Poetry by

 Nick  Zegarac

This Sanctuary
 

 If a home be a sanctuary
may it taste of eternal spring
Framed in bowers of lilac
Petals strewn about the lazy drive
Glimpses unto the world inside
Wet, lulling daisy heads swoon
and are redeemed
from the fluttering shadows
of a butterfly’s wings
Soft velvet buttons burst forth
spread open and are gone
with the migrant kiss
of a fleeting sun

If a home be a sanctuary
may it find breath in bubbling honey
glazed upon the pork on the spit
Or perchance, from warm ether
off cakes perched upon its open sills
Ah, how the remnant tang of nectar
plucked from its rightful bows
anoints these ripened hands
in the promise of virgin fruit

If a sanctuary, then a home resounds
with the faded laughter of simpler times
Recanted tinkling of a piano forte
The patter of tiny feet evaporated
Quick, light taps made more profound
danced upon these weather beaten steps
Echoed discussions, mute parlor game chatter
The pleasures of company, fall into magical hush
with the perfect pitch clang of quieting crystal
To friends and family
To life and love
For those lost to us now
But near forgotten
A toast!

Then a home remains
constant, alive and near
Though aged mountains
and encroaching cities divide
It can never be further
than our dreams remembered
Suddenly stirred to reminiscences dear
by some vibrant scent
The evocative twitter, unearthed
Ageless and silent
As spirits passed
One world to the next
A soul emerges
between its mortar and brick
Peeking beneath thatch and thistle

And in that instant - a halo
where time serves no reference
Memories breed on one another
for those fortunate enough to fall
into welcomed trespass
beyond the house,
this sanctuary.

 

Nick  Zegarac

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She And The Sea

She sat cross-legged on a white wicker couch,
the bewitching spray of sea salt tickling her nose,
and could almost realize his strong silhouette
against the kaleidoscope of sunset,
darting from the velvet beach head;
young and full of male pride,
turning in haughty stride to wave her goodbye,
and a “see you later, after my swim.”
But that was long ago,
before she knew that he wasn’t coming home.
One thunderous moan from that ancient tide,
fastening the clasp on her memory box.
For it was too painful to think of him even now,
wrapped in her luring tides,
and happily so at first,  
before clawing into a sandy bottom with bloody fingers,
and airless gasps,
praying, dreaming, pleading for the chance
to glean one last flicker of light from her kitchen window.
Damn it all!  She hated the sea.
 

Nick  Zegarac

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Flannel On A Rainy Afternoon

 From the solitude of a worn leather recliner,
he leapt in dreams across the gray outdoors,
one thickening curl encircled his pipe,
gnarled hands thumbing the yellowed pages of a novel
he had no intention to read.
Another frosty log tossed into the dwindling hearth.
Another day, cold - best spent in bed,
or the next best thing;
crocheted across his knees,
a pair of tired leather toes peeking beneath
that hemmed drape strewn about the floor,
and flannel; soothing, soft and familiar,
as the cloistered remembrances
of one woman’s touch about his waist,
Dresden tease, tender fingers upon his neck.

Some thirty years turned under gray,
riding the backward carousel of still images,
swirling, twirling, spattering along
as tickled half-frozen drops across the window.
Sliding, a streak, as though on a grand race
to their final collecting rest upon the sill.
If only the dragging hours knew their secrets well,
he wouldn’t mind being alone,
in flannel, on this rainy afternoon.

 

Nick  Zegarac

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Nick  Zegarac

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