Ruined by Love—and That’s Not a Bad Thing
Image
5
Tag Archives: poem
Here in the Attic
Treasury
Click and clatter,
chuckle, chatter,
in the attic,
nascent natter
tells a tale of
bits and bobbins,
delicate as
little robins’
eggs and feathers,
soft as heather,
sings of history
and hidden
secrets dusty
and ghost-ridden,
‘mid the bones
and bolts and buckles,
be they sweet as
honeysuckle’s
scent remembered,
or the laughter
in the rafters
heard hereafter,
recollections
of old treasure,
holding motes of
passing pleasure—
sneeze, and all the
atoms scatter
to the corners,
click
and
clatter.
Connected
What is this Song?
First the carillon, and then,
Voices of children, women, men,
The organ sounds, lute, harp and lyre,
And as the song grows clearer, higher,
Sweeter and more joyful still,
Ring out the notes from hill to hill,
Across the night, straight on to day,
The melody flies out, away!
What is this potent symphony?
It’s love, my Love, that sets us free.
Today seems like a particularly good day to remember that love is larger than romance, peace is larger than a desire for sameness, and joy is larger than a moment of personal happiness. I wish you all love, peace and joy.
One Stormy Day…
Bleak indigo and velvet was the sky
That hung above that cold portentous noon
More chilling than the goddess of the moon
If she had bowed her sorrows down to die—
My own, I could not grief so sharp withhold
But wept as though the torrent ought to drown
Me in the rivers of her velvet gown
And leave me breathless on the stones and cold—
But blue is not my cloak, or yet my skin
As much as dark the tenor of the day
And when the storm had lastly passed away
I felt the night might swallow up my sin—
Now sorrow’s misery that spoke you grief
Forgiven falls in sunset’s sweet relief.
A Lovely Lass & Her Longing Lads
Ginger Bred
Once upon a ginger lock, I made a little wish
That every bird in yonder flock and every silvery fish
In yonder stream should stop to see how lovely and, alas,
Aloof from my sweet would-be love was yonder ginger lass,
For she was sweet as mead and mint and lilies in the glen,
And many were the lads who looked on her, as I did then,
With wishful hearts and hopeful souls, yet Queen of bees was she,
To sting our hopes, who wished and dreamt and loved her gingerly.
For my good friend Jim and his merry band at gingerfightback.
Crestfallen
I, like the mighty John Fall-staff, may fall, the butt of others’ laugh,
If I heed not the warning signs, and slip in traps, believe the lines
Yarned by slick liars, kind and not, that tie me in knots I’ve dumbly wrought
Myself; if I would puff and preen, I’ll skid and splat upon the green
In front of wiser fools in stocks, caught up in the snares of my own locks.
Like old Sir John, I’ll meet my doom
If I think me the smartest in the room.
A Little Bull Session
How Beauty Contributes to Survival of the Species
A longhorn with a handsome set of horns as curly as they get
Was slightly cowed by what he saw when shown the Long Arm of the Law;
He’d had some hope he was exempt from need to keep his long horns kempt
And polished to a shiny sheen like pearl, his hooves polished to keen,
Dark, perfect handsomeness, the ring hooked in his nose, and everything
In fashion, grand in every way; turns out, he’d missed his class the day
The rules were set out in his youth, and so he lacked this simple truth.
So he was startled when the fuzz pulled him aside and said because
He’d failed to keep in such fine style, he’d have to go to jail awhile.
You, also, may not know these rules, if you too missed time in your school’s
Important seminars, so here I share them with you; do not fear
That cops will catch you; do not dread, but spiff your hooves and horns instead,
And you’ll be free to roam and graze in any pasture, all your days.
Why do I share this? Cattle, kine, or beeves all ought to look as fine
As stud bulls, just in case they meet random policemen on the street,
For at the least—or, maybe, most—they won’t then end up as a roast.
Sparkling Repartee
It’s my sister’s birthday again—not that she’s getting old at a ridiculous rate, but rather that I have three sisters, so their birthdays occur with a certain frequency, since we all have different birthdays despite people’s occasionally mistaking two or more of us for same-day siblings. While we are separated by gaps, there are enough commonalities in our selves and our looks, I suppose, that it’s not entirely shocking anyone might make such an assumption, but those who know us see the vast array of differences more sharply than the less informed might.
And that, my friends, that differentness, is a grand thing. I adore all three of my sisters and love that we have enough in common to be real friends as well as family to each other, but we are clearly the better for having our unique characteristics and points of view and experiences to further enrich our life in common. It’s those distinctions that keep us from being in any way interchangeable and certainly, from having nothing to talk about when we get the all-too-rare chance to visit. We’re all four fabulous, if you ask me!
Take Sister #3, for example, whose natal day we remember on this date (I’m second of the four). From when she was very small—and she was mighty tiny indeed—her fierce drive for perfection and her native and highly honed intellect awed me. She ‘gets’ things that I will never wrap my head around, things like mathematics and the myriad business-administrative powers that keep the machinery of life and work and family ticking along in ways that only happen to me by lucky accident. She is and was the athlete and outdoorswoman I could only dream of being, and her cookery and baking, frankly, kick my measly skills to the curb. And she’s beautiful, inside and out, even if as a typical sibling I didn’t always manage to remind her so as often as she deserves.
That’s all just for starters, but if I were to go on too far I’d sound like I was making her up out of fairy wings and dewdrops and cookie dough, so instead I shall just wish her a spectacular birthday and a year full of wonder and happiness, beginning to end and for many birthdays and years to come.
Spirited Pleasure
Let us raise a crystal glass of Champagne Brut to toast the passing
Of the weeks and months, the years, to raise resounding shouts of “Cheers!”
We’ll ping the flutes “Salut! Cin Cin!“, tip up the stems and drink it in,
For nothing makes it taste so great as bubbly wine to celebrate
(Though if you care not for its pop, I recommend a Lemon Drop)!
Knock Down the Fortress
Battlements Better Breached
In the windows, down the rooftops, through the stonework of her walls,
All the shadows gone at midday, softly as an echo falls,
Whispered secrets came to haunt her, spoken like a jailer’s dream
Though the sun would flame and flourish and the loneliness extreme
Drove her near the brink of madness, still she boarded up her heart;
All the same, away with sadness! Every ending is the start
Of a different adventure—little did our lady know
That her fortress wouldn’t save her, with its brave protective show,
But when breached and doors thrown open, halls filled up with ringing song,
She’d be rescued by companions she’d been fearful of so long.
Hospitality and kindness, love and great companion friends
Altogether bring salvation: joy is where this story ends.
Upon Further Reflection
Cogitation
Let us pause for a moment of thought on who we are and what we’re not,
On living life as best we can, no matter whether beast or man,
And think of beauty, wisdom, skill, kind spirits, charm, and strength of will,
And not forget, not for one blink, we’re not as dandy as we think,
But all the same, let’s take the tack of cutting, each, ourselves some slack—
Our imperfections won’t be solved until we’re all far more evolved,
But what we are at present, still, has bits of charm, kind spirits, skill,
Has strength and wisdom; beauty too—and that gives us enough to do—
Art-Colored Glasses 