Within the bloom of Springtide's face,
The roses blushed and swayed their hips,
A-dancing with her lovesome grace,
Buds sweet as honey upon the lips.
Be-dewed she was, and fresh as morn,
Her green frock scattered petals bright,
All sweet she was, with youth new born,
And soft the meadows, clear the sight.
The winter storms are sweeping past,
The limbs of trees fall to the earth,
They give a cry as they are lashed,
As wind bends even greatest girth.
Hold fast, deep roots, though water fills
And soaks the ground you seek to grasp,
Hold fast, green boughs, lest rending kill
And make this season's green your last.
Unrequited
Ever
the sea desires to reach,
Presenting waves, in diamonds each;
Forever spurned by the distant land,
Gems left stranded upon the beach.
Unadorned by foam, the forest's hand,
With streams too sweet for salted sands,
Verdant, lush she turns her eyes
And thoughts to higher, windswept plans.
The wind and fresh-iced airy skies,
It draws earth's heart, her longing's rise;
And yet knows not her sad desire,
And turns to stars, whence its love lies.
Presenting waves, in diamonds each;
Forever spurned by the distant land,
Gems left stranded upon the beach.
Unadorned by foam, the forest's hand,
With streams too sweet for salted sands,
Verdant, lush she turns her eyes
And thoughts to higher, windswept plans.
The wind and fresh-iced airy skies,
It draws earth's heart, her longing's rise;
And yet knows not her sad desire,
And turns to stars, whence its love lies.
The Future
The future lies before our feet,
An unmarked beach, untrodden snow,
Clear of any marks we see,
Clear skies above, clear sea below.
What might we find, whom may we greet?
What depths to fall, what song to know;
What heights to climb or tears to weep -
What harvest springs from what we sow?
We soon forget the past, so fleet,
And memories as sand-castles go -
Look forth to find what future's be,
Look back to see what you should know.
The future lies before our feet,
An unmarked beach, untrodden snow,
Clear of any marks we see,
Clear skies above, clear sea below.
What might we find, whom may we greet?
What depths to fall, what song to know;
What heights to climb or tears to weep -
What harvest springs from what we sow?
We soon forget the past, so fleet,
And memories as sand-castles go -
Look forth to find what future's be,
Look back to see what you should know.
Rosemary
sprigs she always kept,
Tied with a bit of ribbon, blue,
Perhaps one day shall my hand enfold
Rosemary for remembrance too.
She said in her youth she sometimes wore
Forget-me-nots in tiny wreaths,
The stars of blue shining in her hair,
Delicate blooms so bright, so brief.
In the fullness of her time, when she was wed,
The tea-rose surrounded her days,
She embroidered them on her dresses' hem,
In remembrance of past youthful ways.
The petals fell, as for all they do,
And the lily-white entered her heart,
Mourning at last as a mateless dove,
When winter had pulled them apart.
Rosemary she took up, and kept by her bed,
With forget-me-not ribbons of blue.
Scented of tea-rose, her hand lily white,
Soft as feathers and gentle with rue.
Tied with a bit of ribbon, blue,
Perhaps one day shall my hand enfold
Rosemary for remembrance too.
She said in her youth she sometimes wore
Forget-me-nots in tiny wreaths,
The stars of blue shining in her hair,
Delicate blooms so bright, so brief.
In the fullness of her time, when she was wed,
The tea-rose surrounded her days,
She embroidered them on her dresses' hem,
In remembrance of past youthful ways.
The petals fell, as for all they do,
And the lily-white entered her heart,
Mourning at last as a mateless dove,
When winter had pulled them apart.
Rosemary she took up, and kept by her bed,
With forget-me-not ribbons of blue.
Scented of tea-rose, her hand lily white,
Soft as feathers and gentle with rue.
Callouses
The
callouses upon my hands;
Behold the love within my heart.
The callouses upon my hands,
The work I've done amid time's sands,
For thee I finish what I start -
Providing for you, see my heart:
The callouses upon my hands.
Behold the love within my heart.
The callouses upon my hands,
The work I've done amid time's sands,
For thee I finish what I start -
Providing for you, see my heart:
The callouses upon my hands.
Knitting Granny
I need to find a new knitting granny
My washrags and towels are so bad.
I've used them up with scrubbing,
With bleaching and with rubbing;
The holes are growing, the edges are frayed.
I need to find a new knitting granny.
My old knitting granny was a cheerful soul
Always at the church bazaar,
All comfortable midst her piles of knitted booties,
Scarves, hats, pot-holders, towels and cloths.
Every year I would pick out one or two,
As she knitted in the sunshine that came through the window.
Her voice reminded me of birds in the springtime,
When they twitter on from amid the leaves,
Cheerfully telling everyone
In her little monologue,
(Whether they inquired or not -)
About how she used up the scraps, waste not want not,
That's why that one there is many colors -
Those are for the children, you know,
You can put candy in them at Christmastime.
I don't know what size those hats are -
I just kind of guess, you'll have to try them on.
Some kids have big heads, you'd be surprised.
Aren't those towels the prettiest colors?
Sometimes I can't choose which edging for them.
She chuckles to herself at some inner joke or memory,
Knits a little more as I slowly choose.
Her hand-lettered paper tags are pinned to the towels;
Silver straight pins, the ones with plastic colored knobs.
She likes to carefully take them off when you buy one,
And saves them to be used again.
Small squares of plain paper with shaky numbered prices,
Neatly tucked into a tattered envelope.
She sets aside her knitting to hand me my change,
And settles back into her nest with a little tug on her sweater.
I looked for her this Autumn, but she was no longer there.
Where was she? They weren't sure, hadn't heard from her at all.
The late year's sun shone weakly on her corner;
A plump stranger sat there, stared mutely from behind
A display of beaded ornaments, stiff doily sachets ,
Cross-stitched bookmarks dangling from a plastic tree.
The scent of cider, and cheerful music is in the air,
But my heart feels a twinge, empty and cold.
I do not stay long.
The holes are growing,
Autumn's edges are frayed.
I need to find a new knitting granny.
Pleasing to None
Pleasing to none,
New day's dark beginning,
Before the sun rises, when black is the sky;
Not yet resurrected, not yet is it living,
Though those in their slumbers
Oft wish it would die.
Pleasing to none,
The small hours of morning,
Before the sweet colors sweep upward the east;
When all the soft dreaming is broken a-borning,
And cold is the shivering
When night is at least.
Another Day, Please
Under a heap of tasks half-done,
Unfinished piles, house chores re-run,
I've lost my new list midst yesterday's,
O, what I wouldn't give for one more day!
Tomorrow, why aren't you Today?
I need your hours to while away,
To put away clean things, to wash all the rest,
To sort and to finish - o, how I'd be blessed!
I vote that we make it a new written rule:
The hours of two days are woven and pooled,
We all get twice over the time that we face,
To order and scurry all over the place.
What harm would it do us? What leisure we'd know,
Less stressful, less hectic, less sleep to forego.
Twenty-four hours? We want forty-eight!
With this declaration now nothing is late!
Kyrielle for the Sweet Life
When coffee black is what I dread,
When all my sugar lumps have fled,
This trembling message do I bleat:
Lord, grant me please a life that's sweet.
Sucrose, fructose, splenda, honey,
I'll take them all for any money,
My gold I'd trade in one heartbeat -
Lord, grant me please a life that's sweet.
Corn syrup candies I've oft inhaled,
Before my weight was over-scaled,
And now I face lean things to eat...
Lord, grant me please a life that's sweet.
Fat free I'll eat without complaint,
I'll serve up carbs with much restraint,
But when my tongue yet craves a treat,
Lord, grant me please a life that's sweet.
Brown rice syrup and xylitol,
Even agave, I want it all -
Midst vegetables I do repeat...
Lord, grant me please a life that's sweet.
Slumber
Deep the nods that call to slumber,
Thick eyes sagging, pulled like lead.
Heavy fingers typing slowly,
How we long to sleep instead!
How the bed gives forth its whispers,
Voiced as sirens of Grecian deeps,
Wrapping me in gauzy tendrils,
Sleep! it's calling, Come to sleep!
Words are blurring and misspelling,
In vain I bat Sandman away,
Night is failing and I'm falling
Past the dark hours into day.
It was a silver sort of day,
So soft the grey clouds overhung,
A day of muted colors, winter
Not quite faded, spring not sprung -
It was a silver sort of day,
A quiet day of daily chores I found,
Of errands run and papers pushed,
Things swept up, shook out, wiped down.
Within a pause scented of tea,
I stopped a moment, pulled a glove,
Plucked a petal of flower's time
To see what friends had written of -
Upon that screen glowing so bright,
So many dear ones brought to me
Their greetings sweet; I heard them not -
Yet in mind their voices came to be.
Greetings of friends, of those we love!
Encouraging words to cheer and stay,
Even when softened by distance and time,
Shine bright on a silver sort of day.
The First Wind
The wind that sweeps across the fen,
Bestirring branch of gorse and yew,
How sweet its scent, so cold and fresh,
To bring to mind the greener hues.
My eyes delight with winter's mute;
Deep brown the earth and red the clay,
Bright grey so oft the skies above,
And white-gold shines the dry-grass waves.
Winter holds a beauty, true,
When quiet lies the lands we know,
And clear the stars, and white the frost
That dazzles and bedecks them so.
Behind my hand that holds the door,
The stove burns warm, the kettle steams -
But still I stand and clutch my coat,
To fill my breath with the greener things:
That first rich wind, still blowing chill,
By this we know the Winter's end -
For though the world lays drabbed and dun,
Life's palette stirs with green again.
Gently, the hands that formed the world,
Took earth and round it spirit curled,
Imbued with life the breath of man,
Time's long banner first unfurled.
Just as a shepherd is soft when a lamb
Caught in a bramble struggles to stand,
His hands gently lift and then set free,
Not forcing them to him, although they can.
Gentle those hands, and strong they be,
That lifted the mountains and formed the sea,
That soothe all the hurts of each small one;
Gentle they were when they came to me.
Long is the way 'til this road is done,
So grateful we are for this warming sun,
The light that shines keeping darkness at bay;
That a gentle touch to us all may come.
| A drop of honey for the tea, Tip the honey-bear and pour me out; Golden jewel drawn from the bee, Swirl it slow, sweet brooklet to babble, Over the tea-leaves and into the mug: Steaming light fragrance, wisp away doubt, Given a singular sunbeam to ravel, Ethereal history, blossoms and leaves. |
 |
