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The soul within me longs to be a part of you.
It chafes at it's chains
And stretches out
It's bindings.
Foolish child! It will not know
That I have bound it
Only
To perceive it.
As it cries out to me, I punish it -
Reduce it to tears
And small,
Keening
Wimpers
Of longing.
Teri Sweeney
For Maisie
If ever I had taken pains to look
I might have seen the dark behind the smile.
Have read the sadness in your face's book
And stopped, to sit and chat a little while.
I might have seen the shadow o'er the sun
Of bright delight that filled those deep blue eyes.
Upon my coming - stayed instead of gone
And listened to the fond and endless stories
Of triumphs past, of bygone, halcyon days
When every crown was yours! You basked in praise,
But scorned to meet your sister's envious eye
Till all the clapping hands were quiet, still,
And you were left - alone, and old, and ill.
Terri Sweeney
Miss White's Heart
We learned to write fat red pencils,
write ABC's in wobbly manuscript,
read stories of Dick and Jane and Spot,
count by tens, add, and subtract.
Miss white also taught us
to weave heart baskets
guiding our little fingers
again and again
to go around and through
not over and under
turning ordinary paper into treasures.
Now over half a century later
And as my fingers guide paper strips
around and through
I marvel at her patience
and remember her loving heart.
Carol Robbins Hull, 2007
The Opposite of Love
In preparing for tests
we were reminded
that antonyms were oposites,
hot/cold, high/low, love/hate,
Always the questioner, I asked
"How hot? How cold?"
Was hate really the opposite of love?
The teacher replied "Life has its lessons."
The love I thought would last
longer than forever eroded
bit by bit with every hurtful deed.
then came his crushing final words
that left my heart hollow,
yet heavy as a stone.
The place that had been my heart
like a black hold devoured itself
leaving in its place not hate
but nothingness, an emptiness
that seemed not the absence,
but the opposite of love,
"I just don't love you anymore."
Carol Robbins Hull
The Clock Dreams on my Birthday
Above the stove the clock calls
eleven fifty. I add a.m.
although the clock doesn't care
if it's morning or evening,
midnight or noon.
In the back bedroom
Mother sleeps, not caring either
when morning becomes noon,
afternoon, night,
her body under the flowered sheets
the frame of an ancient child
slipped to bone and skin.
But in the kitchen now Eva stands
mixing flour and lard
with her two smart hands.
The blue and yellow kitchen
dreams Eva alive
as she is in the watercolor
painted by my sister.
Next I know Eva
will step out of the painting,
knead the biscuit dough,
roll onto a floured board,
shape precisely with a rounded tin,
my father untangles his long legs,
rises from his dented Chevy,
settles into the mahogany armchair
reserved for him,
her auburn hair pulled
to a woven chignon, Mother
sets the dining room table
with Grandmother's cold sterling,
rings the brass bell for lunch.
The hands of the clock
read August 7th, 1950.
Ann Cope Wallace
Haiku Yearly Cycle
Steel blue Winter dawn
Freezed twigs in crystal grip,
Far off smoke won't rise.
Crocus bold erupts
Robin stops and broods, that Spring
as all things, must pass.
Deep blue sea shimmers,
Wind blown sail heels into foam,
Then takes wing - a Gull!
Look! The Phoenix Pear
Tree flames once more at dusk - Yes!
We live forever.
Samurai Hara Kiri
Cherry blossoms fall.
Sword and death poem polished.
Next life hopes give joy.
Haiku - Humming Bird
Dance, Ruby throat, whirr.
Suck broods sup. But look, stars rise!
Nested, what is joy?
Haiku, Reflecting Pool
Mist elopes with wind.
Stork legs sway. On shore, worn rough
pillars give no ground.
Haiku - Dying Bud - Version Two
Moon bud falls in pond.
Crimson waves set night aglow.
All life cries, "too young!"
Haiku - Rose in Crystal Vase
Luscious red cut rose;
Vases of endless starry lights.
Tearful petals fall.
georgiawill
The Nature of the Dog
Loyalty, the vibrant nature of the casual dog.
Know forth by the destitute and common mortality
of the daily friend. Man's best friend resides in a dog
for it grows by heritage like a small child flamed with
a passion for a purpose, yet chilled witht the persistent
wait to arise. Ageless, the child grows and comes
to age for that purpose and wakes as being first born.
Thus is the nature of the dog.
Phillip Hall
Poetry, the Gay Science
Poetry, mockingly called "the gay science" for it's whimsical
stance of ideas for fancy and toil is likely so called, for the
whimsical way they toss as if some blatant scribble from an
internet blog. When in the past they were used to move nations
with the fever of grand speech and talk. Yet saw so many men
those days that stood against them, discard each as easily
as before by our present mention. Perhaps the men of old
had colder hearts, so perhaps they had the brains of the so
called adolescents, so vain in their strain of thought,
to dissuade any and all that which doesn't meet it.
Phillip Hall
