees of the cemetery!
See the sad green limbs and woody fingers
Bearing their burdens low,
With the chalky sky slowly creeping
Through the scars scratched
Between the leaves.

See the hands that hold their final
Sacrifice, a frail yet fine offering
For autumn's fires. See the shades
Of green, like a many faceted emerald,
Give way to the vibrant death
of fall.

See the golden blood sprinkled across
The doorposts of the earth, doors
Continually open to the winds of the
World, ever receiving and losing; green
Then gone.

See now! The fruit of the fire tree is a
Shimmering star that, like a
Candle before a canvas, makes vivid its
Object: the red curtains that drape across
The arms of bark.

When the world grows weary of itself
At last, it takes the cold autumnal heat
Into its bosom and is burned to death.
Then the pure white snow will come
And melt, bringing the resurrection
Of the dead.

So burn on you trees of jaded green;
Burn on you shimmering stars!
May the burning snow rattle the bones
Planted by one, who in fear
and trembling, leaves the dead and looks
To Spring."

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009

(Update: This is a revised version of the original. The original can still be found posted on Facebook.)

Nightlight

"A cloudy evening sky:
Smoky black, tinted purple,
Deep and dark like deadly pitch.
The only illumination is the
Electric orange glow of the
Chemical plant.

But in the west a dissipation
Appears, and in bleeds the night
Sky, a curious light, its ghostly
Gray hues shine like a beacon
Scratching through the silent
Ceiling.

It fades; the clouds resurge
Lazily, enveloping the sight in
Apathy. Yet the damage
Is done. I have seen behind
The smoky shell the edge
Of infinity.

Beyond the blanket that covers
This earthen bed lies the
Endless expanse, the great dance
Floor with innumerable participants
Twirling and twinkling
Without end."

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009

Moonlight and Me

"As my eyes grow accustomed to
This midnight hour, the dark
Hues of the shadows deepen,
And I am troubled to learn
That the night is darkest when
It is brightest.

The moonlight is a curious thing:
Its light seems to be still.
It sits, like its source, without
Motion or gesture, bathing all
Without effort.

Moonbeams are lazy. Daylight
Is not so: it seems to dance
And romance everything that it
Touches, enriching all
With its fire.

But the silv'ry spill of that great
White throne covers all like a
Man collapsing into his bed. He will
Not be moved until the morning
Bids him 'Come'.

Yet never has something so
Static been so alive, enchanting
What it lands on: the billowy
Foliage of the near oak tree
Seems to me a giant; its branches
A low leaning hand.

The grass is given faces: every
Shadowy crevice is the rim of
Some eye or mouth. They gaze
At the tops of the trees, at the
Lingering giant, their mouths agape
As though to speak.

How I wish that they would speak!
That the lazy moonbeam magic might
Animate leaf and bark, and that the
Distant creaking that I hear would be
The old bones of the oak baron bending
Down to greet me.

But those creaks and crashes
Are but the fall of the dead
Branches: too heavy to remain,
Though leafless. They strike the dirt
Without a word.

The moon has magic; just not
The kind that I am looking for.
One day the trees will talk
By the light of the moon. They
Shall answer the grass and me
At last.

For now, let the silent influence
Fall where it may, like snow
The night before it melts.
I shall enjoy the stillness
Before the daylight wakes
And bids me 'Come'."

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009

In Church

"Within these warm milky walls
Where hangs the brazen fixtures
With spheres of light, specks of white,
There hangs the satin curtain
Red like wine, dark like blood.
Upon it lies the golden icon,
The emblem of the amalgam
Of suffering and joy.

The rain clouds outside make
Gray the tall windows, but
The voice of the violin within
Warms like a fire in its hearth.
And as the bread and blood
Passes from mouth to mouth,
I pray that beauty and holiness
Adorns this house forever."

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009

A Car Ride

"The sky slides slowly along,
Its clouds like a great stone wall
Etched with snow-filled cracks
And stained with indigo oils
Along the edges.

The last lingering glow of daylight,
A river of golden copper,
Underscores the solemn shroud
That sits like sackcloth on the
Shoulders of the sky.

And at the pinnacle peak of
That gray sky plane, a flare
Of white creeps along like frost
That clings to the car windows
In the cold.

The darkest shades of the sky
Spread far and wide like the feathers
Of some great and terrible bird
Of the night, chasing the sun
From her nest.

The gray cloud curtain holds
Bumps and bubbles like the
Laminate sticker that just won't
Hold its grip to the edge of the
Foggy glass.

A burst of orange on the horizon!
The high hilly clouds still hold
The daylight on their crests like
Crowns of fire, jewels beyond the
Wealth of kings.

The fiery hills peek out from
Amongst the deadened gray.
Their wispy influence stains
The sky with flakes of bronze
Warmly bright.

The burning snow of those highest hills
Puts to light all the blues and
Deeper hues of the granite vault.
The snow-tops burn quickly, like
Most fires do.

A gash of white streaks across;
Like a steam-filled crevice, its airy
Contents reach higher than its
Source, and inch into every nook that
They can find.

The darkest blues raise like a wave
Their presence, but halt their
Advance and linger without one
Word. They are fearsome, friendly,
And silent.

One great and dark cloud,
Like a spot of ink, hovers over
As a hooded specter lost in
Thought, its song made still by
Its hesitation.

The night now comes and colors all
With coal tinted blue; hinted through
The smokey puffs, the meager moon,
Like a headlight in mist, offers its
Blurry light.

And in the distance, beyond the edge
Where the night crawls and claws
Like a shadow across the ceiling,
The golden ribbon lingers just beyond
Billowy mountain tops."

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009