Wednesday, October 9, 2013

IT'S THAT TIME OF THE SEASON...FOR BIRTHDAYS!

      10-9-13 : CAN 'IT' BE TRUE ?!?!




 WELL YES IT IS!!!


HAPPY BIRTHDAY
TO YOU!!!
 **********
                    HAPPY B’DAY, J.J. !!

FONDLY,
THE GRENN CLAN

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;
(And hence, September’s born).


    It plots with poise to consecrate
       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;
       Setting fall’s table and still so much more,
           Until failing buds ‘waken’: freshened… restored.

Hence, fetch latent flowers for every type bee,
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:
Watching through the sun’s keen lens, these final oozing hours.
  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;
      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:

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,
       Comes softly pliant thunder.     
Crickets dance with plaintive song,
In trebled cadence, ‘soft’;
Robins meld in mournful tunes
From quiet garden-lofts;
         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)

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,
Marigolds and August hugs; 
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