Poetry *Silent Scream*/*Poem Leaves*
One Sunday/Newtown/Quiet/Watery Sentence
Writer to Writer/Let's Try Haiku/Surprise!/Island Vacation/
Wash Day/Ode to God's Paint Brush/Poppy/LittleDitty/Woodsy Cabin/Return/High Flight
Silent Scream
Years trace tangled
time too quickly.
There are no old people --
only aged, wrinkled ones.
The world designs
a fetish of youth;
glancing past
worth and experience.
Why cannot the others
glimpse that inner light;
see beauty trapped within
the ancient skin?
Why must mindset, oh, so mistakenly
assume that the inside (like the outside)
dries and ages, sinks and stutters
losing glory deemed a part of limber youth?
Poem Leaves
Old folks, tending their sick and infirm, gathered at the bedside of their ill father, outside summer green tinted the earth with the greens of grass and leaves.
“I hope,’ said an elderly sister, “he can linger on until the falling of the leaves,” a common phrase in those days in the mountainous neighborhoods throughout the high slopes of the southern Appalachians.
And, soon the sweet gum trees began bits of yellow, red, and other hues. A sight that thrilled any soul, while waiting, as maples, sycamores and others continued to broadcast their colors across the slopes, curling brownish maples into give up their leafy coats to gathering winds.
Time passed as the weakening relative slowly turned his head and gazed out the window from his bed. Loved ones cooked his favorite foods and prayed over him, holding his hands and trying to soothe.
Once in a while he smiled, causing his family members to look fearfully at each other. They didn’t know his smile reflected his joy for the kindness and closeness of them all. His softening features rested among the faces of children and grandchildren.
Sailing aloft, carried by quickening wind bursts tumbled the leaves toward oblivion below.
And the many relatives of his lifetime ringed his burial ceremony like new green leaves that will, come spring, encircle his quiet resting Place.
One Sunday
I had to leave the music of a thousand-throated choir.
The air outdoors reverberated with so many
Different sounds my ears were confounded,
My eyes were searching for a sight of birds.
Overnight they came. Were they on their
Way South to warmer places where their
Songs will gain and ever-richer tone?
I had to leave. What kinds of birds could lift such symphonies
Into the morning air? From my sanctuary on
The wooden deck, I marveled at the scene
I felt their movement, laced with nearly silent
Scratch of falling leaves from their moorings
By the little autumn winds, a movement growing
Fuller; flitting and swirling, landing on pine branches
I had to leave them as I felt my soul yearn toward
This marvelous day, as the birds kept up their
Moving choral presentation. Transfixed, by the action,
I seemed to feel my heart move as though to join
The glory my eyes saw. It included the soft
Whisper that sounded like joy to me, waiting
There on the deck, in amazement.
I had to leave it all: the movement, the music and
The tiny, twisting leaves circle and twisted into
Constant motion, tuning up background music
Red berries on tree branches seemed to be
Preparing breakfast for the flying singers.
The air around me seemed to glow with
The deepest red. The morning sun was high.
I had to leave and go to church.
Newtown
Twenty children murdered
Twenty children gone
To sate his rage, they turned the page
And suddenly went Home
We could only sit and listen
And listening, we cried
A monster's face was in that place.
They saw it ... and they died.
Quiet
The frenzied ones
rush all around us;
battling, pushing, shoving;
but our love is a
small quiet hollow
where we can rest.
watery sentence
If I could rise above the meadow like a balloon
advised to ride high on wordy, windy currents
and wait for cloud bellies to write water on my head
I’d wash and wash until my hair sparkled and gleamed
and spread like fiery word-wings so I could chase
shooting stars and catch them on my tongue.
Writer to Writer
It was a gift, that book of poems,
Slipped into my hands
By a dear, dear friend.
I didn’t notice the message
Inked in the author’s
Personal cursive:
“Writer to writer,” she wrote
Dated December, 1995;
The book, titled:
“Devine Attention.” By
Paulette Roeske, I raced
Through that book
Of lilting poems, delighted
With the way she
Arranged her words.
Example. One poem, titled
“Accordion,” goes like
This. I loved how it began.
My father’s had a diamond on the button he told me was middle C, the one button I could name among the hundred black buttons set in mother-of-pearl,
Buttons small as fish eyes crowding each other like children.
And so I marveled when his broad fingers blunt as hammers chose and impeccably
Sounded “The Beer Barrel Polka.
Just now I found that book
Snuggled on my poetry shelf
And looked again at the signature.
And though I had read it
Long ago, that “Writer to Writer”
Phrase thrilled me more than ever.
Let's Try Haiku
Consummate song leaves
Love’s lacy bruises to teach
The wild, dark wind joy.
***
Staggering through morn,
Blossoms turn blue as men slice
Time from halls of power.
***
Secret bouquets show’r
Evenings’ tongue with liquid
Tendrils of summer.
***
Mist-fog sinks among
Bare winter-black trees like clouds
Of shredded cotton.
***
Aw, shucks! Why spend time counting in order to fit Japanese literature’s designs for poems. (Haiku). The way I see it, thoughts need only enough syllables to lift them to the skies.
This one, perhaps.
The Power of Dawn
Marching along the spider-legged pier
A column of lights
Orders reflections to dance across the water,
Paints many-colored mirrors on the sand
And commands waves to sparkle silver.
Meantime, darkness cowers at the edges;
Growling, angry in defeat.
Surprise!
A tickling thing attacked my head
On the inside, please understand.
Was it’s message “you are dead?”
Or did it say “come hold my hand?”
My reply: “Who are you, inside my skull?”
That sent the tickle to a rage.
“Hit the keys,” he spoke, “tho brain is full.”
And out came a poem, filling a page.
Island Vacation
Morning sun donned his armor;
Ready to break the day.
In the east, navy blue clouds
Easily blocked his way.
But, crashing through the solid blue,
Red splinters joined the fray
Sun-power poured bright glory,
Helping daybreak on its way.
They tumbled about like storm-blown stones,
Two little boys, on a sandy shore
Excitement wrapped in flesh and bones
And joy erupting with shouts galore
Away from school and homebound chores,
With books to read and songs to sing;
Parents at hand all 24 hours
Vacation, to them, was fit for a king.
Then one day a storm came blowing
On a boil of clouds hovering close
Wet swimsuits pinned up without knowing
How soon the storm would hit our house,
But hit it did and huddled inside
Vacationers gathered together in fright
The rage of nature’s angry tide,
As wind and water turned day to night.
Hello! Morning came and wet sand shone,
Clear skies yelled a welcome to beaches
Swim suited figures danced to the tones
Of happy shouts: vacation went on.
Wash Day
Of an early morning
Before the sun topped
The misty mountain
At our hilly home.
A boil of steam climbed
Upward as though
Challenging strong
Appalachian domes.
Usually on Mondays
As I recall, the whites
And coloreds lay
Piled on back porch floor
As though keeping watch
Over firewood and
Water and a large iron
Pot awaiting this chore.
Mother and daughters
Scrubbed cotton dresses,
Petticoats, socks, shirts,
Towels and pillowcases.
Aching backs, sore knuckles
And wrinkled hands
Resulted. But soon they had
Too, hot, sweaty faces.
By the time the sun
Was overhead, spreading
Heat downward on
Family members at work,
Some hanging clothes,
Others hoeing corn
Halfway up the mountain
None was allowed to shirk.
Warp speed ahead dear
Reader. For a minute think
Of buttons to push, running
Water at fingertip
Electricity to take your
Laundry and handle it
With care. Make it ready
For an auto trip.
But back to the past;
To tubs and boards and
Wooden clothes pins;
Winds moaning sorrow.
The sun sinks slowly
Behind tall slopoe
The ironing piled in kitchen
Can wait until tomorrow!
Ode to God’s Paint Brush
I walk the lush green meadows of Your earth
And struggle with the words to call to You
Amid swelling heart toward birth
Of words, and fail, it seems to me, to stumble through.
I strain toward some ground where we can dwell,
Where quiet communion lessens stressful days
Where lessons needed more than I can tell
Console my heart a hundred different ways.
My eyes take in a thousand marigolds
Spilling like melted butter on the land
I note the upward thrust and yellow folds
Of sunflowers standing guard on every hand.
And oh, the beauty leaping in the air
Of variegated zinnias, Queen Anne’s lace
Of fern-filled valleys climbing like a stair
As though their chore is: “beautify this place!”
I strongly seek the voice to call to You
From desperate yearning that now fills my heart
To say the things that tumble all askew
And strive to shatter barriers all apart.
It seems as though I am dropping in a hole
That holds me down with all my thoughts intact
To let you know the struggles in my soul
As though the two of us have made a pact:
Me to lift my thankful heart with joy
To You, and know with sweetness and with grace
That you will understand and then employ
You powerful touch upon my pleading face.
Poppy
Poppy was a preacher.
He stood tall and strong
And in his mountain
Home deep in the
Appalachians he
Fathered 13 children.
Poppy was a preacher
But he was much more
He was a farmer who
Learned from his father
How to cut stone
And fashion great squares
Into a solid, secure
Home above the reach
And roaring destruction
Of flash floods which arrived
Every year
in spring
He feared the power of water
Poppy was a preacher
He kept a team of mules
Which hauled huge oaks,
Sweet gums and maples
Down to the creek.
He found wonderful uses for water.
Of stones he cut from tall
Mountain slopes, he constructed
A steady dam to harness the stream
Which pushed wood contraptions
Through contortions to grind corn
To feed farm animals.
And provide meal for corn dishes
For his and his neighbors’ tables.
Looking out for others was uppermost
In his life. He settled arguments constantly
Once among workers on the WPA road nearby.
Poppy was a preacher.
That too was major in his lifetime.
He simply seemed to love all who
Came into his life. He went to the
Pages of the Bible to prove his beliefs
All the while he fed and cared for family.
Poppy was a preacher.
Also a part of his life was spent
Deep under a mountain digging coal
And later in the midst of all his
Activities and his service to others
Lung cancer took him at age 56.
Today three of his sons are preachers.
Little Ditty
There was a little ditty
Who rested in a drawer
And watched time go by
And never took a shower.
Yes, he had a reason
To let himself get dirty
“I am already fine,” he said
“Just see me be flirty.”
As he moved around,
Twisting in the folder,
Sometimes he changed a verb,
Which made him bolder.
He tackled nouns and adverbs
And mauled a little pronoun.
Growing, growing, growing,
Marveling at what he found.
When human hands invadede thought: “I’ve become rubbish!”
But then he heard a voice:
“This one we must publish!
Woodsy Cabin
A sweet wind spilling like silk,
Wipes the grass, rippling
While Farmer Eugene
Claws the softened soil
With machine and metal
Making rows
Into which
Seeds will fall
And linger
Until
The
Breath of life
Stirs deeply, strongly,
Surging, pushing against
Clods, toward clear sunshine.
But not yet, not yet. Stay
Down awhile, Little Life,
Take time to nap
For another month.
After all, it is
Only April.
RETURN
For years I couldn’t go back.
I dared not chase the whistling
Wind through corridors
Grown fearful with muslin-covered
Memories of I knew not what.
Face to the wind I pushed on
Into the storm, blessing rainbows
And rills that cascaded
Through my life as though to cover
Some scrappy hidden truth I dared not learn
But once I let go; once
I allowed the high whine of time
To carry me back; once I lifted
Shredded skirts and slogged on through
The tangled mass of muddy years;
Among the shards of grief
I found the secret shame
Was not a shame at all, but a tiny
Tidbit of truth – a simple craft
In which I could paddle forward again.
Poetry moves like music, surrounding words with such heartfelt transforming meanings. A special talent, it seems to me, inhabits those souls who commit their thoughts to paper. Some poems have remained with me through decade after decade. I do so admire such abilities . . . such as the one below.
HIGH FLIGHT
Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered
Wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumb-
Ling mirth –
Of sun-split clouds – and done a hundred
Things
You have not dreamed of – wheeled and
Soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hovering there
I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up, the long, delirious, burning blue
I’ve topped the windswept heights with
Easy grace,
Where never lark, or even eagle flew.
And, while with silent, lifting mind I’ve trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of
God.
By John Gillespie Jr.
Somehow, years ago I came to possess this poem written in the left hand corner of a magnificent picture of five Thunderbirds streaking in formation through blue, sunlit skies. At the bottom was printed “Photo Courtesy USAF “
“In December 1941, “is printed just under the poem, “pilot officer John G. Magee, a 19-year-old American serving with the Royal Canadian Air Force in England, was killed when his Spitfire collided with another airplane inside a cloud. Several months before his death he composed his immortal sonnet, ‘High Flight’ a copy of endwhich he fortunately mailed to his parents in the USA.”
