Should I really be a writer?

Doubt and turmoil fill my mind
And fill the tablet white and lined
With violent hills and valleys of my thoughts.
Crumpled paper balls festoon
The corners of my messy room
The scorned remains of many worthless plots.

Autumn sunsets

When the sunlight shines behind the trees
And lights their autumn glory
It gives their brilliant flaming hues
A jewel tinted story.
That collaborates the joyful tale
Told in the golden evening
When the sun gently slips away
To sleep before the morning.

Thoughts during the sacrament

When thou knelt in Gethsamane,
Did thy thoughts turn unto me?
Did I, thou holy, meek and kind,
Cross thy perfect, loving mind?

I would be that blessed being,
Comforting thy suffering.
That I in some minuted way
Could my debt to thee repay.

I know through thy sacrifice, Lord,
I all peace and joy afford.
I would that through me thou could bless
Others with this happiness.

Oh, let me be thy earthly hands!
Bend my pride to thy commands.
I pray to lose all thought of me,
In my service unto thee.

Old stuff

Wordplay


Holiday.
Holiday.
Holiday.
I like saying Holiday.
Holiday Holiday Holiday.
Ah!! But what's this? slippery!
Ah yes slippery, so sibilant on the tongue.
Don't ask me how slippery, and Holiday,
Such a strange pair of mittens,
Are together hung.
And then there's Stearylkonium Chlorate.
I'm not even sure what it is.
I read it on a shampoo bottle.
Is that what makes it fizz????
No, I thought that was the Glycerin.
Never-mind.



In-between day 2006



Wandering these inlaid paths, stones swirling at our feet in wonder. Still water lies in its bed, sleeping gently, lazy pink camellias drifting over its reflective face. Weeping willows trail their fingers in the quiet water. Their leaves drip down their slender branches, I think perhaps they are the tears they weep. A cherry flames above us, flamboyantly defying its soft sisters with it's brilliant red flowers. Her branches stand stark and simple against the dark, delicate, detailed tiles of the roof. We hear the quietly roaring sound of falling water, sweetly insinuating itself into our thoughts. It tumbles impetuously down the worn, pitted stone. I see you holding the baby, and you remind me of each other. The silent strength in you speaks to the patient earth. Your wisdom is far above mine. In your arms he effervesces, twist, and turns. Crowing in delight at the world we have found today

I love thee

I love you in the evening sunshine
Under the evergreen trees
Smiling loveliness lit in shades
Of amber subtleties

I love you in the crystal morning
Beside the white water stream
The sunlit droplets echo well
Your dark eye's mischievous gleam

Youth

I am only part of me,
A glimpse of what I'll truly be,
A fraction of the iceberg out for everyone to see
For I am hiding deep in the ocean
The most lovely things you've ever seen

This moment is so very small
It hardly affects me at all
And yet the rest of my life is rebounding off this wall
Oh can you feel it coursing through my veins
Time in all it's glory changes me

Tucked away in safer spaces
Far from unfamiliar faces
I unfold what I will be in quiet empty places
So I can marvel at all the promise
Hope for everything, my life's ahead of me

Mall bound along the roadside,
Picking up car-flattened spoons
And looking at long dead skunks.
Ignoring all the rude goons.
Ice cream at Baskin Robbins
All Hallow's Eve seances
Both relieved they didn't work
Savoring our nuances
Dressing as dolls and wizards
Stealing bites of cookie dough
You sat on my ham sandwich
I ate it anyways though.
That bicycle accident,
My fault, I wasn't watching.
You glared at me and then laughed.
The next time we went walking.

A frustrated poet

Why do people think
That my pen and ink
Will magically sing
When I can't hear a thing
Over their music?????

Fie'ry dragons,
Low-flying clouds
Catching the sun's dying rays
Against a ground
Of cobalt blue,
Higher clouds to old for games.
They miss the fun
Of sporting here,
With me and my steeds of flames.

Let there be rainbows

You're unhappiness washes over me,
Your anger, frustration, disapproval
Washes over me in bruising tides.
Can't you see we can both be happy???
Let go of it!! Just let go of who is right, who is wrong.
Let some different colors into
the black and white and red.
Let there be pink love,
yellow happiness,
Some quiet, peaceful blue.
You tell me you aren't angry,
But because you are like my brother,
The set of your jaw,
The tone of your voice,
The way you throw up your arms and shrug your shoulders.
I know you are angry.

Non-scribing

It's hard for me to express,
I've started this poem many times,
I cannot find the right words,
The right cadences, meters and rhymes

stargazing at the beach

Fine powdery sand slips between my fingers,
Catching the red-gold glow of the fire.
The cold surf plays a duet with someones ukelele
I am warmed by the flames and the singers.

The end of the meteor shower's tonight,
If I keep watching the sparkling dark
Perhaps I will see some of the stars falling from the sky
I will make a wish on their graceful light.

Wave goodbye

"I have never seen an ocean like this. It is so clean." she says. Her english is very accented, but good. "Why is it green?" I explain that the water here is good for algea, and ask her what color the ocean is in Korea. "It is dark blue, very dark blue. And we don't have waves like this." The waves come surging up the sand, swirling it into grey and buff patterns. They slam into us, often only up to our ankles, other times up to our chests. Some are so strong, we have to skip backwards to keep our balance. As they pause at the top of the beach to catch their breath we laugh and shriek. Then they come racing back down to crash into their incoming friends, snatching thousands of finite grains from under our feet on the way. "I like the ocean here." she whispers sadly to the exuberant emerald water she will never see again.

Comfort for a friend

I see that you are hurting,
But I also see the beginnings of happiness
Tracing around your eyes
And the corners of your mouth.
I am so, so very sorry
That this happened.
I wish I could make it disappear for you,
But all the wishes in the world can't turn back time
And erase the memories.
I can give a little of myself to you though.
We can talk as long as you need to.
Or I can babble about other things
So that you can forget a while.
Or we can just sit in silence.
Contemplating.
In Job it says,
"So they sat down with him upon the ground
Seven days and seven nights.
And none spake a word
For they saw that his grief was great."
I will sit and grieve with you.
Because you are my friend.
And years from now
When time has washed away the shock
And it becomes a good thing
Those seeds of happiness around your eyes
Will be brilliant diamonds within them.

Ode to Poacea

This cold grey afternoon light
Makes the grass a brilliant green
Vividly, joyously, marvelously bright
So young and vibrant and spring-time clean.
I bury my face in it.
And breathe in it's new mown fragrance
Dustily, mustily, wonderfully sweet
Fine thin blades make my nose want to dance.
My toes drink in the thickness
They meld with the springy soft mat
Tenderly, ticklishly, tantalizing fresh
I can do cartwheels and handsprings and THAT.
This wind is warm and perfect
It plays me poignant lullabies
Whispery, papery, hushy-shushy music
As through the tall brown grass it's sighing flies.

Neighbors

In and out,
Spilling drama
Dripping it on our doormats
Back and forth
Oozing drama
All over our bristly doormats.

Some old stuff

Faith

I wonder sometimes,
If he loves me.
When I am not in tune with him,
Not listening,
It is difficult to tell.
Perhaps when I am,
Better.
Stronger.
More Perfect.
I will know.
But for now a hint,
An aftertaste.
Lingering on in my soul.
A forgotten fragment clinging
To the hem of my heart.
Reminding me to come home.


Waiting

Anticipation,
Throbbing in my heart.
Pulling me,
Pushing me,
Tearing me apart.
But sweet moments,
Tiny petals in the storm,
Make it beautiful and strange,
Waiting for your arms.

The time I am wasting on this is worth thirty dollars.

I stare helplessly at the scattered pages,
Strewn haphazardly, disorderly piled.
A small paper manual lies wounded,
Thrown against the wall and reviled.
Planners are supposed to SIMPLIFY
But this! This! I can't even look.
Mom walks past, sympathetic.
"Honey, would you like to borrow the book?"
There's a BOOK on how to use this?!
This Franklin Covey monster!
I thought I was ready for the "next step"
I really, really miss my day-timer.

And I was harrowed up in my mind

Great steel blades of remorse
Unceasingly shred my mind
Lifting into the light
The things I wanted to hide.
Earthy wormy black thoughts,
Carefully stowed underneath.
The smooth and jeweled tone
Of a manicured grassy green.
No more neatly buried
But exposed in ragged clods
Layed out indecently
Upon the tattered facade.
I must examine each
And break it my own hands
To form a fertile soil
Then neatly smooth my lands
This time I'll plant wisely
With thing that are good to eat
Never again ashamed
Of roots that lie underneath

Break away

Persistent imps, my own small guilts
Relentlessly snatch at the hem of my mind.
My self-esteem wrapped in soft quilts
Of procrastination listlessly lined.
Rays of sunlight pierce the mist
And blind my ennui blinkered eyes
My atrophied braincells writhe and twist
And sell me stale-sweat-smell lies.
But something whispers softly sweet
And breaks through the deadened days
Lifts me to my disused feet
And sweeps away the musty haze

I hear them talking

Giggling about their boyfriends,
Their first times smoking pot.
Who did what with whom,
And who is really "Hott"
And part of me feels saddened
What makes them do those things?
And part of me feels left out
Sky high and alone with my wings.

Teenage drama

Adolescent angst
Is sure to get attention
If only for a laugh
And afterschool detention.

Kiddie nonsense
Prepubescense
Foreign accents
"what is that???" scents

Pre adulthood life
Is full of sticky labels
Put on by dorks and nerds
And people hiding under tables

Goody two shoes
You snooze you loose
You are all fools
Awful hairdos

Bye bye.

One pound of chocolate covered raisins.
Daytime call to long-distance friend.
A very big bowl of chocolate ice cream
Some chickflicks and a box of tissues.
A haircut and THREE new pairs of shoes.
That's what I've done to get over you.

Myth

A thread of hope I spun for me,
A cotton candy fantasy
Of gentle lords and chivalry.
I spun it out of nothingness,
And unto nothingness it went,
Unbound my tears and set them free.

I harkened unto fairytales,
Of knights and kings and kindly whales,
Where good must win and evil fails.
I listened to the milk-sop lies,
And tried and tried and tried and tried
To find the hidden glory trails.

I walked into a darkened world
Where pirates left their flags unfurled
And cared not where the maelstroms whirled
For evil is untouchable
When sheltered in it's own black walls,
Breathing it's poison vapors curled.

I sought a shining noble Knight
To tilt for me and win the fight
Against the ever growing blight,
But fools rush in where angels don't.
I was very, very alone.
And very, very far from light.

I reached inside my dimming soul
And grabbed the last bright dying coal
I guided pirates on the shole.
As they wrecked on the cruel reef
I thought how very bittersweet
It was to so reverse my role.

I took a dinghy dingy red
And from my rocky island fled
To where the truth is done and said
I stayed until my heart was whole,
Not through others deeds but my own,
And only then was evil dead.

Crabby day

Turning over slimy green slabs.
Barnacle bedecked.
Finding tiny little green crabs.
Red and purple flecked.



My family went walking at the beach, well, all except Gage. He was carried. We turned over the rocks, made prickly by their barnacle friends, and found crabs. There were lots of different colors, but only two or three species. We gave them to Dad to identify. There were some teeny tiny little hermit crabs too, small as a pinhead. I found a bigger one, about the size of a matchhead, it had one of the little ones clinging to his claws.

testimony

I have been living underwater,
Slowed and defused.
I have been weighted down by sorrow.
Tired and confused.
And then it happened.
Some good samaritan fished me out.
I can BREATHE!!!
I am filled from head to toe with life.
And the sodden burdens are lifted away.

Visiting

It is strange to me
To be walking these halls.
To be driving these streets.
Run my hand along these walls.
It is strange to me
To be talking to these friends.
To be dancing these moves.
Shaking everbody's hands.
As if I never left.

Conversation

The light fades from the sky,
And the warmth leaves the summer air.
One by one the people filter away.
But those two are still sitting there.
Their laughter lifts it's wings,
Soaring over deserted swings.
Their talk meanders around
The quiet, empty playground.

Mutterings of a confirmed kitchen experimenter

Saw my new shiny red
stand mixer.
Waiting.
Beckoning.
Went into the kitchen
To make something sweet.
Didn't know what,
but it had to be sweet.
Looked through the fridge,
Looked through the cupboards.
Found no inspiration.
Spied the fruit bowl.
Half a dozen apples getting wrinkly.
PIE!!!!!!!!
Pulled my tattered,
Bestained and besmirched
Nineteen-forties cookbook
from it's hallowed place.
Began making crust.
New tools, unsure.
It's tough.
Stick it in the fridge to rest while paring apples.
Paring apples.
Paring apples.
Paring apples.
STILL paring apples.
Slice them paper thin,
So they'll gather all that saucy goodness.
Pull crust out of fridge.
Won't roll out.
Back in the mixer,
Add more shortning.
Better.
Line the pie plate thouroughly.
Pinch the crust beautifully.
Fill it with apples.
Not enough crust for the top...
Streusel top!!!
Better not add the spices yet.
Out of oatmeal.
Brown sugar hard as a rock.
Stick it in the microwave.
Still hard as a rock.
Stick it in with butter!
Mmmmmmm carmel.
Still hard as a rock.
Hmmmmmm carmel.
Sweetened condensed milk,
Carmelized with butter and brown sugar.........
Carmel apple pie sounds good.
In a saucpan with you.
Stirring constantly.
Those stubborn brown sugar lumps aren't doing a thing!
Pour it into the mixer with leftover crust.
Turn into a fascimile of the prehistoric soup.
Pull out biggish sugar lumps.
To lazy for small ones.
Glop uncerimoniously over the top
Of paper thin apples.
Put n the oven til top is crunchy and brown.
It's so good, have to invite friends to help eat it
Before stomach ache can happen.

Up! Arise! The foeman is at the gates.

Glossy black feathers
Raises his wings in anger
Shrugging his attacker off
Dusty brown feathers
Ruffs his red breast in anger,
The villainous attempt he scoffs.
"Swar-vey" black robber,
Seeking the pure, and perfect.
Trying to luncheon on life.
Little brown Father,
Defends the pure and perfect.
His nest, his eggs, his wife.

Pariah

Pariah they named me,
The same as them and yet they blamed me.
Stripped me of humanity
Tore away my shreds of dignity.
When I pass they pull their skirts aside
Spit on me and then deride
My lack of worth and poverty
My heart dies a little every time

Hopeless I cannot flee,
Defined, confined, they have shackled me.
The dregs of humanity,
Seeking one dead scrap of dignity.
Buffered away from the pure Brahmin
So they can't touch me and sin.
Scrabbling in a land of plenty,
Even my dirty blood isn't mine.

How living in an apartment is yucky.

beat beat beat beat
underneath me
beat beat beat beat
music pounding
underneath me
beat beat beat beat
sabbath morning
music pounding
beat beat beat beat
pounding under-
neath my feet feet
beat beat beat beat

A bird may love a fish, but where would they live?

If I were a little bird,
And I loved a little fish,
I'd ever so carefully
Build us a great big nest.
I'd build it out of sticks,
Next to a river broad,
And stuff all the holes with green grass,
And seal it up tight with mud.
Then one by one,
And beak by beak,
I'd fill it with water
Week after week.
And that's where we would live.

If I were a little woman,
And I loved a little man,
I'd ever so carefully
Build us a loving home.
I'd build it out of time
Next to a river broad
And stuff all the holes with kindness
And seal it up tight with God.
Then day by day
And meek as meek
I'd fill it with laughter
Week after week
And that's where we would live.

There came an Angel saying, "Peace be unto you"

Peace I give unto thee,
Not as the world giveth give I unto thee.
Around me a whirlwind of clothing.
So many! Where do I put them?
Filling the racks, piling up on my table.
Hanging on doors.
On the floor.
And still more!!!!
Ten customers in line.
One after another.
(Eight? Here you go. You're welcome!
Three? Here you go you're welcome!
Eight, the limit is eight.
Onetutheefurfisise'enehniteh'leven.
You have eleven items, our limit is eight.
I can place three on hold for you, anything in particular?)
where do I put them?????
(You're welcome!
Yes, you may use any room.
Except that one!!!
I have to keep it open for handicapped people.
And women with small children. I'm very sorry.)
I have to get these clothes sorted,
And hung proper,
And buttoned and bowed.
(Four? Here you go! You're welcome.
Thank you, have a lovely day.
Do you want these?
Okay, thank you.
Have a lovely day!!)
Sixteen rack full, call Lucille.
(Five? Here you go! Thank you!)
Department sixteen ten petite, Oh right, it's full
(one......twelve
You have twelve items, out limit is eight,
I can place four items on hold for you, anything in particular?)
I NEED PEACE!!!!!
"You're so cheerful! How do you stay so nice?"

Okay.....so maybe I do have peace.......

Moonlight

Moon shining through the leafy lace,
sprinkling light on my darkened face.
Moon glowing through my window.
Softening shape and sharpening shadow.
We watched that moon rise together,
So many many moons ago
Slipping up over the skyline,
Taking it easy, gentle and slow.

You led me through the deep'ning night
With that new-dime moon our only light
You said it was a true love
That would last as long as that moon above
When waned that moon so did the new
So before it could be reborn
You left me for the rising sun
Alone with the dead moon and forlorn.

Moonsense

Moonchasing,
Laughing in our moonvan,
Singing our moon song.
(chunk to the tune of
Ghost busters,
Occasional
Mooncatchers,
we can't remember the words)
At last!!!! Eureka!!!
Flash out,
(what a project...camera abuse!!)
We take pictures of catching the moon.
(and squishing it, of course).
Hahahaaaa, chopsticks squishy the moooon!!!!!

In the corner

I long in the corner.
As I watch the others play.
Shy me in the corner,
Wishing what I cannot say.

So long ago that seems to me
When I was in the corner,
Yet I remember like yesterday,
So many times in the corner.

Pirates of Penzance

Twining 'round the wrought iron bars,
White jasmine fraganced summer air,
And gently perched for all to see,
A single blossom graced her hair.

Brightly expressed her dark brown eye,
And parting her blooming red lips,
A smile unveiled her white teeth,
Like moons when the cloud softly slips.

He saw her there in the garden,
And Eros' arrow pierced him through,
For that such a maiden could dwell,
No thought had entered nor he knew.

Oh could she look on such as him?
Who was raised without moral guide,
Taught to pillage innocents gold
Then swiftly to flee on the tide?

He quails upon the brink of love
But gath'ring courage to his heart
He approaches gentle beauty,
"If you love me we ne'er will part!"

I want

I want a fine upstanding man,
To call me his wife,
I want a lot of happy kids,
Full of light and life,

I want a tidy little house,
With a large backyard.
A kitchen to cook for them in,
I want to work hard!

I want a garden big and bright,
With good vegetables,
Fruit trees, flowers, and fresh herbs too,
To lade our tables.

I want bookshelves full of good books,
Comfy chairs to sit,
Where we can learn of the gospel,
Really study it.

I want a kind of largish dog,
A well-behaved mutt.
With perhaps a bit of collie,
For my kids to love.

Little boy

Little boy, smiling at me.
Those blue eyes so near to heaven.
Your six white teeth shining bright,
Sometime soon will be seven.

Little boy, laughing at me.
Raising your arms above your head,
Throwing your big ball at me.
With a star blue and a stripe red.

Little boy, giving me hugs,
Small arms vainly try to surround
Me and forehead to forehead
You shares your love so profound.

Something old and something new.

Studious

Drifting through the scriptures,
Picking up scattered snowflakes of wisdom.
Swirling through my mind,
Covering little imperfections
With a pure white shroud.


Snobbery?

Is it indeed snobbery?
To know and to love worthy books,
To seek knowledge and wisdom,
From the long-silenced halls of Alexandria?

Nay, not so, but robbery!
For unbidden we steal, like crooks,
Through the pages, and succumb,
Taking that which enriches our thought and idea.

And in doing so, we become greater,
Our learning doth increase,
How then is this Snobbery?
Do we not seek a Utopian land?
Yet the works of the Great Ones,
Are not found in every hand,
but simple rubbish,
That neither enriches,
Nor removes tarnish.


If I were her.

As I turn these pages, easter morn,
And read of the resurrection,
I stop and ponder Mary's thoughts,
Deep grief born of affection.
I wonder what, if I were her,
My heart and head would feel,
What is it like, to know Him gone,
And weeping by his tomb, to kneel.


Pain

softly cloaking my shoulder,
gently draping itself,
Arranging itself.
Making itself at home.
Settling deeply into the fabric of me.
Slowly, delicately unraveling me.
Tenderly unweaving the threads of my being.
Changing tactics,
Lancng through me.
Brutal, blustering,
Assaulting my senses.
Dropping me to my knees
And wearing down my walls
With sheer force.
Ebbing now,
Thankfully ebbing,
Throbbing away into nothingness.
Blissful numbingness.


Stood up

Standing here,
In the cold.
Looking up at the cherry blossoms.
And down at the beauty bark.
Waiting here,
In the cold.
Over there is a roadkill Possum.
To my right is City Park.
Twiddling thumbs,
In the cold
Pointless games drawn into the soil.
Two, a man and woman, look.
Fidgeting thumbs.
In the cold.
Reading a little Conan Doyle.
Thirteenth time I've read this book.

Without my glasses on.

The world reduced to blocks of color,
Soft edged and indistinct,
Gently textured with blurry shadows,
Wet paper loosely inked.


Impressionistic swirls the world,
With pastel or vivid hue,
Each tree leaf melts into the others,
Van Gogh-ing in my view.

I'm over there.

Fifteen miles from myself,
I see the me I was.
Do I want to go back that way,
Or forge on with my cause?
Do I even have a Cause?
I thought I did.
But now I'm not so sure.
I remember what my reason was...
And at the time it was pure.
I think that time has clouded me.
And now my diamond's glass.
And things I thought were good to be,
Are vulgar somehow, crass.
I'm turning now, and reaching back.
I'm cleaning off this grime.
I'm casting off this foolish road,
and turning back the time.
I travel back to purer me
Before I found the world.
I saw it, and I wanted it.
I loosed my sails, unfurled.
I saw not what winds would be.
I was driven forth and tossed.
Until I knew not where I was,
And Hopeless felt what I had lost.
I have set my sight on the rising sun,
And phoenix like, new born,
I rise from the ashes of my journey,
And face the dawning morn.

Eve

He is gone.
So many times she hears is said.
It echoes cruelly in her aged head.
He is gone.
And no longer will he place his hand in thine.

He is gone.
She knows not how to understand.
And mutely turning appeals her husband.
He is gone?
His slow reply staggers her like strongest wine.

My Dad

Walking over the spiny carpet
Of carmel colored needles,
He beckons me to silent footsteps,
And, oh so softly, wheedles


Wheedles it into thinking something,
So remarkably untrue,
That we simply do not, CAN'T, exist,
As sure as the moon is blue.


He teaches me to walk in silence, seeing things I never saw. Hearing the language of animals, listening to them, learning of this place. Following their trails and pathways to the secret hollows of the woods. Stopping to feel the beauty of a racing brook, tumbling down a stony hill. Sometimes though, we're not so quiet! Man-made thunder rolls sharp through the trees. Little holes pepper a yellow baloney lid. Afterwards we scour the ground, searching for each .22 shell. We pick up the disrespectful litter of beer cans and burger bags. Left by those who do not care. So many times we've covered camp sites, trailing a plastic grocery bag. Picking up each little piece. "Anything larger than a dime" he says. He's teaching me to steward the land, and in doing so I learn so much. I learn to love and give my all, to care for all I meet. I find out who I am, and I know my Heavenly Father loves me. He's given me the tools I need to build my testimony. When I am in doubt, or troubled, I retreat to the place he has shown me, and I know that I am safe. He teaches me how to think. I see things in new perspectives. I would not be the person I am today without him. I wish he knew how much he has shaped me, that I respect him. I admire him. He is my hero.

Sold

My beautiful! My beautiful! that standest meekly by,
With thy proudly arch'd and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye,
Fret not to roam the desert now, with all thy winged speed;
I may not mount on thee again, - thou'rt sold, my Arab steed!
Fret not with that impatient hoof,-snuff not the breezy wind,-
The farther that thou fliest now, so far am I behind:
The stranger hath thy bridle-rein,-thy master hath his gold,-
Fleet-limb'd and beautiful, farewell; thou'rt sold, my steed, thou'rt sold.

Farewell! those free, untired limbs full many a mile must roam,
To reach the chill and wintry sky which clouds the stranger's home;
Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bread prepare,
The silky mane I braided once, must be another's care!
The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more with thee
Shall I gallop through the desert paths, where we were wont to be;
Evening shall darken on the earth, and o'er the sandy plain
Some other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home again.

Yes, thou must go! the wild, free breeze, the brilliant sun and sky,
Thy master's home, -from all of these my exiled one must fly;
Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, thy step become less fleet,
And vainly shall thou arch thy neck, thy master's hand to meet,
Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye, glancing bright;-
Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light;
And when I raise my dreaming arm to check or cheer thy speed;
Then must I, starting, wake to feel-thou'rt sold, my Arab steed!

Ah! rudely, then unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide,
Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy pantin side:
And the rich blood that's in thee swells, in thy indignant pain,
Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count each started vein.
Will they ill use thee? If I thought-but no, it cannot be,-
Thou art so swift, yet easy curb'd; so gentle, yet so free;
And yet, if haply, when thou'rt gone, my lonely heart should yearn,-
Can the hand which casts thee from it now command thee to return?

Return! alas! my Arab steed! what shall thy master do,
When thou, who wast his all of joy, hast vanish'd from his view?
When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and through the gathering tears,
Thy bright form, for a moment, like the false mirage appears;
Slow and unmounted shall I roam, with weary step alone,
Where, with fleet step and joyous bound, thou oft hast borne me on;
And sitting down by that green well, I'll pause and sadly think,
"It was here he bow'd his glossy neck when last I saw him drink!"

When last I saw thee drink!-Away! the fever'd dream is o'er,-
I could not liva a day, and know that we should meet no more!
They tempted me, my beautiful!-for hunger's power is strong,-
They tempted me, my beautiful! but I have loved too long.
Who said that I had given thee up? who said that thou wast sold?
'Tis false-'tis false! my Arab steed! I fling them back their gold!
Thus, thus, I leap upon thy back, and scour distant plains;
Away! who overtakes us now shall claim thee for his pains!

"The Arab's Farewell To His Horse~Caroline Norton"


In poetry, my beautiful, you bear the mark of greatness. Reviled as a thing to scorn, and exalted as the jewel of kings. Full of grace and fire and pride, so fragile looking, so strong. Your slender, frail legs have raced the sands of history and won us fame and fortune. Your broad backs have borne our burdens, enabling us to build our dreams. You've stood between us and death, thunder pealing o'er your kneeling form. You've dragged the world out of obscurity, and into our view. You have upheld the very center of chivalry and honor. You have evaded our grasping greed and run with wild abandon. You symbolise the pinnacle of freedom and spirit and the abject depths of humility and enslavement. You have suffered such cruelty at our hands, and given us your everything. We owe you so much. You are the horse.

Poppies

Glowing with the sunset,
Vivid fiery light.
Ruby embers fill its cup,
Brimming over, bright.

In Flanders Fields they blew,
Making promise shine,
China abbhors thought of it,
Filthy wicked, grime.

Purest, sweet red flowers,
Holding venom near,
Are you right gone wrong, or,
muddled, turning clear?

Wind movement

Sitting in the grass,
Dew is dampening my jeans,
Gently seeping through the fibers.
The wind moves the grass across my feet,
My arms, my hands.
Soft, rustly caresses.
I sway with the grass.

Sitting in the tree,
My book forgotten aside,
Lying open in the branches.
The wind bends the tree into a grace,
It sighs to ground,
Great, humbling magnitude.
I bow with the tree.

dancing

They flow with the music,
Like exoticly colored kelp beds,
Their sequined dresses flashing in the sun.
Young men weave through,
Hungry fish,
Wary of each other.
The music is exuberant,
It's rhythm flows through their feet,
Pounding into the dry ground.
Beating their essence into the earth.

Her eyes are the eyes of a woman in love.

My Mom smiles, and looks off into the distant past. I asked her to tell me again how she and Dad met. Her voice ebbs and flows, halting occasionally as she remembers people and conversations from her college days, then spilling out again with a laugh. The story is a very wandering path, twisting, turning back on itself, reiterating. Her hands are mostly quite in her lap. Sometimes she lifts them up to illustrate a point. She flicks her wrist, as if playing frisbee with her beret and him. They are elegant hands, slender and refined, I've always envied them. Her ring sparkles in the lamplight. Her eyes mirror it with brilliant flashes of their own. She closes them from time to time, recalling faces long filed away. Sometimes she frowns, thinking of things she regrets, or wishes she had done differently. But mostly her words are full of love. I listen, and I yearn for the joy she has.

picnic lunch

I am walking to Haggens to buy my lunch. The spring sunlight shines on me with a blessing. It would be too hot, but there's a cooling wind rippling through the valley. It's so lovely I've decided I'm going to have a picnic lunch at the park. As I walk into the store, a display of strawberries and raspberries catches my eye, and my nose. The strawberries are too much for me, but the raspberries are a good price. They're in a smaller package too, so they'll be easier to carry. I grab my usual egg-salad sandwich from the lunch bar and check out. The walk to the park is noisy and full of cars. I don't like it! As I arrive though, the roaring and the smoke, and the heat and bright lights fade away. I enter a glowing green and gold paradise of dappled sunlight and birdsong. I walk along, looking for a good place. I don't have to go far. The ground slopes away into a little hollow, where the creek slows and widens into a little pond. A mother duck shepherds her four little ones through the water, and tall grass sways in the cooling breeze. I find a dip in the hill, perfect to sit in, and spread out my lunch. A couple of fat frogs jump into the water, their awkward bulk making big plops. Their eyes peep out of the water and watch me warily. The raspberries are good, I'm glad I got them. They're sweet and flavorful, and they squish pleasently in my mouth. A family walks by, and the mother comes down to take a picture of the ducks with her cellphone. She has an insrument case on her back, it looks like it's probably a guitar. Her small son follows her haltingly down the hill and looks at the ducks. His brothers call him back, but he says plaintively, "I want to walk down into the water and touch them." His mother, seeing his desire to be involved with the ducks, opens a bag of dried apples and gives him a few. He tosses them to the ducks. They grab at the apple pieces, but don't seem impressed. The little boy is satisfied though. He turns to go back up the hill, and sees my raspberries. He looks at me shyly. "May I please have one?" He asks. His mother, mortified, tries to shush him. I tell her it's fine and offer him some. He takes only one, and popping it in his little mouth, he gives me the sweetest smile. I am glad that I can make him happy. He thanks me, and then runs off with his family. Unfortunately I must go too now, but my picnic has made me happy.

Aimless

Can't think,
Brain numb.
Inspiration
Won't come.
Poor Ink.
Bad pen.
That's all,
Amen.

Old american poem

My brain is a great big nothing. Vast and blank. I can find nothing interesting to say. If you want to be entertained, I am not your person. I am as flavorful as a bowl of flour right now. Booooooooriiiiiiiiiing. I have no witticisms for you, no snippets of poetry, no anything. I am the great white paper.

Sooty glass

Sinking into the darkening gloom,
Grasping for a ray of hope.
Fleeing away from impending doom.
Anything to help me cope

I feel myself being bogged down into my depression. It snatches at little pieces of me, slowly mastering me until I'm helpless. I throw all of the coping mechanisms I know in it's face, cheerfulness, happy thoughts, doing things, work, excersize, friendships, being outside, gardening. I am spending more and more of my time staring at the wall, reading worthless books I've already read, avoiding doing things I'm supposed to do. When I eat, I eat to much and badly. I stay in bed til one, waking up occasionally to check the time. (unless I have to work. I can get out of bed for that). I try to talk to people, but I stumble over myself. My brilliance is dimmed under the sooty glass I see through. I am bright, the world is bright. I know it is so, but that sooty glass keeps me from it, and it from me. Oh well. I chip away piece at a time and I will be good. Someday.

Strawberries

Past the new leaf

Turning over the jagged new leaf,
So dangerous looking,
So soft and green.
Changes giving my soul relief.
And hidden underneath
That dangerous leaf
I find a single precious truth.
Beautiful, and sweet to my soul.


Theivery

I'm sorry Mom, I couldn't help it,
They were such lovely shade of red,
They glistened in the summer sunlight,
Their scent quite litr'ly went to my head.

I thought perhaps I'd taste their sweetness,
Just one to see if they were good,
I thought that it would be a service,
Surely Jam mustn't taste like wood!

That one quite overpowered me.
It's juciness, it's delicate taste,
Were so wonderfully ripe and fresh,
Surely one more wouldn't be a waste?

Well, to make a long story short Mom,
One became a very great many.
Unfortunately, to my surprise,
When I looked again there weren't any.

And so Mother dear I must admit,
I ate your lovely sweet strawberries,
I hope you aren't terribly mad,
Because I also ate your cherries.

Siblings

He thinks he's turning japanese,
At least that's what he says on the radio.
I turn my thoughts from my weary feet
To listen to the confused man on the radio.
I'm home from work, and taking my ease.
And listening to that japan man on the radio.
My shoes are where I kicked them off, un-neat.
And that man on the radio thinks to much.


I just got home from my work. It wasn't terribly difficult today, but it was mind numbing. Connor and Elina are trying to get our baby brother to go to sleep. As Elina's shout of "OW! He threw the bottle at me" evinces, it's not working well. Perhaps they shouldn't be listening to I think I'm turning Japanese. But I won't say anything about it because Gage's chuckles make me happy, and I like this song. Now Gage is pulling papers out of a file, and Connor is rethinking his tactics. Elina has left because of her hair. Gage pulls it, and Connor complains about it getting into his face. I think her hair is lovely though. Connor is explaining to Gage that he cannot play with his nose, because it always ends up with Connor having a bloody nose, and muttering, "that's my ear you grabbed. That hurts. What's wrong with you??? Go to sleep!" I think soon I will have to step in. But not just yet. I'm still tired. Never mind, I think Gage just gave Connor a black eye.

Valentina Kireeva

She is from Russia,
Petite, and full of fire.
She calls me "Good girl"
And says I'm like a daughter.

We are coworkers,
Her english is pretty good,
But I still asked her
"Teach me russian, if you would."

I feel like a child.
She is teaching me so much.
How to do better.
Giving my work that neat touch.

She is nice to me.
On my birthday she gave me
Some russian candy.
It was pear flavored, and sweet.

I work with an older lady from Russia. She is maybe fifty. She is so vital, and alive. When I first met her, she scared me. I thought she was wierd, and old, and Russian. I remember the lecture she gave me. So many times she told me about the hangers. How I mustn't use the childrens hangers, but the adult hangers. "It is simple." she said. I didn't think it was. I thought it was very complicated. I decided though, that I could either be scared of her, and confused, or I could challenge myself to GET THOSE HANGERS RIGHT!!!!! So I did. And I found out that it was simple. And I found out that I liked Valentina. I listened to the things she said, and I learned that what the others saw as picky old wierd russian lady, were ways to make work better. Ways to stop thieves, ways to sell more clothes, ways to do more work in less time, ways to think. My work changed, and as I started trying to better, I enjoyed myself more. It was a challenge, a puzzle. Every day was a chance to do better. Now, we are fairly close, in a sense. We don't tell each other much about our lives outside work. Well, except Valentina has told me on no uncertaint terms that "Snow is cold. Russia is cold. She hates cold. She hates Russia." I dectect a wistfulness in her though. For all Russia was bitter, and cold, and impoverished, it is her homeland. I think she misses being normal. She spoke to me, rather out of the blue actually, about Anna Nicole Smith of all things. Well, to be specific her baby. "There is no question in Russia" she says. "The baby always goes to the woman. The baby should go to her Grandmother." And she is teaching me russian, slowly, a little at a time. Our friendship is still new. It will grow. So often she says, "You are good girl, I am glad you work here." Because I took the challenge.

Seasons are changing.

This peaceful summer night,
Flows o'er my weary soul.
It makes my darkness light,
My broken pieces whole.
So gently sighs the breeze,
It cools the fevered land,
Smooths my troubled unease,
Gently, like heaven's hand.


I like summer evenings. The day's are too hot, but summer evenings outside on my little porch garden I feel very near to heaven. I should like to write a lovely bit about summer evenings, but now my Mom is chomping at the bit to have the computer, so I must go.

MINE

This is my blog now. Mine. No touchie!!!! See, I marked it as MINE. I don't want to see any post by billybob whosit, or that person, or anything like that. It's mine. When I feel like it maybe I'll post some poetry. What, you want some now? You dare question my authority on MY blog? Oh, well, if you're going to beg, I suppose I could deign to post something for you. After all, I DID put poetry in the title.


Reflecting in my rain-decked roses,
Thoughts of what I used to be.
Misty thoughts of people, places,
Wreathing o'er my chamomile tea.
Into the sunset riding Kismet,
I think of things I think will be.
In many ways I am unshelled,
Delicate for all to see
Tender places unencumbered,
Exposed the hidden veils of Me.
Barnacles encrusting though,
Old wounds buried three plus three
Draping over, surely dead,
I ams I thought to ever flee.
I gaze now down the mirrored halls,
My future what I wish to see,
Knowing I can, one and only,
Influence what is to be.