Lullaby For Trees

“Lullaby for Trees”

The glow of silver trees against blue sky;
against that deepest royal blue’s delight.
White blankets meant to beautify each limb
with loving care, how nature covers them.

The trees so loved by nature’s wintry blast
it seems some artist covers to contrast.
Her deepest hue encircles icy trim
with loving care, how nature covers them!

To some, its nature’s deadly, frozen cost;
to others, it’s a message from some host.
Such honor sent to each as holy hymn
with loving care, how nature covers them.

The trees bejeweled now with breathless hue;
their branches blaze against an endless blue.
With adoration for their mother’s hymn.
With loving care, how nature covers them.

 

Kyrielle form: aa; bB; cc; bB; dd; bB; ee; bB (last line in each stanza is repeated) Meter: Iambic Pentameter

On Seeing Voyager’s Photos for the First Time

The royal blue of Neptune made me cry

Colossal beauty seen by Voyager

But then Sagan insists we view our world:

(a tiny bit of dust inside a beam).

My needy consciousness now longs for home

reminds me how the human brain reacts

when, in reality, there are no facts

dependent so upon our point of view.

From Neptune’s view we’re but a tiny speck!

We’re nothing but a tiny, lonesome spark

in retrospect no Voyager might mark.

The odds are too profound that we’d be found

so far from home, compared with all the rest.

How glorious is Neptune’s marble breast!voyager_neptune (1)

Veteran Poets

 

Bright, sunlit banners wave as soldiers march.

As Francis Ledwidge, Irishman, parades,

The sight and sound of laughter fill the air:

“To war!” The drumbeat stirs all hearts to share.

 

Bold men are damned yet ready for the dare.

Brave men, for glory, stepping forth as one

as Wilfred Owen’s ‘Artist Rifles’ share;

as Robert Graves, ‘Goodbye To All’, declares.

 

Their family and parents cheer as well.

The goodbye girls wave hankies in the air

as hurried hugs abound, excitement swells

before reality meets deep despair.

 

Oh, ra-ta-tat, the gleeful drums abound

before the sound of bullets split the air.

Sigfried Sassoon of Royal Fusiliers

gives up Owen prior to the Armistice.

 

And, Rosenberg still writes among the dead

before he’s buried with them in a trench.

As Isaac speaks for all, his soul will rest;

his poems on scraps of paper mid the stench.

 

Gray throngs of people slow to ghostly swirl

and float above the fog in fate’s mirage.

The young and hopeful heart, his body hurled

lies stripped of gaiety mid this cortege.

 

The veteran, with courage, harp and fife

survives the battle has the hardest write

for he remembers faces filled with worms

and frozen eyes who’ve lost their warmer light.

 

The poet’s name now writ upon a stone.

The ink, now dry, describes his final line.

Reverse his boots upon a saddled horse;

Slow roll of drums, now distant, heard no more.

The Choice

The best of dancers ruined by a host

of other loves that to the heart may call.

Some choices must be made or not at all.

The dance too brief ; the song may end for most

and fly away from splendor of romance.

Crescendo reached and still the dance she owns.

Life is too short to settle, oh, for less.

Eshoo the heart; don’t make the dreadful choice!

Her soul now hovers.  Grief is like a plow

that pushes every goal to here and now.

 

(Was watching the Movie, “The Red Shoes” when I wrote this.  The agony of being forced to make a choice between two over-whelming loves can drive one mad.)

The Mending

overgrown house

My world abandoned, Nature makes amends.

A wild confusion grows at my front door.

The mutterings of children heard no more.

Beneath her gnarled roots a sallow floor.

 

Vines grab the windows once held curtain’s sway.

With ghostly tread, cold silence roves her halls.

No more the scent of Jasmine blossom calls.

What mystery escapes these stucco walls?

 

What place is this once held such loveliness?

Mad roots now rave and overrun my past.

They strangle wistful longings of the heart

and love’s become a stranger for my part.

 

I hear the moan; that suffocating tease.

My past grows pale; the withered vine my frieze.

Ezra Pound Manifesto

The passion’s free without pentameter.

The word, more than the sum of all its parts.

Oppose the cosmic poet’s well-worn phrase.

Descriptive hue; green, sunlit energy.

Free, open verse: eternity’s white space.

The spirit: forlorn faces in a crowd.

Imagine death: ghost-blossoms on a bough.

MVC-005Sphoto by Jacqueline Casey

Fake News

AmericaFlag“Fake News”

The educated voter hears both sides.
Unfortunate, our citizen can’t split
his time or work to find where Truth resides;
where Nervous Nancy’s lying Left might sit.

The Left has left our borders open wide
yet still need magic pill to beat our Trump.
Let Tyranny’s Majority decide
and give beloved nation final slump?

Our Citizens, as listeners, less intent
to hear the newsy pieces of their ‘act’.
Our babies must come first and then the rent
and so we miss a part of all their ‘fact’.

Ah, longing for the good old days of news
when all we had was simple radio.
Let Orson Welles warn, cause a panic, too
who shows us evil winds about to blow!

The proof, they say, found in the final taste.
Lies found in politics, a dangerous place!

When Love is Gone

A world abandoned,  nature now attends.

She grows her roving vines; surrounds the door.

The sound of children’s play is heard no more.

Around the gnarled roots that grow and stray

she grabs at windows once held curtain’s sway.

No human voices echo through her halls

No more the roaming Jasmine odor calls.

What mystery escapes her stucco walls?

What place is this once held such loveliness?

Mad roots now rave and overrun her past.

They strangle unknown cause so long forgot.

When love is gone, then covered is the heart.

overgrown house

The View From My Back Door

Snow
Photo by Jacqueline Casey

The glow of silver trees against blue sky
against a deeper royal blue ally
as snow now blankets each and every limb
with loving care, their mother covers them.

The trees so loved by nature’s wintry blast
it seems some artist covers to contrast.
Her richest blue encircles icy trim
with loving care, their mother covers them!

To some, a dark and deadly, frozen fear;
to others, it’s a message that they hear:
Such honor sent to each not as some whim.
With loving care, their mother covers them.

The trees bejeweled still with breathless hue;
their branches blaze against an endless blue.
They bow in adoration for her hymn;
with loving care, their mother covers them.

Form: Kyrielle: AA;BB;CC;bB;DD;bB;EE;bB
(from my kitchen door in Murphy, NC)

The Morning After on Buckingham Road

Rain

“The Morning After on Buckingham Road”

Push open all the doors to house at five.
Breathe deep_ the morning air; keep lungs alive.

A birthday celebration takes its claim;
confetti on the sofa_ in the drain.

We held the starry night so drunk with love
but now, with morning glint, squint eyes above.

The dying ash in fireplace,  she complains:
“The day is new but we are not the same.”

I listen to some early, startled birds
that shout outside my window with their words.

As clouds roll in, we weary souls to blame
as when, the night before, tried to remain

stalemate with smoke and Chanel No. 5
which lingers on with scent of coming rain.

Kyrielle rhyme pattern: aa,bb,cc, bb,dd,bb,ab