Youthful follies

And the rain, rain, rain came down, down, down in rushing, rising rivulets.
It's been raining for the past four days. (No, I do not live in Mass, nor are we threatened with flooding.) Which naturally makes me think of this song, and therefore of Winnie the Pooh and the flood, and therefore of the umbrella.
when I was about 6 I had an umbrella. This umbrella was everything that could be desired: bright red with a duck on the handle. And I loved it. But I also loved Winnie the Pooh, and was fascinated by the part of the book when Christopher Robin and friends traveled happily down the stream on his umbrella. So one day, when it was raining very hard, and our side yard (the low spot of the neighborhood) was pretty puddly, I decided to emulate C.R. So I piled all my stuffed animals on the umbrella. Fortunately at that point I realized that I would not fit on the umbrella. But still, the weight of the animals was enough to cause the umbrella to break. A sad fate.
Actually, this makes me think of further follies of my youth. So, while I'm thinking about it, let's talk about the lamb.
I had a wonderful stuffed lamb. It had black feet and a black head, and a woolly white body. Well, I had read a story about either shearing sheep, or a boy who sheared his stuffed or pet sheep, I don't remember which. In any event, the point is that I was inspired to shear MY sheep. The first time I tried, it didn't seem that serious and I could have sworn that its wool grew back. So I sheared it again. And again, I could have sworn that its wool grew back. So I sheared it again. And this time after I was done, I looked at it and said, "OH NO!! It's bare!" And alas, the wool did not grow back. But I still kept the lamb for years and loved it.

The Doe and The Other Side

Two more poems--sorry, I've been writing quite a few for English class.

The Doe

This solitary and single doe
By the highway; startled turns her head.
I wonder,
Is she afraid of the immutable metal monsters
So heedless of her life and ours?
Or is she immured to them by
Long contact and aware of the dangers of the strip of black road?

And I wonder,
How many going by will
See her, feeding by the interstate
And how many more will rush on
Only seeing their lives, their cars;
And so miss this moment, this tangent
Of our world and hers

The Other Side

There is always
Another side to see.
The sun is hot and burning but
It ripens the pears in June.
The sand is hard and gritty but
It forms pearls in oysters.

Bubblegum is chewy and fun but
It sticks on everything, especially when stepped on.
A candle gives light but
It burns.
There is always
Another side to see.

More Poems

Violets

Violets
purple in a small vase—
King’s color,
yet mocked and scourged
and hung like a thief on a cross.


Villanelle

My life goes on and on towards its end,
Though what this is I cannot see,
And I cannot see the road ahead for its bend.

In time old wounds will mend
The venom from them will flee.
My life goes on and on towards its end.

Forgive me, I have done much to offend;
I can only beg you to listen to my plea
And I cannot see the road ahead for its bend.

If only my past I could amend
And learn, and learn to be free—
My life goes on and on towards its end.

Regret like a knife does rend,
Never again can you be carefree.
And I cannot see the road ahead for its bend.

I have been too ready to spend
The years of our lives with glee,
My life goes on and on towards its end,
And I cannot see the road ahead for its bend.


Sestina

I cannot think, my mind is numb with pain,
What joy do I gain from this flower,
Where it grows by the side of the pond?
From the pond comes a grey gentle mist
Like a veil falling over my love.
Must I always feel this despair?

It is easy to give way to despair
When a life is full of pain,
When there is a new absence of love
There is searing sorrow in a flower.
And a kindly veil is the mist
Rising from the edge of the pond.

Yes, there is the pond,
And when I am thick in despair
I might cast myself into the mist
And seek release from pain
Beside the white flower.
No longer alive to love.

But you must be alive to love
Look at the still waters of the pond
And that small white flower.
It is swayed by wind but does not despair.
It too knows long pain
And the friendliness of the mist.

But the sun will melt the mist
As times has melted my love
And leave us with pain
Beside the still and quiet pond,
The quietness of despair,
I and the white flower.

Yet you will tend the flower
And someday you will find the mist
On the other side of despair,
On the other side of love.
There are lessons in the pond;
There are lessons in pain.

Then we will feel pain, I and the flower
And beside the pond we will await the mist
Seeking the veil for love and for despair.


Inspired by “Novena on Vectors and Pathways” by Christopher Burawa

A seed, what is a seed?
New life, I suppose. Be
gentle with it. Touch it tenderly;
it is young and not strong.

Hold it in the palm of your hand.
Can you feel the life waiting
to burst out into the world?
Reverence the newness of it.

It is not dry and done with,
like last year’s stalks left
to wither. Yet you learned
from the old plants—heed their lessons.

Then make a soft and warm bed
for the seed, its own hole and water
and sun. And plant the seed—this is
an act of faith, be awed.

Now wait. Perhaps it will come to
nothing, all your planning. Or perhaps
the plant will grow and burst
into strong and lovely flower.

My first post--a poem

Untitled

Praise God for small lovely things;
The delicate tracery of trees
Against the morning sky-
A woman’s flushed cheek
Fading into blue.

Praise God for small lovely things;
The crisp spears of grass
Growing from the rich brown earth
With the blue sky above,
Clear in the morning light.

Praise God for small lovely things;
The butter-colored roses,
The deep green of firs
Against the dark red bricks,
The flaming orange autumn trees.

Praise God for small lovely things.