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.)

A Dose of Castor Oil”

A Dose of Castor Oil

A dose of castor oil was once the trick

our fathers often said we must imbibe.

Then gagging does embrace the mucous thick

as down it goes so foulness may not thrive.

A stuttering, red evil here is strewn

as AR Fifteens shatter all the love.

We need an antidote from heaven-hewn

yet no such medic issues from above.

Oh, world of endless joy and ruthless pain,

we’re crying out ; please send a cure for us

before dead children drive us all insane;

before this globe and hope is turned to dust.

Yet, comes no answer for our sickened sighs

or family of man. Cold blood defies.munch_edvard_3

Settled in Alabama

 Halloween 1942-1(the author, Jackie, far right, at age depicted in poem)

Settled in Alabama

We plant ourselves in hard, red clay out back.
A dusty game of Jacks we champion
but near mid-morning, turn, as hungry birds
and stand outside our granny’s country store.
We shuffle dirty, bare feet; outstretched hands:
Six howling worshipers at open door
and hanker for an Orange Crush, Moon Pie.

Her checkered oil cloth table later swells:
the smell of steaming, hand-tilled butter-beans.
Her cornfield grows up to the railroad track.
Fried chicken was a staple from her hens
who cluck and peck, roam ’bout without a pen.

I marvel how they simply fed us all.
So many children, grand, with gaping mouth.
No Social nor Security is known;
your option is to work or else you starve.

Late afternoon, we run the mile of road
to meet the city bus brings Granddad home.
And we, his soldiers marching happily
we settle in behind him, spirit free.

 

“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.

“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.”

“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.

 

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)