I have not met you, and yet I feel
the emptiness of your distance.
The recurring remembrance that you are,
and that I can’t hold you.
An ache, that brings me to my pen.
You are now a force of inspiration,
with power to move emotion
by your mere existence,
and a place in my heart.
To have just one true friend
who can be trusted to understand.
To not breath a word or hint
to any other.
Just one who is true and faithful
who keeps even the unspoken confidence,
however sensational or sad
to their self.
To know just one
with whom secrets and things are safe.
Honest and pure, or ordinary.
The Raven screeches, “No Refuge!”,
and winter blows cold bleakness.
The Hawk dives in for the kill,
as night coats all in dark aloneness.
The Shark shows no mercy to feed himself.
Deep water swirls over, cutting off hope and breath.
The black Snake hisses slander and gossip
to those who feel bloatedly proud to “know”.
The Pharisee executes “judgement!, Shunning!”
Those sticks and stones wound, and kill faith.
The one who causes others to trip and stumble,
t’would be better he have a large millstone around his neck
and be drowned in the depths of the sea.
Each Spring is winter’s absolution
Past winters long forgotten
those things that winter killed are laid to rest.
Survivors bloom with graciousness;
holding no grudges,
keeping back nothing for vengeance’ sake.
Possibly foolish at times
Even vegetable gardens
Asks for help
Eases into conversations carefully
Direct in thought
Overt lover of classical music
Needs her loyal friends
Tendency toward prolix
Fails to get it right, often
Or at least sometimes
Reads too much
Gossamer wings enchant her
Tolerably good at chess
Marvels at sunsets
Endless source of dumb poems
congregate on the
Lake in the City because they feel
safe there. These havens are for when they
need food and fellowship. They make these stops
on their way south, where it will be warm and sunny. And
they thumb their beaks at hunters.
They look down from their V shaped height, and
feel sorry for the White Geese,who are
slaves to men. Their ends are sure,
and Pâté is scheduled.
And they can’t
©October 2012. Pam J.
Digging deep for meaning
and sundry items
Lengthy time searching
inside.high and low (and around)
Spilling debris of contents
brushing off my dress
Difficulty finding Meaning and Purpose
Time to clean out my purse.
Large King James sitting way up front
with fluffed up feathers taking notes
These pompous things distract me
A new thought thrills us
rhyming into poetry or a talk
we feel more love that day
These self-centered things detract me
Traditions that mean something to the group
that hold more firmly than a verse in scripture
though thread and ropes attempt to tie it
These dried up things despise me
The smells of spring tiptoe
my olfactory nerves
making themselves known in
a hundred different scents.
Determining which they all are
and what they are from
might take longer than
they would last
since they are fleeting with
the earliness of the season
and the fickleness of the weather.
Guidebook in hand,
sounds are more readily identifiable
one can pick out
the very temporary call
of the Buffleheads as they stop
briefly, to refresh in the pond
on their way further north.
The Canada Geese
honking their presence
don’t seem to bother
the more permanent members of the yard
who know their place
and take it year after year.
I am not fooled by
their apparent flattery;
they come to eat,
and for each other.
Will they still be here
when I’m not?