Archive | Poetry

time’s past

crystal chimes
strike porcelain ears,
seizing time
from memories, past.

the music heard
from times’ near past,
tangles in the wind
of muted sound;

and we live again.

0

Everlasting Memories

Beginning with this post,  I will be featuring  poetry I have used
over the years in hand crafted Christmas cards.   Many of my
readers might recognize a line or two from years past.   I wish to
add my voice to the season to bring  forth memories to be
refreshed for new readers and also those familiar with my work.

She tenders fingertips to a face
as lightly as a kiss of wind
and nudges memories, clad in illusion,
tentatively.

Star shaped, diamond chips,
melting snow on little faces,
Nature has painted red roses
on milk cheeks
and has buried memories
to be awakened at another time.

Everlasting memories. . .  but. . .
we carry the one face
of the one child

forever.

0

A Deep Drink

As the evergreens drink deeply
in preparation for the long winter,
I, too, turn to portions of my Self
already stated and prepare.

The journey for both
is through dry country.
The oasis will not be found
except within.

I carry the water to the evergreens
as mine , too, is carried to me.
As I am to the evergreen,
my Self is to me;
water carriers both,

invisible to each.

0

The Housekeeper

The Housekeeper. Illustration by Claudia Hallissey

There bellows a wind
around the turrets
of the mind’s house,
ripping under gutters,
sweeping under eaves,
leaving no residue.

Clean, chaste
as the sweet wind,
stands she exalted.
Prudently swiping at corners
to eliminate even
the shadow of contamination
on her brother’s name.

In good time,
in due time,
the world will be
swept clean
and her father’s house
will sparkle.

 

 

4

Come Into My Kitchen

Come into my kitchen
and use the back door.
Only dear friends are allowed to
walk right into
the center of my home.

Others have to earn the right
by walking through the halls
of my life to get to
the heart of my home.

But you can come
to the back door.

I will let you in.

 

0

The Strange Bequest

There was a man, a slim man,
whose head was bedecked
with a white cloud
and whose eyes saw dreams
he could not articulate.

He sat one day staring into space
and when I questioned him, he said,
`I am sitting and watching the grass grow.’
I hesitated far too long
and have lived to regret it.

I wish the courage had been mine
to have asked him
to share his dreams with me.
For he bequeathed to me
a mind that does not rest.

I have the thought that his faher
and father before him
wrestled the same misty vision
which now is mine to set in motion.

I question this strange bequest,
for I have not
the staunch heart required
to lay to rest my ancestor’s anguish.

Papa, I plead now,
to replace my heart with hot ore,
inject me with a vial
of celestial courage
and fuse my spine with tempered steel.

There is so little time.
2

The Autumn Night

The velvet night plays host
to the September moon
hanging in suspension in liquid air.
Cold, crisp edges
seal in the lunar landscape,
forgetting for the moment,
the hot sky which sealed our noon.

There comes the night,
in desperation relieving
the cloddish insensitivity visible
in the unrelenting stubbornness of the day,
unable and unwilling to release itself.

With relief,
the jagged beginning of the moon,
just now visible to the naked eye
makes its way across the horizon
of the mental landscape.

Its ridges,
its volcanic valleys split in two
and on the other side of the mind
it falls into the sun to rise
from flames on another night.

Having healed with mystic splendor,
balm for the day's wounds, it rests.
I drink in the day and forget.

But the night . . . the night. . .
now bedded in honor, its place undisputed,
finds my words of gratitude hallow the ground

in worlds unattended.
0

My Song Goes Out

My song goes out
on the morning air
and penetrates the sky
to where the stars hang heavy.

My lyrics ride the beams
that will meet the sun
and hang in mid-day
until even the grass hears
the melody or the mourning.

Look who it is! they say.
She speaks to us and
we hear, we hear.
And when they ask of me
I will say it is an enchanted place,
this Earth home.

Learn to speak her language
and learn to hear her songs.
Be the lyre on which
her music is played.

The music spells out
a beginning that never was
and an ending that cannot be.
She will tell us of a richness
that is ours

since we first were stars.
0

Morning Comes

Img_1607

 

Morning comes

with dew hinting Autumn,
promising a long, clean winter.

 

Schedules are welcomed
and days end
at an appropriate time.

 

Evenings stretch
like warm welcoming mats,
rolling up at our heels
and sealing us in with what

 

will feed our Spirits.
5

The Explanation

It was with stony disbelief
they watched as I slowly lifted
the strands of hair at the back of my head.
And when they blinked,  I smoothed
the disarray and said, did you see them?

I, of course, had grown another
set of eyes on the back of my head.
But only after the children came, of course.
The other one, in front, I pointed out,
set between the other two like yours,
I've always had and thought the world did too.
It helped me to reach places like your heart.

You always had a key to my head, one said
and I was shocked.   I did not know that I did.
I did not mean to invade your privacy.
And another, breathless, shaken, rushed
into the house one foggy night
and said, you won't believe this!   (But I did.)
There they were on bicycles all five abreast,
dressed in white.   They stayed in front of me
till I turned the car at the corner, home.
And then they vanished you wailed.
And I said, I know, I know, they are your friends.

And another said, we are the listeners.
The world does not listen but we hear.
The raindrops speak to the windowpanes
and apologize for clouding their vision.
And the windows say my eyes needed washing anyway.  
And I say, you know, you know.

We hear the anguish of the world in motion,
in the raucous laughter in words unsaid, said.
They see the world in shades of white and black,
denying spectrums of themselves in brilliant hue.
These souls who question us
are sight and sound and color blind,

living in a world of no dimension.
4

Powered by WordPress. Designed by WooThemes