ageless spirit

English: Papilio machaon caterpillar en face. Français : Chenille de machaon (Papilio machaon), vue de face. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

No matter how this house appears

I will always be looking for swallowtails

by the road, nestled in Queen Ann’s arms

watching dragonflies hover over water

and listening to wind in the pines.

 

I am eternal in fields of dry oats

along the path ancestors walked

where acorns roll beneath my feet

and ivy embraces ancient oaks

touched by juniper scent.

 

This surge within does not diminish

from years of earth time, nor fade

like fabric left in long-time window light.

Forever I stroll toward youthful sunsets

over that western hill

 

walking with a child’s hand in mine

first singing, “Miss Mary Mack, Mack, Mack,”

then “Baa Baa Black Sheep, have you any wool?”

meandering past wild sugar cane toward

orange, and red and yellow blazing glory.

 

This dwelling’s luster shall not vanish

from eyes of those who care to see her shine

despite weathered boards and broken panes

for I have tasted stars and touched rainbows

with these immortal hands.

nameless meanderings

time, a ship to carry me

through this space,

finite place

encasing immortality

as myself, real self,

sees that yonder plane

through ethereal windows

thoughts, flesh-weighted,

do not veil reality

dampen power

or hinder flight.

 

A poetic pondering

Every  now and then I suffer from a philosophical moment. Okay, I admit it. It’s more than every now and then. It’s just about every day at least a couple of times a day, unless I’m too busy to think and have to run on auto-pilot (which sometimes happens when you work in an elementary school). Today, I thought I’d share two questions that keep picking at my brain.

What if everyone in the world were capable of and suddenly decided to— think for themselves?

And what if greed and the need to dominate others were wiped from existence over night?

 

 

 

 

On my Shelf for May

I’ve been pretty busy lately, but somehow I’ve accumulated several books to read. I’ve been trying to dig my way through Rachel Varble’s, A Biography of Jane Clemens, Mother of Mark Twain. It’s an interesting read, and I’m learning a lot of history. I just need several uninterrupted hours to complete it. It’s the type of book that feels like I’m “wading through” at times, due to overly romantized descriptive paragraphs and awkward phrasings. The entire book is exposition with no dialogue, so it’s like reading a textbook, laced with the author’s bias. But I’m reading it, despite her writing style, because it is about my home area. However, I often find myself frustrated at the prevailing accepted thought of the times. I suppose that in itself is a lesson in history, it’s depiction changes from one generation to the next. Mrs. Varble wrote her book back in the 1960s and her bias of race and ethnicity fill the book in a million subtle ways. So, I like the history lesson, but I’m not overly fond of her writing style. I will always feel that plain talk is easily understood and too many writers, both past and present, “put on the dog” when they write and spit about a bunch of stuff that nobody ever says in real life. And on that note…

A book I’m LOVING is Stephen King‘s On Writing. While I am not a fan of King’s fictional stories, mostly because I don’t like horror due to the fact that I have an overactive imagination that I can’t shut off and scary images keep me awake at night, I DO like his practical no non-sense look at writing and identify with so much of what he has to say in this book. I’m glad I took the time to pick it up.

Next on the pile is a book called Ill Wind, by Doug Beason and Kevin J. Anders, then comes All Together Dead by Charlane Harris, Writers Dreaming by Naomi Epel, And She Was by Cindy Dyson and finally Brandon Mull‘s Fable Haven.

In June, I plan to read Sandra Kring’s latest, A Life of Bright Ideas.

spring ritual

brown leaves crunch

and scattered under your boots

my sandals

as we search for morels

dry-land fish

near black pond’s rim

where a faded sign reads

“no fishing”

twenty year-old jar

lies half leaf covered

no mushrooms peep

through, only bomb shell rocks

and brilliant violent

woodland irises

still

we walk, brother and sister

talking of yesterday

remembering parental wisdom

stories, prophecies of long ago years,

breathing in sweet locust

for the moment

and forgetting

tomorrow.

 

 

 

 

Uncommon Clay

I am so thrilled and excited about this. I love poetry and now poetry is loving me in return.

http://caseyshaypress.blogspot.com/2012/03/almost-release-day-for-our-poetry-prize.html