"wends" poems
up in the high country the wild horses run free
they've done so for nigh on a century
not a saddle upon their backs
enabling them to gallop unchecked around its tract
in the Guy Fawkes National park there is a harass of them
trotting through its blue hued wends
their days are numbered in the park
park authorities want end to their spirited lark
up in the high country the wild horses run free
they've done so for nigh on a century
not a saddle upon their backs
enabling them to gallop unchecked around its tract
to sight the wild horses in full cantering step
is exhilarating and fills one's heart with miles of pep
their hooves thundering and pelting along
to the wind's strong liberating throng
up in the high country the wild horses run free
they've done so for nigh on a century
not a saddle upon their backs
enabling them to gallop unchecked around its tract
down the steep ravines and o'er the hills they stride
without the reins of a man holding their ranging pride
the wild horses have need of open lands to caper and pace
they are a breed which must be allowed to freely race
up in the high country the wild horses run free
they've done so for nigh on a century
not a saddle upon their backs
enabling them to gallop unchecked around its tract
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 9:10 PM UTC
In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should
You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent
Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,
Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies
Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew. O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right
To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon
The doons. In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 2:07 PM UTC
~~~<¤>~~~
through
lichen clouds
and lace of leaves
moonlight wanders
wends and weaves
a cowl'd orb
a saintly pearl
a poem rewritten
by the world
a swooning dove
a gentle face
in loving here
there's no disgrace
brings She out
her mystery still
floating effortless
at will
how oft does She
rehearse the game
in many phases
do the same
in Her embrace
sweet dreams are free
unbound by
moonlight mystery
soulsurvivor
(C) 8/29/2015
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 12:42 AM UTC
.
*Tumbling stones rumble unheard,
a slide that sends gravity shifting,
starting a new path through time,
the butterfly effect begins shifting.*
i.
The ancient track
is solid beneath her feet,
though she has walked
between the stars.
She knows not the place
but has been there before,
And the trail wends its way
through forest dense and dark
to a hags tooth mound
and the Tomb of Travellers,
upon the stone door
an inscription, a warning.
'Prepare to go everywhere.
Prepare to go nowhere'
ii.
*“Let time take me wither it will,
be it fluid or be it still”.*
iii.
The slow grating of stone on stone
as the door swings open,
light penetrating the gloom,
and the Tomb reveals its treasures.
She enters with reverence
and moves to a vacant plinth,
a marbled seat warm and empty,
her place for the connection ritual.
iv.
A mix of herbs into a secret potion,
preparing herself to swim Time's ocean,
clear cool water to bathe her skin,
awaiting the pendulum of life to swing.
The symbols in her third eye complete,
she eases so gently into her travel seat,
bringing the brew to her expectant lips,
a bitter taste as over her tongue it slips.
v.
Oh gently rock her mind to sleep,
just one last barrier for her to leap,
through Times gate to other places,
as the drug through her mind races.
vi.
A small squat figure emerges
in a midnight blue hooded robe,
Grimly the Guardian of the Gate,
carrying careful an ancient globe.
And her eyes glow with wonder
as she receives the Seers Sphere,
cloudy with the hue of pearl,
its significance is so crystal clear.
vii.
She places it in a depression
in the arm of the marbled chair,
settles herself and closes her eyes,
letting her mind drift on the air.
The connection ritual reaching ******
acceptance or rejection time is near.
Will the bond form betwixt them?
She places her hand on the Seers Sphere …
© Pagan Paul (30/09/18)
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 6:04 AM UTC
Da Dum Da Dum - melodic sonnet beat,
Ten syllables on each and ev'ry line;
Enough to put the reader fast asleep,
And don't forget the **** thing has to rhyme.
Just fourteen lines exact, no more - no less,
To revel in some tantalising plot;
Two short quatrains endeavour to address,
And introduce the who, the where, the what.
Then just four lines to tell a second tale,
That wends and weaves on some tangential route,
To set the scene that leads to the unveil
As if the reader gives a flaming hoot!
A rhyming couplet finishes the tryst,
To hit them with that all important twist!
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 8:31 AM UTC
In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should
You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent
Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,
Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies
Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew. O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right
To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon
The doons. In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 8:11 PM UTC
2 am and i can't sleep
wide awake too tired to weep
funny how feelings
can make you weak
it's a long road, rough and steep
just hope i find the peace i seek.
people are so sweet and kind
if only they could help unwind
the tortured ropes within my mind
could help me break
the chains that bind
only God can help me find
bless'd release from this
pain which grinds
carrying a sack of stones
is no weight to bear alone
it will break my very bones
i want to cry, but will not groan
what I must do is clearly shown
i must be humble and atone.
i've got a message to be spread
been writing vanity instead
when all is done, all is said
when pretense is finally shed
is it truth or lies i've fed
my fire, in truth, is almost dead.
try and understand, my friends
no matter what the current trends
this path we're on
has trech'rous bends
the broad way winds
the narrow wends
but all paths DO have their END.
though i have been torn apart
it is time for a new start
strength comes from
the peaceful heart...
(c) soulsurvivor
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 4:44 AM UTC
Very early before the birds
the morning moon travels to underworlds
gathering stars and seas of glowing pearls
when swift the sweep of darkness goes
the night from black to indigo
blue in layers, the light unravels
then wends the coming day
the dawning sky of gold.
Jul 9, 2016
Jul 9, 2016 at 9:58 PM UTC
.
Hair the colour of Ravens,
skin the colour of Crows,
eyes the colour of Rooks,
somehow it just flows,
as she walks
down the path
like a bride,
with the sway
of the sultry,
and the smile
of the Huntress.
Her way lined
by the bowed heads
of willows,
meandering,
with the feint ******
of water bubbling
over pebbles,
from the mountain stream
that wends in consort
and chimes
with the bells on her toes.
Her breath, mist
in the morning air,
as she seeks her prey,
a victim of lust,
with no pardon,
mossy rocks glide by
as her pace slows,
dew soaking her feet,
dawn glade,
the jaws of her trap.
© Pagan Paul (17/08/18)
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 11:16 AM UTC
In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should
You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent
Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,
Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies
Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew. O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right
To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon
The doons. In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!
Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 3:36 PM UTC
In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should
You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent
Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,
Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies
Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew. O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right
To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon
The doons. In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 12:31 PM UTC
Why has Spring one syllable less
Than any its fellow season?
There may be some other reason,
And I'm merely making a guess;
But surely it hoards such wealth
Of happiness, hope and health,
Sunshine and musical sound,
It may spare a foot from its name
Yet all the same
Superabound.
Soft-named Summer,
Most welcome comer,
Brings almost everything
Over which we dream or sing
Or sigh;
But then Summer wends its way,
To-morrow,--to-day,--
Good-bye!
Autumn,--the slow name lingers,
While we likewise flag;
It silences many singers;
Its slow days drag,
Yet hasten at speed
To leave us in chilly need
For Winter to strip indeed.
In all-lack Winter,
Dull of sense and of sound,
We huddle and shiver
Beside our splinter
Of crackling pine,
Snow in sky and snow on ground.
Winter and cold
Can't last for ever!
To-day, to-morrow, the sun will shine;
When we are old,
But some still are young,
Singing the song
Which others have sung,
Ringing the bells
Which others have rung,--
Even so!
We ourselves, who else?
We ourselves long
Long ago.
2.1k
In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should
You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent
Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,
Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies
Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew. O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right
To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon
The doons. In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 2:49 PM UTC
.
In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should
You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent
Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,
Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies
Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew. O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right
To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon
The doons. In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 3:48 PM UTC
1626
No Life can pompless pass away—
The lowliest career
To the same Pageant wends its way
As that exalted here—
How cordial is the mystery!
The hospitable Pall
A “this way” beckons spaciously—
A Miracle for all!
1.7k
The plough boy wends his merry way
and whistles up the sun today.
Yesterday he made it rain,
and ploughing was postponed again!
Tomorrow if his notes are low
Perhaps we will be in for snow.
But if his tunes are all displeasing
Expect a bitter morn-with freezing!
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 9:36 AM UTC
These I Call
I reach, my feet toes digging into
the soft damp earth
this is the power of Body,
clay and sand and rock
this is the Grounding Point
This is the point of Calm of Rest
I Call North
I entreat the Earth
I acknowledge the Power of My Body
I throw my hands high reaching, yearning
the wind wends my skirt round my staff in Freedom
This is the point of Reason
This is Zephyr and Breeze and Gale
I call East
I entreat The Air
I acknowledge the Power of My Mind
Now I pull my Power
from deep in my core
call and play until it dances over my fingers
This is the point of healing Fire
This is the Power of My Actions
The crack of lightning and the snap of Fire
I call South
I Entreat Fire
I Acknowledge the Power of My Actions
Now I flow in not out
engulfed, enfolded warm and safe
as the day before breath
This is the point of Feeling of
comfort both given and received
I call West
I entreat Water
I Acknowledge the Power of My Feelings
Upward pulled with Luna Joined
With Sky and Moon I am rapt in a star filled bowl
This is the place of Consciousness
I Call a Sacred Place
This is Galaxy, Moon, and Stars
I call Up
I Entreat The Cosmos
I acknowledge The Power of my Consciousness
Through my mind and my core
Through that which makes me Witch
Through legs into Earth
Through crust and deeper yet
Slower it steadies and my heartbeat slows ,
and matches that which sustains us
I Call Down
I entreat The Core , This Sacred Place
I Acknowledge The Greater Life and Web of all Being
Mother Earth
From within now come Soul Spirit
Essence of Life
This is where My Lady waits
Goddess , Ancestors , Guides and Companions
I Call The Center
I Entreat The Spirit
I Acknowledge the inner ways and song and dance
Visions Quests and Dream Times
and Shadoewalkers
These I Entreat and Invite
These I Honor and would learn from
These are gifts to me
from My Sweet Lady
Among these I will wait
In this Sacred Place
Solita@2008
Jan 2, 2010
Jan 2, 2010 at 11:18 AM UTC
my spirit wends
the woof and warp
~~~~~
appreciation
~~~~~
the aperture of my eyes
apprehend an amalgamation
of subtle ochre and olive
~~~~~
the shuttle oscillates
into the
oblivion of
a henna hued horizon
~~~~~
cacti in clusters
huddle under
"Mother Trees"
and other larger
spiny denizens of the desert
~~~~~
moisture is maintained
by miniscule leaf
and maximum storage
~~~~~
saguaro still sanguine
with water
~~~~~
what a tenuous
tapestry is knotted
in this temporal
craft
~~~~~
awe inspired by
the wheeling of hawk
even vultures have
elegant eloquence
of place
~~~~~
i floated all above
this macrocosm
higher and higher
til I was only
only a mote
in the eye
of
EAGLES
Apr 14, 2017
Apr 14, 2017 at 3:26 PM UTC
While whispers shush on sheltered shores, as soon the cockcrow quakes,
the seas descry a skittish sky, sense summer zephyrs wake –
roused passions neath the sunrise pulse, the whitecaps throb and ache.
Along the crests crawl shallow shades the soaring sun effaces,
and rain in streams belies the dreams that fantasy embraces –
the ocean sprays of yesterdays conceal forsaken faces.
The midday sun has slowed its run, a shrinking puddle steams,
between the knells for shattered shells drift wounded seagulls’ screams –
affection blends but sometimes ends, or so it sadly seems.
At dusk a ruddy disk descends, the skyline's furnace burns
and neath the swells where Neptune dwells, an undercurrent churns –
a seahorse hides and seaweed bides until the tempest turns.
While twilight hosts the winds with ghosts of barbed electric spangles,
a mermaid braves the crashing waves adorned with starfish bangles –
the spirit yearns in twists and turns entwined in rockweed tangles.
As seven stranded ****** scan the dimple-dappled moon,
eleven sultry sirens serenade a lonely loon –
the breakers pound and sometimes sound a melancholy tune.
Soon gales ignite the briny night and rip the skies askew
with zigzag teeth flashed deep beneath a blazing bolt tattoo –
storms, spent, subside with ebbing tides, then all begins anew.While whispers shush on sheltered shores, as soon the cockcrow quakes,
the seas descry a skittish sky, sense summer zephyrs wake –
roused passions neath the sunrise pulse, the whitecaps throb and ache.
Along the crests crawl shallow shades the soaring sun effaces
and rains in streams enhance the dreams that fantasy embraces
while ocean sprays of yesterdays reveal forsaken faces.
The midday sun has slowed its run, a shrinking puddle steams,
between the knells of shattered shells drift soaring seagulls’ screams –
the beauty wends but never ends, or so it surely seems.
At dusk a ruddy disk descends, the skyline's furnace burns
and neath the swells where Neptune dwells, an undercurrent churns –
a seahorse hides and seaweed bides until the tempest turns.
While twilight hosts the winds with ghosts of barbed electric spangles,
a mermaid braves the crashing waves adorned with starfish bangles –
her spirit yearns in twists and turns entwined in rockweed tangles.
As seven stranded ****** scan the dimple-dappled moon,
a brace of surly Sirens serenade a lonely loon –
the breakers pound and sometimes sound a melancholy tune.
Soon gales ignite the briny night and rip the skies askew
with zigzag teeth flashed deep beneath a blazing bolt tattoo –
storms, spent, subside in ebbing tides, then all begins anew.
Feb 3, 2017
Feb 3, 2017 at 4:21 AM UTC
a storm is brewing
over Bakers Creek
the sound of the thunder
is less than meek
streaks of lightning
have hit the tall gum trees
and scattered
the small native bush bees
grim grey tones
have replaced the sunlight
the tempest is ensuing
with all its might
out of the full clouds
the rain now generously falls
rolling thunder echoes
through the Western wind squalls
on the bare hillsides
the dampness soaks in
giving the soil
a good drench to the skin
the dusty track
is laden with wetness
which leaves a smell
of sweet earthiness
the storm has past
and quietness descends
it is making its way
across the Clerkness wends
then it shall travel
along the Eastern range pines
until it resounds
over the acqua blue coastline
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 5:37 PM UTC
Alone, it seems, I travel,
but not alone, I fear.
There are shadowy, staring eyes that pierce
and whispers that scrape my ear.
I need to find my way,
and running takes me nowhere,
as I tread the ceaseless circle path
lost and only just aware
that the darkness ever deepens.
As the daylight begins its end,
my mind casts prescient stones in dirt
with a hope my course propitious wends.
So on I trek untouched,
my eye and mind feel no connection
to the time or to the scenes
that loom and crawl in each new direction.
Jan 11, 2012
Jan 11, 2012 at 5:24 PM UTC
up in the high country the wild horses run free
they've done so for nigh on a century
not a saddle upon their backs
enabling them to canter unchecked around its tract
in the National park there is a harass of them
trotting through it's blue hued wends
their days are numbered in the park
park authorities want end to their spirited lark
up in the high country the wild horses run free
they've done so for nigh on a century
not a saddle upon their backs
enabling them to canter unchecked around its tract
to sight the wild horses in full galloping step
is exhilarating and it fills one's heart with miles of pep
their hooves thundering and pelting along
to the wind's strong liberating song
up in the high country the wild horses run free
they've done so for nigh on a century
not a saddle upon their backs
enabling them to canter unchecked around its tract
down the steep ravines and o'er the hills they stride
without the reins of a man holding their ranging pride
the wild horses have need of open lands to caper and race
they are a breed which must be allowed to freely pace
up in the high country the wild horses run free
they've done so for nigh on a century
not a saddle upon their backs
enabling them to canter unchecked around its tract
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 8:36 AM UTC
In dreams I see her blonde hair
always in a pony tail
She walks along the shoreline
Scouring the sand for treasure
Light blue shorts and a striped shirt
She quietly wends her way
Bare feet in and out of foam
In her hands, she holds small shells
Delicate and colorful
Orange, pink, yellow and white
These were wampum long ago
Gone now, all gone from this shore
But there she is, eight years old
Golden, tanned, happy alone
Treasures, wampum in her hand
She slips them in her pocket
Stepping into the water
She sees something moving there
A scallop! So carefully,
She reaches down patiently
Leads it with her hand until
The live mollusk slips right in
Clamping shut as she lifts it
It is beautiful, alive.
She knows they have many eyes
A bright blue like no other
If opened, they look like eggs
Cracked, sunny side up inside
Return it to the water
Watching for the many eyes
It hesitates, then opens
Jets away, ever backward
She lifts her face to the sun
One must notice those blue eyes
Then they cloud, time is short now
Soon the sun will leave the sky.
She runs for her red bucket
Half fills it with salt water
The water to her ankles,
She twists her feet, digs up clams
Chowders and some Cherrystones
Digging clams with little toes
Fills the bucket, off she goes.
Wednesday’s child is full of woes.
© Lin Cava 29-August-2008
I grew up on an island. Clams and scallops, ***** and flounder were plentiful and available for the taking. No one took more than they could eat. I had bay fishermen in the family – and they earned their living from the bounty of the waters around us. This poem is about a girl growing up in just such a place. Children this age are often not left to themselves. She thrives in solitude, happiest there. Notice there is no running or jumping or laughter. This is meant to be a somber work. The child knows that she is older than her years, yet she takes her happiness in those simple things that children do. So might we all be awestruck at the beauty of shells, the feeling of a living creature with its own beauty, in our hands. If only we could take the time. In whatever life holds for her, the girl takes her childhood in whatever way she can. Gazing over the water, whether it is the ocean, the bay or a lake, she often sees a woman there, a projection from within. I often see the child in my work. I am a Wednesday Child.
Oct 25, 2010
Oct 25, 2010 at 4:10 PM UTC
A curling green tendril climbs from its’ birthing nest of rotting bird ****
The creeper wends its’ way up round and around the stalk of its’ slender tree host. Leading vigorously ever upward, it climbs toward the light of day. Upon bursting through to the sunshine, it explodes into a huge and suffocating dominance. Wrapping its’ leaders tightly together, writhing skyward, smothering all else. Blotting out the sun. Inhibiting its’ host tree, ultimately killing it ...and every other living plant located below it.
In late summer the creeper produces bunched, masses of frothy, green, seeded florets. Clouds of green plumed waxeyes flock en mass, to flutter, competing ravenously to feast on the banks of seed heads.
Once replete, with full crops, the tiny birds fly off to distant shaded woods there to indiscriminately drop their **** unknowingly further spreading the insidious creeper pestilence.
I trudge through my wooded glades,
Indignantly I sever taproot after taproot with my trusty sharp blade
….and watch that creeper limply sag and die
With a glint of satisfaction in my grim and vengeful eye.
M.
6 February 2016
Foxglove farm, Taranaki, NZ
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 4:50 PM UTC
Alight, alight! That honeyed bow
Wends through sky, celestial arc
Imbued with bright and cosmic spark
Light about her dims as colour shows
Vivid, supreme, rainbow's girth
Envelops all the world and sky
As tender creatures go flitting by
Bow blooms in to view and lights all earth
To Rainbow's strength I have aspired
And for her fine beauty: who conspired?
Alight, alight! That hallowed sight
Swims in to mind, borne aloft
On lovely, gentle zephyr soft
Harbringer of eternal delight
Fierce the luscious hues and hot
The blazing fury of the bow
The spectrum of joy I, loving, know
A soothing sight above my cot
In distant deeps she manifests
For her touch, I feel blessed
Feb 3, 2017
Feb 3, 2017 at 10:01 AM UTC