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 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.

 

“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.

 

 

 

Ode to Olive Oyl

“Ode to Olive Oyl”

Thus, there’s an “Olive” destined for Popeye.
A gaggle of wild geese her voice intones.
“She is but what she is ” her Popeye sighs.
She keeps Sweet Pea so he is not alone.
She souffles Popeye’s spinach from a can.
Has many muscles like her dashing man:
the oily,  perfect lubricant.

(use “olive” and “mirror” in 52 word piece)

“Starlit Bride”

 

The Beloved ('The Bride') 1865-6 Dante Gabriel Rossetti 1828-1882 Purchased with assistance from Sir Arthur Du Cros Bt and Sir Otto Beit KCMG through the Art Fund 1916 http://www.tate.org.uk/art/work/N03053
The Beloved (‘The Bride’) 1865-6 Dante Gabriel Rossetti 1828-1882
“Starlit Bride”
Now, as I gaze upon bright stars, remote
and marvel at their majesty,  delight
returns to you again for there I dote
upon another incandescent light.
 
You are my luminescent, brightest orb;
your glow astounds the dark.  A burning sight,
your spark a universe I would explore
before the sun should scatter all our night.
 
Our lamp holds oil enough for this short life
my darling wife, whose love retrieves me from
a dark and lonely song; sad herald’s strife;
 lackluster,  ’til we’re in our final home.
As you sleep, a thousand stars may hover;
your light more splendid than our starlit cover.
 

“Promises”

seagulls-flying-26933029

“Promises”

You’re rolling out to sea
You’re waving me goodbye
Yet I am not set free
this seagull cannot fly.

“Goodbye”, the buoy tolls.
“I’ll miss you more and more.
Release my restless soul.
Adrift, I cannot soar.”

I’ve learned one certain truth:
there isn’t any death.
There’s only your last words
where I am left bereft.

Don’t ask a ‘pardon me’;
I’ll free you in advance.
I’ll let your kisses go
forgetting our last dance.

Love is a kind of death
like giving up and in.
Don’t ask me not to share
as boundless heartache mends.

Goodbye, goodbye, my heart
your sins now have reprieve
as I forgive your part:
your love did not deceive.

So waves my hurt from shore;
Your wintry face is pale
as I will love you more
as soft now sets your sail.

Love is a kind of death
like giving up and in…
But once the moment’s gone
Love’s promises don’t end.

 

 

“Atonement”

“Atonement”
She pushes, coaxes, presses needle through.
With labored love, the handsome fabric glows;
the heart, remorseful, with it thus imbued.
Her stitches mixed with tears, the fabric knows
she makes her mourning coat from their love nest.
Resounding chimes the tolling bell
that beckon all to see his final best:
that coat of many colors where he dwells
as, lovingly, her thimble now may rest.

 Thimble W_T_star_mark_embroidery-AT-9-10(prompt for Chimera is “thimble”. Write your story in  exactly 66 words.)

“The Nebula”

Dusty Poem eagle-neb-lg

“The Nebula”

Bright star whose dusty depth reveals her wrath:
a lonely, wanton sphere, she spreads her arms.
Amorphous, ever-rising in a path
to form a dome in nature’s growing warmth.
Her energy of light with striving yearns.
Her formlessness, a swirling, shapeless ring.
A shifting tumult, red and yellow burns
before she moves to full-blown crystal scene.
Circling the sun, Love strives, forever moved.
She bubbles forth; a hazy, infused fog.
She struggles, summoned, ever must she prove
more than a misty, ill determined bog.
Great nebula, where stars are berthed and born.
We are but specks of dust within your storm.

“The Game”

 “The Game”

Faint amber glow remains to haunt
their fiery past.
Her slumber stirs.  His candle cast
and with its burn, her snuffer there again to taunt
but not to trim his light.
His wick still wild with passion’s flight.
dreams emboldened; reckless delight.

nightmare-300x245Painting by Henry Fuseli (1741-1825)