10-9-13 : CAN 'IT' BE TRUE ?!?!
WELL YES IT IS!!!
HAPPY BIRTHDAY
TO YOU!!!
**********
HAPPY B’DAY, J.J. !!
FONDLY,
THE
GRENN CLAN
Wednesday, October 9, 2013
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
Invitation to Intimation
An Intimation of Autumn :
My
‘Own’ Devotional Ode …
By L.P. - G.
I
A season’s sweetest feast
Descends,
amid cool misty morns;
Through
lushly hallowed fields
It
treads, besieged by rampant storms.
August
plays the sentinel,
Relieved
of farewell norms,
A leaf burns golden; later, red;
A leaf burns golden; later, red;
(And
hence, September’s born).
It plots with poise to consecrate
A fruitful sun we celebrate;
How does it bring such grace and light
A fruitful sun we celebrate;
How does it bring such grace and light
To
dappled harvests, void of blight?
Ripe crops are seen to richest core;
Bloating the gourd, through a sweetness thus poured;
Ripe crops are seen to richest core;
Bloating the gourd, through a sweetness thus poured;
Setting fall’s table and still so much more,
Hence, fetch latent flowers for every type bee,
Send warmest-wishes on free, bended knee;
For Summer holds promises right up its sleeve
Send warmest-wishes on free, bended knee;
For Summer holds promises right up its sleeve
Of this, (of course): I’ll admit,
I SO believe!!
II
Yet,
Summer sun and Autumn sun, past friendship of a kind;
Whoever
seeks their succor-strength may sometimes coolly find
Both seasons dwelling carelessly along a drafty floor,
Tresses gently lifted-up by winter’s windy score;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow-trail, now fast and sound asleep,
Dipped in shades of poppy-smoke; red-crimson, crisp and deep,
Dreaming not of fallowed fields, but fertile swaths of flowers:
Both seasons dwelling carelessly along a drafty floor,
Tresses gently lifted-up by winter’s windy score;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow-trail, now fast and sound asleep,
Dipped in shades of poppy-smoke; red-crimson, crisp and deep,
Dreaming not of fallowed fields, but fertile swaths of flowers:
Watching
through the sun’s keen lens, these final oozing hours.
And sometimes like a helping-hand, one of them, or more,
And sometimes like a helping-hand, one of them, or more,
Embarks
on fields grown thick with wheat, returned to nature’s core.
September spins its sturdy web across a trenchant brook;
September spins its sturdy web across a trenchant brook;
The night-sky, traced by
cider-spice, gives one last solemn look.
III
Way past us now are songs of Spring;
None thrive
in Autumn’s haze;
Think of them, ‘NOT’; their scents imbued:
Think of them, ‘NOT’; their scents imbued:
Scorched-hot by Summer’s gaze.
In wailful tones, chilled to the bone,
Cicadas sadly moan,
While lambs bleat-out dejected breath
Whose vapor fades to stone.
Adrift in pallid rivers
spent by summers tossed asunder;
Embraced by light-wind’s rhythmic touch,
Embraced by light-wind’s rhythmic touch,
Comes softly pliant thunder.
Crickets dance with plaintive song,
In trebled cadence, ‘soft’;
Robins meld in mournful tunes
Robins meld in mournful tunes
From quiet garden-lofts;
Gathering swallows twitter still, but also gently sigh,
Gathering swallows twitter still, but also gently sigh,
‘Pure notes of grim
dismissal’
Part the late September
sky:
And so it goes, and so it
goes;
(September reaps, what September sows…).
Written by Lisa Porter-Grenn, M.D.
(with all apology to Keats)
Thursday, September 5, 2013
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
OF DRUIDS AND BARDS...and those 'first fruits'
The Cry
of the Fruitful Corn-Gods
Low sun,
equatorial warmth is
Spreading its
Lughnasa-like wings today;
For it is August
(my friend) and the first fruits
Taste especially
sweet right now.
Behold the Celtic waters as they wash
Across three pagan pilgrims,
Steeped in the bluster of bilberry wine;
Watch as it drips little by little into the
mouths
Of the matchmakers and trade-mongers
Who’ve climbed the tepid tops of the clover-hills.
Summer is slow to swoon
Toward its last laugh
Just yet, while novices embark
On life’s ceremonial play-list;
Such ‘cycles of surrender’ quicken
To the memory of
Corn husk dolls who,
Once upon a time,
Stood contentedly ‘vanitized’
By the smolder of muck and mold
And evaporating bonfires.
Yet, Gaelic galleys forever reel
In pure reckless gratitude
For this half-way mark between
The solstices; Lugh,
In his perfect perpetuity,
Selects the finest china
For a warm and gentle harvest.
Beltane,
Imbolc, and Samhain,
Betray their own sad story:
Having never tendered the earliest corn…
This remains Lughnasa’s
Greatest glory.
But should even one
‘Druidic Dream’
Drown in the
Chastened rains
that pander to
The gentle green
plains
Of Emerald
Ireland:
And the good
Gaels of Kildare
Would simply melt
in disillusion,
And catch a quiet
waltz with King Puck
and his
Band of fruitful
corn gods.
Poem written by Lisa Porter-Grenn Copyright 2013
Wednesday, August 7, 2013
THE LAST SUMMER-NOTE THE...
THE
LAST SUMMER-NOTE THE
CICADA SINGS…
I
Fat gladiolas wave and bow
To black-eyed Susans’ lacy knots:
And in this summer scene of theirs
Are peridots and lady-bugs,
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
Fields of sunflowers whose essence stands
The test of time
in
“Autumn’s hands”.
II
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!!
Copyright
2013
Poem
written by Lisa Porter-Grenn
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