When will the day bring its pleasure?
  When will the night bring its rest?
Reaper and gleaner and thresher
  Peer toward the east and the west:--
  The Sower He knoweth, and He knoweth best.

Meteors flash forth and expire,
  Northern lights kindle and pale;
These are the days of desire,
  Of eyes looking upward that fail;
  Vanishing days as a finishing tale.

Bows down the crop in its glory
  Tenfold, fifty-fold, hundred-fold;
The millet is ripened and hoary,
  The wheat ears are ripened to gold:--
  Why keep us waiting in dimness and cold?

The Lord of the harvest, He knoweth
  Who knoweth the first and the last:
The Sower Who patiently soweth,
  He scanneth the present and past:
  He saith, "What thou hast, what remaineth, hold fast."

Yet, Lord, o'er Thy toil-wearied weepers
  The storm-clouds hang muttering and frown:
On threshers and gleaners and reapers,
  O Lord of the harvest, look down;
  Oh for the harvest, the shout, and the crown!

"Not so," saith the Lord of the reapers,
  The Lord of the first and the last:
"O My toilers, My weary, My weepers,
  What ye have, what remaineth, hold fast.
  Hide in My heart till the vengeance be past."

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close *****-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cell.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,---
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir, the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Bring, in this timeless grave to throw,
No cypress, sombre on the snow;
Snap not from the bitter yew
His leaves that live December through;
Break no rosemary, bright with rime
And sparkling to the cruel clime;
Nor plod the winter land to look
For willows in the icy brook
To cast them leafless round him: bring
No spray that ever buds in spring.

But if the Christmas field has kept
Awns the last gleaner overstept,
Or shrivelled flax, whose flower is blue
A single season, never two;
Or if one haulm whose year is o'er
Shivers on the upland frore,
--Oh, bring from hill and stream and plain
Whatever will not flower again,
To give him comfort: he and those
Shall bide eternal bedfellows
Where low upon the couch he lies
Whence he never shall arise.

I
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
   Close *****-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
   With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
   And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
       To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
   With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
       For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

II
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
   Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
   Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
   Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
       Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
   Steady thy laden head across a brook;
   Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
       Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

III
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
   Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
   And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
   Among the river sallows, borne aloft
       Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
   Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
   The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
       And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Nay, Lord, not thus! white lilies in the spring,
Sad olive-groves, or silver-breasted dove,
Teach me more clearly of Thy life and love
Than terrors of red flame and thundering.
The hillside vines dear memories of Thee bring:
A bird at evening flying to its nest
Tells me of One who had no place of rest:
I think it is of Thee the sparrows sing.
Come rather on some autumn afternoon,
When red and brown are burnished on the leaves,
And the fields echo to the gleaner’s song,
Come when the splendid fulness of the moon
Looks down upon the rows of golden sheaves,
And reap Thy harvest:  we have waited long.

Her solemn eyes shares the work of a torn heart
She gazes into a darkened abyss she calls her melancholia
A place, cold and familiar, like a bedroom closet
It is neither open nor closed; the home of dim secrets

She feels and feels and feels until numb
Detached is far better, oh sister of her apathy
Where is the strength to rise?
To harvest again the morning sun

It takes all her power as she clings
She fights to remember that once she was happy
A gleaner of laughter and hope
She is worthy of a second chance

Not allowed to be part of her life
Only a casual bystander
Feeding on the crumbs of her
Tossed to me by others
ljm

Turn up the boom box
Let’s hear some classic remixing
Close the curtains
Turn down the shades
I am the lady of the night
Let’s rock away
As I wish not to sleep
But just have some fun
I want to go back
When loving you
Was real
When kisses and roses
Were romantic
When music was sweet
Soothing to ears
When the taste of love
Was irresistible
When music and love
Was at its best
Write your name across my heart
Was my song
Sealed with a kiss
When I was your lady in red
Turn down the shades
Close the curtains
Let’s hear the classic remixing
Turn up the boom box

Christena Antonia Valaire Williams
found in the Archives of The Gleaner Company of Jamaica

You had the talk of old
and were a gleaner
who cautioned,
before the maelstrom
consumed you.
I recall you were once doused
with lime dust
to scream down your walls,
having dread of the tree-lines
whose opaquity fenced you in
like the rest of the then World.

Autumn by John Keats

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
   Close *****-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
   With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
   And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
      To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
   With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
      For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
   Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
   Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
   Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
      Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
   Steady thy laden head across a brook;
   Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
      Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they?
   Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
   And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
   Among the river sallows, borne aloft
      Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
   Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
   The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
      And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

SUN RISE
AS THE SUN RISES SO DO MY HOPES AND ASPIRATIONS
EVERY TICKLING SECOND DEFLATES MY MISERY AND SUFFERING
HOPELESSNESS AND FRUSTRATIONS EATING AWAY LIKE AN HOUR CLOCK
HEART BEATING IN MY CHEST DAILY AN ASSURANCE I AM NOT DONE YET
THOUGH FAINT HEAR TED AT TIMES THE THOUGHT THAT VICTORY IS NEAR
INFLATES MY WILL WITH POWER AND COURAGE TAKING AWAY MY FEAR

SOME TIMES I HEAR TRUMPETS OF DOOM FILLING THE AIR
LOUD WHISPERS AND RANTINGS OF FAIILURE AND DESPAIR
IN MY HEAD ARE COMMOTIONS AND NOISES AM UNABLE TO SHARE
SOMETIMES GETTING TOO LOUD AND PAINFUL TO BEAR
I JUST SINK MY HEAD ONTO MY OPEN HANDS AND TEAR DOWN

WITH THE END OF MY TEARS GOES MY PAIN ALBEIT FOR A WHILE
ANOTHER MORNING USHERS IN A GLEANER OF HOPE
SOUNDS OF TRUMPETS ARE WANING INTO THE HORIZON
WEAVER BIRDS SING THEIR SONGS OF HOPE AND TRIUMPH
I LOOK UP THE HEAVENS ON MY KNEES WITH OPEN ARMS
AND MURMUR A SHORT SIMPLE PRAYER OF THANKS GIVING

OOH GOD OF ALL LIVING AND NON LIVING THINGS
PLEASE STRETCH YOUR COMFORTING HAND UNTO ME
LET YOUR UNENDING LOVE ILLUMINATE MY LIFE
AND DROWN ME IN YOUR ETERNAL BLESSINGS
AMEN.

Under our Flame of the Forest
is a bald patch on the lawn where
gleaner birds ground feed from
the generosity of upper echelons.