Encounters me like
A brick wall, immovable -- these
People are not going to change, nor see reason today
If I can see what needs to be done, then do it. Headdesk banging just bruises my brain.
Not the thunderous pontifications of dictators,
Nor the terror visited upon our cities too often,
Nor advanced weapons systems and missile tests
That move our world and effect lasting change.
Not the weight of monetary gain, nor one percent wealth,
Nor the intelligence behind presidential think tanks
Nor the noisemakers, talking heads, or media celebrities
That shake our world’s convictions nor advance our condition
These are but distractions in a purposeless existence
Jesters in the marketplace of ideas vying for our purchase
Blaring, glaring, daring voices convinced of their own importance
And they will be but yesterday’s news come the rising of next sun.
Not the famous, nor historical, not the man who would be king
It’s the quiet voice of lenity, the gentle voice almost drowned out
That makes us face ourselves and stop and think. It’s the saints
We know on local shores whose moral suasion gravitates the tides.
The movers and shakers who shape the things to come are not
They who bully, legislate, sermonize, philosophize unceasingly.
Look for the gentle man with the heavenly dove at rest on his hands,
The roaring lamb whose life exemplifies the better self we all could be.
That line of stately poplars
Defines the main avenue
Up to the great house on this
Dignified, historic, if not dilapidated
Estate; those trees, the last of
The heraldry of the Ancien Régime
That once defined the closest thing
To caste an American Society has, and
They are the last witnesses to days
Of brighter glory when erstwhile
Industrialists and philanthropists
Tried their hand at raising the sights
Of the poor and displaced among them.
Trouble was, that dream was false, for
The Invitation to better one’s lot was
But a mirage. True advancement never
Was the object, for none of “them”
Would ever set foot in the gentlemen’s
Clubs, nor worship from the front pew
Of the Presbyterian Church, or be
Elected to office in this town, to that Council.
But winds of change do blow and when they strike
Those poplars, erstwhile stalwarts of an inflexible
Social structure suddenly were bowing and scraping
And doing homage to the gale-force winds of
Fermenting reform. The secret to the trees’ survival
Is to accommodate and adjust to prevailing trends
And offer the path of least resistance. And the elements
Believe they are accomplishing something significant.
But movements falter, enthusiasm wanes and the
Hoi Polloi do have miserable lives to get back to:
Children to raise, bread on the table, propagation
Of the next desperate working class generation.
The cause be left for yet another day, and those poplars,
Once erstwhile accommodators to the forces that would
Move them, return to their former stately function
Of dividing lines of property and inheritance to which
None of “them” will ever gain admittance.
Ceinwen [KINE-win] – beautiful blessed gems
Bronwen [BRON-win] – Of the White Breast
Banon [BAY-nun] -- Queen
Ceiridwen [SARAH-dwen] – Fair Poetess (Welsh Celtic)
In Welsh myth, Ceiridwen is the goddess of poetic inspiration, and mother of Taleisin
Taleisin [TALLEY es-sen], legendary Welsh bard of the sixth century. In folklore, his stature rises to that of a wizard and companion and advisor to King Arthur in Camelot
Peaceful wash, purge my pain
Gently penetrate to my core
Evening’s misty light
Sweet rainbow bright
Blest color scheme
Descending like a dream
May I embrace
This mindful centeredness of grace
Peaceful wash, purge my pain
Should I surmount this stage
And face those lights so bright
I'd only have the courage
Knowing that just behind
Those blinding footlights
And o'erpowering floods
That on the first row
You sit enraptured.
I cannot see you, feel or touch
But your smile, warmth and
Glistening tears tell me
How pleased you are with me
Tonight and every night.
For you know, that in my house
There's only one whose favor
And applause I seek
It is you, sweet Darling
Lover of my soul
And to you in sweet
Soliloquy let me pour
Out gently into your soul
The anthem of my heart
When all is said and done
May this my message be
That I have loved you
From the start, and
In love with you
I will always be
Ohhh.....love less life....
You have choked me;
An open heart I offered you
You deceived me with your looks.
Was my Heart ever to know?
I even was so foolish.
No risk, no gain, no love,
Why do l feel so incomplete...
I thought you loved me.
What do I have to show
For all this misplaced belief?
Love has many colors so they say
But you gave me nothing but Tears
What I thought were such vibrant hues
Have all turned now, color my heart blue
Sylvan scene beyond the boggy marshes
Softly sweet this bosky stand of hemlock
Invites us in and deeper yet, chambered
In sweet surrender to passionate love.
None can see, nor hear, nor find us hiding
Nestled in the intimacy of soul
Where like this one lost creek meandering
We are not anxious to leave this shelter.
Cover me with kisses, and I'll enter
With rejoicing in this magic whose spell
Turns wetlands forthwith to beauty's burrows
And innocent expressions to Eden.
In the cool of the day we'll walk and talk
At home with our Creator who is pleased.