“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”…)

 

 

“She’s Gone”

credit: Dreamstime.com

When he’s here,
I’ll not be there.
Everyone knows I’m a coward
who’ll refuse his foot-in-the-door.
I’ll pull the shades
turn off the light
throw the chain-bolt.
I will be sneaky
as he is punctual.

“Ballade for a Street Musician”

Joshua Bell

“Ballade for a Street Musician”

So heavenly, from other worlds, notes stray

in station of the Metro, Washington.

Great music moves along a vast arcade

as people hurry on hear Mendelssohn.

But Bach is hushed as morning rush has won

though Joshua plays with all his heart and soul.

A street musician’s image most may shun

as someone drops a dollar in his bowl.

An anxious crowd walk by.  They cannot stay

to hear this troubadour play on and on.

That fear of being late his tunes allay

for one who leans against the wall with phone

and listens to the sweet, sustaining tone.

Then Bell must bend his bow to charm; cajole.

One listens as arpeggios now moan

as someone drops a dollar in his bowl.

There’s wonders to be heard at break of day.

Notes float among their faces, blank and wan.

How busy are the echoed strings that sway;

how fast the people, moving hither-yon.

So, Joshua Bell, musician; an icon

with bending bow, his violin extols

and sweeps the air; his music’s lexicon

as someone drops a dollar in his bowl.

Envoi:

A Stradivari is, to some, a beacon

yet only seven stop to hear the whole

of Paganini’s music for a reason

as someone drops a dollar in his bowl.

Quiche For Sale

20171015_104802Quiche For Sale

She smolders in her warmth and subtle juice.

She’s filled with loves’ own complex condiment:

here made with careful heart at home to choose

the mystic of each cheese from heaven sent.

Here solemn sits she, wrapped in spinach green

whose rising odor soothes of smothered egg

chopped onions roasted with a glorious sheen

whipped peppers tingled-red now beg

among her mixed embellishments and sigh

the chef’s intentions with her fancy flair.

Yet, weep all those who would, with eager eye

share gold concoctions with abandoned air.

La Quiche, we sigh for sisters, tearful, all;

for unrequited love our duties call.

(One never knows what I might use for a poem.  The story:  my daughter rises early this Sunday am to make breakfast for her brother.  The plan was to visit his new digs with breakfast made with loving hands at home.  As she takes the gorgeous thing out of the oven, he calls  an hour before our arrival to say he will not be home for our planned visit 3 days ago!   This beauty is still warm as I write, smiling.)

The Birth of a Hurricane

Boats 07STORM_wideweb__430x229

 

“The Birth of a Hurricane”

It’s steamy in the southern Keys tonight.
Her air is thick. She tastes of salty fog.
A quiet’s fallen with no birds in sight.
Her ocean swells; she’s pregnant with resolve.

Her palms now twist and spin and wave their skirt
and fall too quick from fluttered warmth beneath.
She waits; that stronger flash begins to flirt
as light’ning promises some stiffer teeth.

Expectant, gray light pushes down this beach:
a rising, higher tide begins to form
of something coming just before the breach.
Still hesitant, she wavers in the storm.

She’s here! She’s pushed a new-born screaming style;
she’s grown a full-blown wind to squall awhile !

“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.”

“Men in Orange Jumpsuits”

 

She wanted the attention and the wealth.
Bold disrespect she shows Memorial Day
for Christians dressed in orange to their death;
be-headings all the rage is Griffin’s way.

I weep for Man whose lost all sense of shame
I shudder for her stupid, bloody hands
I feel the filth just mentioning her name
A comedy of sorts lost to her fans.

Catastrophe to those who clap and grin.
There will be sorrow for the rest of us.
A lost humanity attuned to sin,
we’ll view our part , if any, with disgust.

The heart has withered once the head is lost
and so Man’s spirit where there is no trust.

“Two Sisters”

two sisters 001Lithograph: Miguel Martinez

But we are strangers, always. Two sisters, so close in age. Time separates like two wet leaves cling, dry, then snap away with the wind. What causes human partings? Does there need to be a cause?  Like sleepwalkers holding hands, we slowly wander off to opposite lives. No need to look back or try to fathom what happened. Nothing at all. Once, a call to share with me her medical. I listen with empathy; apparently unable to offer the sympathy she needs. Once I post a letter_ loaded with spousal problems. She responds with feelings of disgust for a sister that is nothing but a “poor me” cry baby. Neither of us able to give what the other needs or wants. Time forms a lost, hurtful relationship.  Strangers, we answer with numbness until the scab finally leaches off and leaves a clean, clear perfect skin beneath. But somewhere in that perfection, just beneath the skin;  a bloody, mysterious half-forgotten longing.

“How To Write A Sonnet”

How To Write A Sonnet

The miracle of birth when words do sing.
The hungry mouth so round from out its shell.
Stout voices from the nest may try their wings.
Newborns and rocking horses may rebel.

I am not made of steel”, the riddle plays:
“A magic song is soft and full of sighs”.
My bonnet, as it tilts and then sashays,
I’ll grab the golden ring before it flies.

And as his nostrils flare; we gallop round.
Calliope’d,  his pipes now spin and turn.
My pen becomes a dagger ‘fore he bounds;
escapes my inner critic ‘fore he burns.

For love of form, some well might offer scorn
but from my heart a sonnet, sure, is borne.

 

 

 

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.