Mulling it over,
Mother wishes you many
(for Carol, August 28, 2016)
|Corinna’s Going a-Maying|
|by Robert Herrick (1648)|
|(Just wanted to share this…Such a lovely poem. Seize the day theme!)
Rise and put on your foliage, and be seen
Come, my Corinna, come; and coming, mark
There’s not a budding boy or girl this day
Come, let us go, while we are in our prime,
“All the Beautiful, Young Men”
I see the beauty in their brave-lit eyes.
At Omaha, it is their shining hour.
The camera’s caught the gray of early dawn.
Men stand; committed to a greater power.
The ramp now opens; there’s the glint of morn.
No turning back ; this is no time for pause.
Momentum made and like the muscle torn
from out its place , it is for raging cause.
“Oh, captain! I have done my duty now.
I’ve given you my soul and this bold heart.
I’ve nothing more to offer or endow.
As water takes my body, I depart.”
War, then, would strip bravado from their smile;
our young men gone in such a little while.
(copyright, Jacqueline Casey 2013)
Oh, Jon: he owns that blue green tunnel’s sway
before bold nature casts him from the sea.
He’s god and for a moment has his way.
What man resists such magic brevity?
The moment flows and swift the water flies.
Around such power one might turn away
but surfers are committed as they ride
momentum’s wave. There is no turning back
from beauty of the sea’s bold shining glance
a heavy hand that turns the mighty wave.
There’s climax and a mystery’s romance
for man who will forever be its slave.
Acceptance gives the surf its final spin
as glorious as when that dance begins.
Upon this beach, the people saunter by.
Idyllic children play at water’s edge.
The warm wind blows its foam into my eyes.
My heavy heart sinks silent from this ledge.
But, lo! my body; buoyed by the salt,
forgets. My mind now slips its bony cage.
Free floating, spiny blob. I’m fish, default
as once defined me in some ancient age.
I’m orca, splashing through his innocence.
Suspended, I am Pisces lost to shore.
Steered by my fins, I search with rounded lens.
I’m free…no more aerobic carnivore!
But suddenly… old Triton blows his horn
and I am banished; back to shoreline borne.
“This Red, Red Rose is Out of place!”
One does not leave a rose mid sandy beach:
Perchance, a seagull dropped it here somehow?
As much as I might like, I cannot stretch
nor will I bend… or to your logic bow.
Oh, No! This dying rose is out-of-place!
It needs some dainty green and shady lawn.
The sun has wrinkled up its little face.
And left it frying here. But still, I yawn.
My modern ways want none of your trite sighs;
You’d best learn words to move my unctious heart.
You’ve better chance to make my sadness fly
than wilted rose of red regret to part.
So, hear me well as I shake off your sand:
best leave dramatic note or better plan.
Oppose her Jihad yell
oppressive is death’s knell
on San Bernadino drear!
Omniscient General’s hear
Obama’s timid voice.
Oh, mourn our leader’s choice.
Observe Malik’s embrace:
One mother’s soulless phrase.
Oppose her hate-shrill song
Ominous, not vetted.
(Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not love, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal. 1st Corinthians, 13)
“Waiting for the Morn”
my dark curtain of night;
sea-gulled and wing’ed;
warm satin bright.
She’ll scatter the dust
of a billion stars
grace sweeping the universe
here to Mars.
Copyright, Jacqueline Casey, 2012. All Rights Reserved.
And so the old town clock is winding down.
It’s time to leave the party; say goodbye.
Some souls would rather stay and play the clown.
His fantasies go deep and so he sighs.
He thinks he’s Bogie; somewhere there’s still life.
He’s lonely; haunts the bars for his Bacall.
She’s blonde and does not look much like his wife.
“Hey, better you should go before you fall!”
The bar-keep opens creaking door to vent
the hours of smoke and conversation stale.
A pale and misty rain the mornings sent
so, for this clown, a cabby he must hale.
The blazing light still shocks. He’s out the door…
He knows its time to go before it’s four.