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.)

“There May Be Dragons”

Photo by Jacqueline Casey

There may be dragons in that soul-less flight

where harpies;  hovering aloft her bed,

born of a spell that chills the wicked night

and winters in her heart some unknown dread.

There may be dragons in the hate-filled gloom:

a whistling as the icy wind now drones.

As thundering is heard; impending doom

may crack the branches of the empire’s thrones.

Oh, seek to know the reason they are here.

The slow roll and the glaring eyes proclaim

love’s mated with a devil’s crushing leer.

There’s mystery; their birth is foreordained.

There may be dragons in the frozen night

as all those kingdoms hold their breath in fright.

 

(this poem influenced by “Game of Thrones”…)

 

 

“Mother Eclipse”

Solar Eclipse August 21, 2017.

Mother Eclipse

The morning doves now pause their cooing, grand!
The infant’s little lids close heavily.
All nature yawns at fading of their land
while green has turned to black too instantly!

How must our father’s fore us felt when torn:
their brightest sun is sprinkled on black leaves.
Like little half-moons dance about the morn
convince him of a dark eternity.

Forever gone, man’s mother-light has left:
she hides in darkness, cold, their world up-ends!
And falling to their knees, their heart’s bereft
as blackness shakes their bones and leaves no friend.

“Oh, light of all our life, please with us stay
as from your breast our universal sway.”

The Hankering

field-of-dreams

“The Hankering”

Then suddenly September rain comes down.
The green peas whisper to the thirsty corn:
“New seasons yearn before your silk turns brown.
Some nameless hand will bend you one dark morn!”

From Miller’s Pub, our hero drains his beer.
His dream: to leave this red-clay country life.
But not before the dinner bell will steer
a thirst and hunger back to waiting wife.

“Oh, Maudie, do ya hear the crushing claim
of wind that rushes through our restless stalks?”
Old Maud is deaf; can only feel the train
that shakes and rattles dishes as he talks.

The railroad curves avoiding corn and peas.
The train sweeps, weeping past old Walt’s disease.

 

Sonnet For Siyah

Siyah 13012839_1259927520702259_4055680267965955538_nSonnet For Siyah

The song that springs from your sweet innocence;
The petal of your lips an open grin.
A flower is my Siyah; no pretense;
Her baby eyes remind us love must win.

Oh, stay, my little bud! It is your day!
Remind us that our moments with you now
will never come again in this same way;
far richer than King Solomon’s gold bough.

The mystery and magic of your smile
like precious water could a thirst allay.
The richness of our earth is in your guile.
I will remember all your balmy ways.

Whenever I am feeling down and low
I will remember Siyah’s golden glow.

“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.

“Some Steps”

stepsPhoto: Ginny Hale Meredith

“Some Steps”

Some steps I’ve taken, there was sharp ascent

into the unknown where the foolish tread.

That journey, once committed, brought lament.

Cold sorrow with some tears that pathway led.

Some steps have pushed me inward, glorious,

to better heights than I had known before.

Yet, even so, my soul, tempestuous,

has not avoided pitfalls I abhor.

I take it slow, now, ‘fore the final bend

I know some steps might make a dismal tale.

I know the  walk creates a happy end.

With careful steps, I’m likely not to fail.

I’ve not looked back where I have been, askance

but, rather wonder at its dark romance.

 

 

 

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.

“Sestina for Minnie E. Amerine”

Minnie E. Amerine“Sestina for Minnie E. Amerine”

Desirous to be loved, we seek our own

and when we find it, that is where we leap.

An attic jewel shining mid the dust

and so the mind stirs anxiously to seek

but in its reaching finds a darker door

and in that search may see a deadly scene.

Here’s Minnie Amerine, lost to her scene.

She shares a placid beauty all her own.

But cold, her muted lips a dungeon door

upon her porcelain face no motives leap.

What was her heart’s desire; what did she seek

for one so young now gone to stifling dust?

Will each of us discover, through that dust

an answer to the riddle of life’s scene?

Her eyes would speak of love we all do seek:

acceptance for a corner of our own

before we hear the bell; before we leap

before our life becomes that clos`ed door.

Now gaze upon that face; a cloistered door.

No frown but one brief moment’s smile to dust.

On death, a frozen smile forever leaps

upon the photo of this lovely scene:

Did you once guard a love you called your own

before death’s jealousy sent arms to seek?

While looking in her face, her beauty seeks

to open up another worldly door.

‘Fore time is frozen, I will call my own

before the dust will smother me to dust.

Before I turn from Minnie, leave her scene:

her tragic, early death does make me leap.

And through her mirrored eyes, I scream and leap.

And in her frozen smile, my love still seeks

to know what she was like behind that scene.

Her spirit filled with breath behind closed doors?

Or is our Minnie gone to cosmic dust;

her beauty but a bit of atom’s own?

Now leap upon the face of beauty! Seek!

Hold to that scene where love’s beyond the door.

Remember Minnie’s dust is but our own.

(I have been busy lately tracing my ancestry.  Minnie was born 1892 and died, tragically at age 17 in 1910 after birth of my husband’s father in 1909.)  Was looking for inspiration for a Sestina.  Some say the form is more fun for the writer than the reader. I don’t know about that.  A sestina is a lot of hard work.  I would welcome any help, criticism or comment.  Thanks.