@my best friend: the time for an old poet

leaf and life thought

The poet gazes afar as the two slowly walk,

Through a strait gate palm in palm they talk.

Now I am ninety-nine and you not younger dear,

Friend to friend, goodbye without fear.

Time to leave them all: sanctuary abode round the corner,

Old dreams of love and whimsy bliss that can not be

Reconciled with the ultimate Initiator and Sustainer of life

Artful tiled floors, Christmas tree, green attic, Jacuzzi in style, red waving palm, sunken secret garden, tinted glass canopies, white-washed walls, yellow brick steps and all.

Yes, we seem to have lived here all our lives,

Season to season, rain and draught, tears and laughter, colors and paleness, words and silence adrift as each decade drives.

I always liked to stay up all hours of the night,

Sitting alone by the green attic window star-gazing into the dim gentle light,

Crafting, designing, evaluating, fantasizing what mattered then,

A future of retreating retiring reviving resurrecting right.

Hearing perhaps a faint sobbing in your sleep,

Urging we must leave and sail across the vast blue deep.

Looking for a blue hope bird in springtime great beyond,

Never again shall we be contented with mere earthling’s song.

Hence in this poem I now give all to time,

To our new home the young country soon we come.

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a dancing poet and a lass

a poet’s encounter

She never knew his actual age in an enigmatic bygone life

A somewhat suave soft-spoken man with poetry deep set in his eyes

Are you the poet? She asked when their eyes first locked

Seeing him standing out from the mundane lot

Why, his pupils like deep water reflecting hers

Why are you selfieing my eyes?

And what is that shinning in your palm?

Beg your pardon, lass, raising his right arm

Nothing in his open palm indeed

A magician that’s who you are, she exclaims

No, lass, you do not know who I am

Then tell me who you really are sir, she insists

No need, lass, you will know as you persist

Why, sir, why? She sees the gleaming hand again

I am looking for the poet they say who paints

His smiling eyes saddens shaking his head in pain

No, poets don’t paint, they dance

I am no poet but I too dance, she laughs

Show me your dance steps then and I’ll show you mine

Thus starts the story of two strangers, a poet and a lass who both love poetry and dance

O how they could dance

And soon both have palms that gleam and glow in the night sky

As beautiful words make their light formation on high

Wednesday, February 13, 2019

where the sky glues us

sky meets leaves
sky meets water
sky meets trees
sky meets people

Where the sky meets us

there is a quiet space

if you will just listen with your heart

you will find it not too hard

to love and not hate

to give what you lack

to resist

loathing

to desist

stifling

this super-bonding love

so thickly glues

us

just as the sky

so magnanimously

lavishly

glues

its

blue

on leaves on water on trees

on you and on me

where our lives meet, there is always time

“I haven’t written to you for a long time,” he scribbled in long hand, “it is not because I have forgotten our times. ” The letter came to a halt in the next white space, meant for paragraphs to be filled, stained with patches of water (something spilled?) mark. “It is Christmas Day and I think of you, standing under the tree outside my window, long hair blowing in the wind, with the kindest look in your smiling dark eyes, just as we first met.” Again, white empty spaces sprawled out where words could have spawned. “I pray you will soon read this friendly invitation and find time to meet your OLD spouse, waiting for love.”

On December 27 he received this —— She replied with a short poem/note below.

Where our lives shall meet

there is always time

icy springs to cross

sunny lanes to walk

yonder old hills for climber

a new river dam for fisher

neighboring wood to hunt

back yard red chili to plant

coops to mend

stocks to feed

glittering stars to behold

fluffy clouds for abode

two crystal glasses for us to clink

bountiful gleeful moments in the pink

mirths to laugh

tears to wipe

work to do

sweat a lot

chicken coop

duck pond

love

life

restored time

From me to you with old love.

This month’s photo challenge in square format from Becky#timesquare

December Squares -the time of a poet

December Squares -the time of a poet

A time to move on, Elin, he says, and they set sail to England.

The poet sighs as the two slowly walk,

Down a memory lane hand in hand they talk.

Now I am thirty-five and you not younger,

raising a farm family of a boy and two girls.

Tis time to sell all: Derry farm at New England,

this 30-acre farm with pasture land,

green fields, woodlands, orchard, gentle fall,

hen coops, livestock, apple and pear trees all.

Yes, we seem to have lived here all our lives,

Winter, spring, summer and fall foliage drives.

I always liked to sit up all hours of the night,

Sitting by a bush in broad sunlight,

Planning, crafting, formulating the star-splitter,

Going for water an old man’s winter night.

Bumping into two tramps in mud time,

Near stampede by lone gleeful cow flying in apple time.

Hearing a bird singing in its sleep,

Chirping we must leave and sail across the vast blue deep.

Looking for a sunset bird in winter,

Never again would birds’ song be the same or matter.

In a poem I could give all to time,

To England the old country here we come.

Note: I admit this is a rather primitive and ‘impromptu’ attempt made as I imagine how the poet Robert Frost had contemplated when he decided to leave New Hampshire and sail to England. The decision paid off. His poems were published and given recognition. He left America an unknown writer and returned to be hailed a leader of “the new era in American poetry”.  The discerning fans of the poet may note that the above attempt included some titles of the poet’s poems.

This months photo challenge in square format from Becky is #timesquare

December Squares -the time of a poet

a joyous ascent from joy to joy

reflection
a joyous ascent: Nehemiah 12:27-43

A joyous ascent
poetry alone cannot reveal: a poetic study on Nehemiah 12:27-43 our words and pictures and the light

Come
assist
celebrate
Priests singers musicians leaders people
Large choirs all
Ezra the writer for God leads
I follow

Joyous thanksgiving
with cymbals harps and lyres
ready singers all around
All to sing
rise to top
marching south and marching north
to water gate
to guard gate
congregate

At the Temple of our God
take your places
so do I
choir director to direct
play and sing
at full blast

For God has given
His people cause
great joy with many joyous gifts
families old and young women and children none left out
participate celebrate

Filled with pure joy
far and near
shore to shore
heart to heart
be blessed

another attempt: the windows are open

from where we stand, on this street, the windows are open

windows are open
blue screen: windows open

windows of opportunity
open daily
to hearts that tally
and not give up

patiently
perseveringly
waiting for the break

dawns always break
at the first ray of light

come alive
a call
so still and quiet
yet you hear it
high and wide

many years ago
he heard
and passed it by

now the call
again so faint yet vivid
come alive
at this first ray of light

the windows are open
from where you stand