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

Sahara

The setting sun now breaks my drifting dream

and threads that needle to my passion’s flight

resplendent in its dignity, our scene

compels imagination with delight.

The fading sun now cools to lighter air

and calm, our camels rock the dusty swells.

A steamy haze along horizon’s flare

where desert’s dying colors cannot dwell.

Sahara maze, mysterious and stark.

Intrigued, I hasten to his silken tent.

I hurry to my soul in evenings dark.

We coast in caravans of eons spent.

Slow burn and then the quickened, bold desire

as when Sahara sands alight with fire.

Papi and Me

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Photo by Carol J. Lee

I like my dog because he looks like me.

He’s patient, kind and has no silly whims.

He is the type we both aspire to be.

I dress myself accommodating him.

His love for me not based upon a selfish yearn.

If I forget to fill his water dish,

he comes to me with silent eyes that burn.

He stares, expectant, with disquiet wish.

His needs are often met with urgent bark

His wagging tail a gracious symphony

Much happiness begins at doggy park 

as both of us are suddenly set free.

He likes to walk; I like to talk.  We find

we’re birds-of-feather with communal mind. 

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.)

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

“The Gift”

How may I give you

my unconditional love?

Pent-up, it is difficult.

Placed in this small box

it presses hard and escapes

this tsunami in my soul.

The Sodoka (a pair of Katauka) is a single poem which may address the same subject from different perspectives.  It consists of 2 to 3 line Katauka, the syllabic pattern 5,7,7.
Image I was using was a pair of hands holding a small, wrapped package.
 

“The End of Love”

credit: Dreamstime.com

“The End of Love”

That end to our emotions mixed with doubt.
That chill is in the air and she’s a thief.
Her danse macabre comes with September’s rout
when green things turn and wither with relief.

When colors drunk with abnormality
cry out; their bloody cost then tossed to ground.
Their voices hushed. Dry, crackled brevity.
Plain-parted things, their dust cannot be found.

Forgotten now.  Dead thought without a trace.
And no one may recall our summer bloom.
That part of us inflamed with our embrace
now cold; dispersed to darker, solemn gloom.

Oh, dance, dear heart, before our final year;
before our fateful day brings winter’s sere.

 

 

jacquelinecaseypoetry.com

stamen“The Meeting”

If we should meet another time, my heart

when we depart this world and travel far,

remember how the looks between us start

us to another place among the stars.

Our love a pensive gaze; a sparkling shower

of light where we embrace the need of each.

Like shiv`ring tendrils of some stamen’s flower,

we cherish all such warmth within our reach.

Departed from this place, we may be hurled

into a starless night beyond belief.

Love’s consciousness then absent from that world

where caring has no sense to cause us grief.

Still, in that deeper night, our souls set free

I will be searching yet, for thee…for thee.

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