Let there be meadows of green
with silvery dew
A sprawling wool blanket
with room just for two
Let our laughter ring clear
Over hill, over tree
Tepid toast in paper cups
A spring love decree
My own little dedication to the wonderful Sara Teasdale (1884-1933). Her simple yet beautiful poems were oft inspired by the seasons. Happy Summer Solistice!
On this Father’s Day I’m sharing a picture of my dad from 1966.
My sisters’ names are on the chalkboard. I was a mere twinkle in his eye at this point – he was on an Antarctic expedition and some 5000km from my mother 🙂
Strewn saffron strands paint the sky
as morning birds float gently by
The waves creep onto my shore
leeching a salted residue
like sweat evaporated on skin
low tide reveals my within
Shallow rock pools
brimming with shine
medusa sea grasses
suspended in brine
and starfish curl and sway
whisper good morning, good day
Ocean renew me in cyclic refrain
infuse me with currents
from warmed summer rain
as my heart
For a moment I lost track of time
is it morning, or afternoon
and are you still mine?
Are the footprints on the porch
you coming or leaving?
Are we acres of joy
or vast fields of grieving?
And who is the man in the picture
on the wobbled side table?
I’d tell you his name
if I were but able
Besides him smiles the lovely bride
I have that dress don’t I….
and posy bouquet, but dried?
Where am I again
and will I ever be
reunited with you
in full clarity….
Image is my first foray into the world of macro. Inspired by Pete Hillman and his beautiful blog (petehillmansnaturephotography). Of course, when you are focussed on the world of miniature: a type of meditation ensues and for me, words tumble. Enjoy.
One cannot force the hand of fate
You are a child at the playground’s locked gate
She is the Italian train, forever late
Or the distracted friend on a coffee date
“sorry there in ten”
Sit tight and wait
One cannot slow the hands of time
Her heavy fruit falls from the vine
Another birthday, spill some wine
A final, exquisite aria line
Perhaps there is no vacancy
within this heart of mine
Barren chambers barely fill
if bound by knotted twine
Perhaps you think you’ve found the key
That it should slide in
Yet, even words of graphite dust
shall fail against the lock’s
Perhaps in time you shall forget
don’t stop trying yet
Happy mid week to all the hopeless romantics.
in a musty corner of a book store
Beneath yellowed newsprint and papers high
Neither first edition nor collector’s find
A battered book
beyond it’s prime
The gilded print worn off my spine
Regard my tufted leather edge
from forlorn lover’s finger pledge
Cotton binding frayed by touch
So let me rest in dust some more
by the sombre Mahler score
my last page ripped out