All articles filed in April 2013

“Jane Richard”

An evil simmers through the milling crowd;
two brothers carry fire packed in urns.
They relish killing with their hate endowed;
they take the innocent and try to burn.

The evil fails to take Jane’s Irish,  proud,
but tries that little heart of dance that yearns.
The hate enkindled by the fire allowed;
our love of Jane  is where we all must turn.

(form: Roundeau  Redouble`)
Jane, the little Irish dancer, age 7,  lost her brother, Martin, age 8  and one of her legs in the marathon-terror-blast.
To help the Richard family with their sudden expenses, a bank account has been established in their name at Meetinghouse Bank, 2250 Dorchester Avenue, Dorchester Center, Massachusetts, 02124. Checks can be made payable to the Richard Family Fund.

No Giggling Allowed”

In case you giggle while in church;
(my friend elbows me way too much)
You dare not look or glance her way
lest sinful howl; disastrous day!

Your mom has half-turned in her seat
her eyes now dare you sound or peep!
You swallow hard such loud guffaw;
and inside feels like buzzing saw!

O, world I cannot hold you thus;
the laughter from my belly thrust.
With hanky to my bleating throat
I exit quickly ‘fore I bust.

“The Unbroken”

Beneath this stone a broken heart:
here, hidden, in this silent place,
Low hangs brave moss this tree imparts
a shining grace

Where once my youthful boaster beamed
and I did kiss him ‘pon his mouth.
He laughed at all our broken dreams
that did go south.

But O, if I could love again
those broken dreams, remembered well:
the dream of him would be my end
for any hell.

Suffered Enough

There’s sadness in the curtain’s final scene;
That cup has quenched your candle in the wind.
There’s catatonic rest in “might have been”
And in your vacant room, a vacuumed din.

You saw it in your lover’s troubled eyes
the evil gripping him a bit quite mad:
your blame now past as withered are his cries;
not forced to say again, “my bad; my bad!

Sometimes we choose to linger in the pain
than let it go and snuff out all our tears;
Sometimes we choose to let the pain remain
than struggle with the unknown and our fears.

When love and sense, together, are not strong
Is better to let go than string along.

Upon Viewing “Diana the Huntress” by Giampietrino at the Metropolitan

Diana, Huntress, breathes now at the Met;
Da Vinci’s pupil thus bestowed to all.
Once seen her placid world, I’ll not forget
her innocence is beauty that enthralls.

This marbled creature stands aloof and pure
perfection for the eye and of her sheaf;
no leaf asunder and no look demure
but swift this maiden captures my belief.

O, take your color, leaving me quite blind!
Diana’s captured my unconscious sea.
Her heart’s the hunter for that thing, sublime:
the indefinable; life’s mystery.

Diana, Huntress, now has pierced my heart;
the artist sends us now beyond the art.

(Titles not required, a Sevenling should be titled Sevenling followed by the first few words in parentheses The tone should be mysterious, offbeat or disturbing, giving a feeling that only part of the story is being told. The poem should have a certain ambience which invites guesswork from the reader.

“Sevenling” (such beauty is)

Such beauty is the white rose in that vase!
There’s kitchen clatter; guttural the drain.
The hiss of steaming pots announce a din.

A hurried note; its writing smeared and stained
White tablecloth is stormed with many spots;
The chicken, fried, is cold and in a bowl.

The sign upon the door says: “Out to Lunch”