STEEPED IN A MISTY MORN OF MUSINGS...

Wednesday, August 7, 2013

THE LAST SUMMER-NOTE THE...

THE LAST SUMMER-NOTE THE

CICADA SINGS…

Fat gladiolas wave and bow
To black-eyed Susans’ lacy knots:
And in this summer scene of theirs
Are peridots and lady-bugs,

Marigolds and August hugs;
Fields of sunflowers whose essence stands

The test of time

“Autumn’s hands”.

They meet, they greet

‘mid bumblebees,

Alive in space on pollened-wings;

Parading nectar’s polished grace,

Two flowery locks come face-to-face

I’ll always praise the joy it brings:

That last summer-note the cicada sings…

(Yet fall will claim its final fling)

Oh August!!

Poem written by Lisa Porter-Grenn

Sunday, July 28, 2013

Past the Stretches of Lavender Silk and Thistle Milk

Past the Stretches of Lavender Silk and Thistle Milk

By Lisa Porter-Grenn

Caught by the sweet stretch of yellowing summer that beckons

Motionlessly under the burden of half-spent ice-cream dreams

And long tepid pools of watermelon sugar,

Stand the slowly softening sidewalk rinds hiding deep secrets

That haven't yet been opened.
This summer scene spins delectably throughout the eons of time:
From powdery chalk lines to tousled jump-ropes

To lethal metal jacks amid a game of cat’s-eye marbles.

There are rules, and rules get broken

Much like the windows opened wide

To catch the freshness that floats away

Into remote corners of the world

Only to find that painted casements promise comfort

And the flimsy window screen, a measure of security

Before the rains begin.

Yet, it is the swarming ant hills

That amuse me the most;

And I imagine their deep abyss where drones carry on

Solely for the brittle queen within her nest of paper jelly:
A fuzzy dowager calling out quick shots to

Her cheerless rank of pithy eunuchs who fetch

Her Royal Highness scores of milk and honey.
Do they gather how amazed we all are

By their tidy industry and immense sense of duty?

Probably not, for their brains are

Too tiny to think beyond the

Ordinary drudgery demanded of

Such rank and file creatures

Inhabiting the sands below time;

These busy denizens of the gravel pits!

The smell of lilies and lavender meld

Softly with thistle-milk and cut grass,

So is the summer wind before me.

A mourning dove with license moans

In tones that speaks of dewdrops and early

Evening fog in a throat made low by cloud cover.
Trumpeting toads eternally chant and dance by the

Edge of the fountain, its water-spray

Lightening the burdens collected through

Hours spent in weighty recovery. Yet, the seriousness
Of the soaring noon-time temperature appears lost

On most everyone, as they toy with sycamore leaves

Left in winsome piles collected by the sunlight
around us. The scent of autumn is heavy... And you,

You wonder why I pore over the days’ events

Like a sojourner with road map in hand.

The answer comes easy (you see), for there

Are still secrets that flee from the beam

Of empirical evidence…

And that’s all right by me.

Poem written by Lisa Porter-Grenn

XOXOX

Wednesday, July 24, 2013

JUST QUIET MEMORIES THEREOF

Memory of My Father

by Patrick Kavanagh

Every old man I see

Reminds me of my father

When he had fallen in love with death

One time when sheaves were gathered.

That man I saw in Gardner Street

Stumbled on the curb was one;

He stared at me half-eyed,

I might have been his son.

And I remember the musician

Faltering over his fiddle

In Bayswater, London,

He too sent me the riddle.

Every old man I see

In October-coloured weather

Seems to say to me:

"I was once your father."

Talking To My Father Whose Ashes Sit In A Closet And Listen

by Lisa Zaran

Death is not the final word.
Without ears, my father still listens,
still shrugs his shoulders
whenever I ask a question he doesn't want to answer.

I stand at the closet door, my hand on the knob,
my hip leaning against the frame and ask him
what does he think about the war in Iraq
and how does he feel about his oldest daughter
getting married to a man she met on the Internet.

Without eyes, my father still looks around.
He sees what I am trying to do, sees that I
have grown less passive with his passing,
understands my need for answers only he can provide.

I imagine him drawing a breath, sensing
his lungs once again filling with air, his thoughts ballooning.

Originally published in The Rose & Thorn, Summer 2004.
Copyright © Lisa Zaran, 2004

Elegy For My Father

by Annie Finch

HLF, August 8, 1918—August 22, 1997

“Bequeath us to no earthly shore until
Is answered in the vortex of our grave
The seal’s wide spindrift gaze towards paradise.”
—Hart Crane, “Voyages”

“If a lion could talk, we couldn’t understand it”
—Ludwig Wittgenstein

Under the ocean that stretches out wordlessly

past the long edge of the last human shore,

there are deep windows the waves haven't opened,
where night is reflected through decades of glass.
There is the nursery, there is the nanny,
there are my father’s unreachable eyes
turned towards the window. Is the child uneasy?
His is the death that is circling the stars.

and peace pours at last through the cells of our bodies,
three of us are watching, one of us is staring
with the wide gaze of a wild, wave-fed seal.
Incense and sage speak in smoke loud as waves,
and crickets sing sand towards the edge of the hourglass.
We wait outside time, while night collects courage
around us. The vigil is wordless. And you
watch the longest, move the farthest, besieged by your breath,
pulling into your body. You stare towards your death,
head arched on the pillow, your left fingers curled.
Your mouth sucking gently, unmoved by these hours
and their vigil of salt spray, you show us how far
you are going, and how long the long minutes are,
while spiraling night watches over the room
and takes you, until you watch us in turn.

Here is release. Here is your pillow,
cool like a handkerchief pressed in a pocket.
Here is your white tousled long growing hair.
Here is a kiss on your temple to hold you
safe through your solitude’s long steady war;
here, you can go. We will stay with you,
keeping the silence we all came here for.

Night, take his left hand, turning the pages.
Spin with the windows and doors that he mended.
Spin with his answers, patient, impatient.
Spin with his dry independence, his arms
warmed by the needs of his family, his hands
flying under the wide, carved gold ring, and the pages
flying so his thought could fly. His breath slows,
lending its edges out to the night.