Thursday, December 30, 2010

Beyond All This

Jeanne Iris is driving the Poetry Bus, and as I've missed the last two runs, I'm early at the stop this week.

This poem was inspired by the first line of a Philip Larkin poem. As a matter of fact, I've purloined that entire line to begin this poem. You might notice that Hamlet sneaked in there, too.  Apologies to both gentlemen.

As for the Bus, I've chosen Option II, reaching a higher level of consciousness. You can read the other options and find links to some very talented writers here. The Bus officially runs on Monday.


Beyond all this, the wish to be alone:
To cast aside this bag of cells and bone,
To fly beyond this corporeal home;

To be alone, beyond all this to flee,
Unveiled, unmasked, exposed, in spirit free
To move among the stars and simply be.

It is a wish devoutly to be won:
Beyond all this, to flee, to sail, to run
With stars and moon and wind and sea and sun.

Monday, December 27, 2010

Winter Sonnet


Pushing through a snow as deep as weeds
Or sand that blows and swirls and falls in mounds,
I follow cloudy breath across the field
Then turn my gaze back to the lighted house
Where cheerful shine the windows on a night
So clear that crystals hang upon the air
And catching in my lashes make me tear,
Or is it from the welcome waiting there?
Beneath the clear black sky so far above,
Amid the weight of winter's icy hand,
My nighttime winter walk, this lonely stroll,
Reminds me of my need for fellow man,
Till then I turn from solitary roam
And seek the blazing heartfires of my home.

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

Mary's Part


a young girl,
a  child,
free of care,
for a future
filled with love
and happiness.
if you can,
a spirit,
a swoon,
a quickening,
a god
come to earth.
Imagine then
a life
of love
and pride
and grief
all of history
forever altered
all because
a humble girl,
when chosen,
said yes
to God.

Saturday, December 18, 2010


I've been off the bus for a few weeks now, hijacked by life and writer's block, so I'm exercising my muscles, poetry and otherwise, to get back in the game.

The wonderful Weaver of Grass is driving from Yorkshire this week, and she wants to hear about stars.  You can read other takes on the prompt and meet a great bunch of writers here.

Remember, I'm just practicing... (and I know that Venus and Mars are planets. Poetic license, remember?)


Orion in his fashion
shows the bears his stuff;

the Pleiades go strutting;
Cassiopeia's in a huff.

Venus shines more brightly
than Mars, who's red with ire;

the Milky Way is peopled
by heroes' shining fire.

Pollux holds to Castor
as the centaur gallops by,

and I, a child of wonder,
reread the ancient sky.

Sunday, December 12, 2010



It's a season of waiting, as we do tonight
when the forecasters herald a coming storm.
All day long, a  warning crawls across the screen,
"Prepare, prepare!"

This morning, we started putting things in order.

We've grocered and moved the cars
to the top of the hill.
We even replaced the old shovel
with a more ergonomic model.
Soup is bubbling on the stove,
and candles are on the counter,
ready in case the trees bow down
and break the lines that light the dark.

Of course, the power of this night, really,
is in the promise of things to come;
A perfect storm started far away
and is blanketing the world already.

Meanwhile we've wrapped ourselves
in purple robes while we wait
for the coming force in the snug little house
that we've tried to put in order.

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

No Words


Blank Page,
     white and bare
          as winter.

Scant Words,
     black birds
          on crusted snow.

Poor Hearts
     beat wings
          in bony cages.

No Song
   to measure
          what the heart can hold.

I owe much of this poem to Zelda Fitzgerald, who said, "No one, not even a poet, can measure how much the heart can hold."  Pairing her quotation with the pictured quote from a Victorian poet might seem strange, but it makes perfect sense to me in light of the poem's subject. Thank you both, fair ladies.

Friday, December 3, 2010

Sing With Me

Sing with me, sweet bird of summer,
warm winds for the icy grass;

call with me, canicule dreamer,
noses from their earthen homes;

sing with me, hope in feathers,
slitherers to the sun scorched rocks;

call with me, canorous spirit,
blooms aloft from seeds and pods;

sing with me the scent of summer,
sing with me the dreams of sun,

call with me,  persistent warbler;
sing our song till winter's  done.