A Thinking of You Haiku…

Birthday wish ape 13895042_1770211936558456_8846528112395456041_n

Mulling it over,

Mother wishes you many

More-to-come  birthdays…

(for Carol, August 28, 2016)

“Corinna’s Going a-Maying”

Corinna’s Going a-Maying
by Robert Herrick (1648)
(Just wanted to share this…Such a lovely poem.  Seize the day theme!)


Get up, get up for shame! The blooming morn
Upon her wings presents the god unshorn.
See how Aurora throws her fair
Fresh-quilted colours through the air:
Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see
The dew bespangling herb and tree!
Each flower has wept and bow’d toward the east
Above an hour since, yet you not drest;
Nay! not so much as out of bed?
When all the birds have matins said
And sung their thankful hymns, ’tis sin,
Nay, profanation, to keep in,
Whereas a thousand virgins on this day
Spring sooner than the lark, to fetch in May.

Rise and put on your foliage, and be seen
To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green,
And sweet as Flora. Take no care
For jewels for your gown or hair:
Fear not; the leaves will strew
Gems in abundance upon you:
Besides, the childhood of the day has kept,
Against you come, some orient pearls unwept.
Come, and receive them while the light
Hangs on the dew-locks of the night:
And Titan on the eastern hill
Retires himself, or else stands still
Till you come forth! Wash, dress, be brief in praying:
Few beads are best when once we go a-Maying.

Come, my Corinna, come; and coming, mark
How each field turns a street, each street a park,
Made green and trimm’d with trees! see how
Devotion gives each house a bough
Or branch! each porch, each door, ere this,
An ark, a tabernacle is,
Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove,
As if here were those cooler shades of love.
Can such delights be in the street
And open fields, and we not see ’t?
Come, we’ll abroad: and let’s obey
The proclamation made for May,
And sin no more, as we have done, by staying;
But, my Corinna, come, let’s go a-Maying.

There’s not a budding boy or girl this day
But is got up and gone to bring in May.
A deal of youth ere this is come
Back, and with white-thorn laden home.
Some have despatch’d their cakes and cream,
Before that we have left to dream:
And some have wept and woo’d, and plighted troth,
And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth:
Many a green-gown has been given,
Many a kiss, both odd and even:
Many a glance, too, has been sent
From out the eye, love’s firmament:
Many a jest told of the keys betraying
This night, and locks pick’d: yet we’re not a-Maying!

Come, let us go, while we are in our prime,
And take the harmless folly of the time!
We shall grow old apace, and die
Before we know our liberty.
Our life is short, and our days run
As fast away as does the sun.
And, as a vapour or a drop of rain,
Once lost, can ne’er be found again,
So when or you or I are made
A fable, song, or fleeting shade,
All love, all liking, all delight
Lies drown’d with us in endless night.
Then, while time serves, and we are but decaying,
Come, my Corinna, come, let’s go a-Maying.

“All The Beautiful Young Men”

300px-Into_the_Jaws_of_Death_23-0455M_edit
June 6, 1944 Landing craft at Omaha Beach.

“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)

The Surfer


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 glanceWarren Wave
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.

“You Take My Hand”

 

and in that gesture
satisfy my dizzy, naked need,
spellbound as spent leaf
whose golden moment
has no hunger left
but blissful floats
mid magic flutter
back to earth.

Fish Fantasy

Fish Fantasy

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 hornorca
and I am banished; back to shoreline borne.

This Red, Red Rose is Out of Place!

“This Red, Red Rose is Out of place!”

rose on beach

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.

The Sound of Brass

sounding brass

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”

seagulls-flying-26933029“Waiting for the Morn”

Morning lifts
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.

The Clown

RainThe Clown

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.

·