Category Archives: Rhyme

The Caretaker

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I’ve planted my gardens, the seedlings are nestled in soil.
Their placement in sunshine and shade impacting the toil
of the growth and the fruit that they bear.
All I can now do is tend to the water and care
of the ground and the branches where the issue resides
and pray that fair weather and gain will intensify.
That one day these young for which I’ve aided and viewed
will grow with abandon, and with their sustenance accrued
plant their own gardens and remember the day
of planting and harvesting love in their own unique way.

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Not sure of what to call this yet. And I think it is a sonnet in the making. Right now, though, it expresses a profound sentiment in this poet’s life.

ingrained

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My poems seem like a recipe
for whole grain bread.
The water and oil,
though critical,
don’t mingle – dissimilar things
have no bound surfaces- but you add salt and sugar anyway-
Having faith in the mix.
Pouring in flour and seeds
can appear chaotic, yet it is
purposeful to the blend. Some flour
is white and smooth,
some of it is wheat and coarse
– textured-
with grittiness of flax seeds,
and oats, and rye.
A small divot in the pile
is home to bread yeast, a catalyst, an ache,
that fuels the rising dough over time.

If using a machine, then you’re done.

The poem can bake and rise, and still be tasty –
but it misses an opportunity.

A need.

Something you add.

Handle the dough
Grasp
Folding the blend
Feeling the texture
between your fingers.
Press into the bowl
massage and cajole-
form and remake
this merger, new
with each tumble
and clutch.

This wielding power comes from you
to make the poem combined and mingled
and mean something that will not dwindle
with time.

And the bread will be just fine.

*************
Trying to jump back in the saddle of writing again. I’m not so sure that this is best, final version of this. I enjoy breadmaking for the robustness of the bread and the physical handling that makes it such an individual creation, much like poetry.

After reading the completed poem, I like the additional symbolism that this offers as well.

second hand

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I heard the words
and their correctedness,
in picturesque suffectedness.

She spoke them with such emplity
and vocal resnoguity.

I could not dare not write them down
and use them later for colored sounds

To poke at the sentence
bruskly and paciously,
or converse on the gartan
defendled loquaciously.

And if the strunogrammatic skills that I now display
cause you to mattle or otherwise say,

What silliness falls from there on page?
My stars! This is nonsense.

It’s nothing so sage.

It’s second hand outwisms
pure and just plain.
So read and enjoy it,
my emplitious refrain.

A Brilliant Light

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image

A darkness dwells, just out of sight,
among these brilliant, twinkling lights

and through the house all decked with green
a shadow stalks the verdant scene-

A dimness to the Advent host
pursuing room-to-room to boast

a victory not fought or won,
yet hides in fear, a braggart shunned.

And words of cheer and light revealed
keep gloominess at bay, concealed.

Joyeux Noel thus shared among
us brings to darkness- light- along.

So sing we all in towns and homes
a Christmas song in merry tones,

persuading those from shadows dim
to brilliant light and life with Him.

*********************
Writing a Christmas poem is difficult because the themes are so familiar. The difference between light and dark has been on my mind lately, and it seemed a fitting Christmas thought. My hope is to continue writing in 2015, and that you will continue to read.

I attached a clip below sharing Steven Curtis Chapman’s arrangement of O Come O Come Emmanuel, a text which resonates with this poem, but a different melody than typically associated with the song.

Best wishes this holiday season, Merry Christmas and a happy, prosperous new year.

Density crawled

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draping
the boughs of
a wintered tree

accrued
and angel-cared,
one two three,

yet subtraction
agreed,
with a
disappearance
forseen –

the implosion grown
abridged,
dripping

and small.

*********************
one of those little verse items that creep into your brain and don’t let go until you formulate a poem.

An essence of poems

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In an extrusion

a mist of poems
read to the pink dusk
of September

-a pearlescent haze suspended-

before some fell like blooms
from a Rose of Sharon

– left to wane and decay with the days to bronze-

And some,

blossomed in full,
agape and yawning with nectar’s tumescence,

 curled tightly in a twist,
a final coalescence suspended
there and left in her mind,

deliquescent.

Rose of Sharon

Singing the moon

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In a twildly dusk, I see
a flaxum and her mimbles, we
open talk and loydal sing
with sunbeam-laden mulbering.

The verse rafeals a higher cause,
and willently, we sing then pause,
our fragenotions echo there
as we chorus contricare.

As just as then, we breathed and stopped,
fixembled, stable, clembed and swapped
A song sincerely wooed, then freed
and flaxum/poet now agreed.

Then in mirist silence found,
tracing back with embered sound
songs at dusk- the most revered
The ferrel-maried moon appeared

and strummed the night to denser aires
with open chords and fortunes fair.