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.

“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.

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.

“Between Two Worlds”

“Between Two Worlds”

Though heaven’s place is grace-filled for the soul,
my heart still hovers, halting, near this earth.
Unless you,  only love , were there to hold,
my courage dare not leap beyond this berth.

My life has need for your familiar ground.
I want no more than comfort from your kiss.
You are the warming soul my arms surround.
A quiet bliss; I want no more than this.

If other orbs contain such shining light
seen glowing from the depth of your kind eyes,
then bravely I might take that unknown flight
to worlds where I still hear your gentle sighs.

For now, my cautious heart must harbor here
where you, my love, are heaven to be near.
 

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.

·

“Cradle Song”

A BabyPainting by Berthe Morisot, 1872

“Cradle Song”

A sleeping baby girl; she slumbers here.
Her breathless mother watches as she dreams.
Her tiny mouth moves just to share the air.
In twinkling innocence her young face beams.

Her baby’s here; her sleeping star is near
and mother listens for the slightest sounds
as all the world is silent just to hear
each moment as her beating heart resounds.

Her child is here; her precious daughter sleeps
and all the realm of nature could not best
this miracle awaiting as she peeps;
the gentle murmur of her babe at rest.

Outshines the stars, this being full of grace
as mother rocks her cradle mid the lace.

The Rescue of Dryopteris

Dryopteris

“The Rescue of Dryopteris”

An afterthought, I took
broken pot
and held her. Barely does she sigh.

Partially dead, I shook
what was not
held deeply in her branches dry.

“Still a trace of life’s green”
she whispered,
faintly audible to my ears.

Water-misted her clean;
tear drops heard
as she began to shed her fears.

Dryopteris, she screams
and she sings!
Her leaves are reaching for the sky.

And then my garden beams
bestowing;
returns that love back to her eyes.

Tri-fall Poem- abc,abc- 638/638

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)