The carnival of time universe-vast
dazzles and entices
with its brilliant stars and
multifarious mysteries
But what moves us most
is the carousel
Ah, the carousel, the carousel…
around and around we go
reaching for the elusive brass ring
The calliope rolls forth
mesmeric music as up
and down
and around we go
Up and down and around
to the song the sirens sing
and O, yes….
the possibility of that brass ring
The long high wires swing,
Sing in the wind,
But the bell is still.
Only silence rings through the house
While every room waits empty
Until you dial.
A shadow falls
On the garden wall
There’s the strum of singing strings
And through the mist of shade and sound
A dove with folded wings
As in a dream
The white bird seems
An old remembered tune
A timeless melody
Perched there so still on the garden wall
A strange white feathered song
In shadowed light
A sweet time past
Within the heart will sometimes fall
Such fragile things spark memory
A wisp of sound
A haunting song
A feathered dream with folded wings
On a sequestered wall
Sunburst glories
light flows
life begins
green stems rise
flowers surprise
World in Bloom
scented clime
precious time
dream domain
sunset and twilight
sweet sleep night.
Rocky flatland bows
To a wild, willful wind
Spasmodic clumps of green
Hot yellow sun burns
I saw a bird with injured wing
ride home: a slow and troubled flight
of feathered heart
I marveled that so sweetly brave
the damaged bird could rise again
to tree-life height
while my faint heart with wounded wings
lay pained and still
Then came upon the solemn air
a vibrant trill
as though the homeward bird had sent
its song to me
that I might find a haven, too,
my own high tree
What is it that waits there
there in the shadows of the wings?
Silently, patiently, waiting the cue,
the time to creep, or stride,
upon the stage of my play
I go on, guided by the words and music
of my dreams, my time upon the stage
but again and again, my mind and heart,
(the eyes of my searching)
peer into the shadows of the wings
wondering, marveling,
What is it that waits there?
The little widow with her head held high
Determined to be brave and not to cry
But as I embraced her my own tears showed
For I knew in her heart the silent tears flowed
It was not sudden
the awakening from famine and fatigue
but rather a slow awareness
that bright faces
(miniature suns with yearning eyes)
peered into the windows
at the darkened room;
their gold glances piercing
laser lances spotlighting whorls
of dust and neglect
I felt familiar shapes
long slumped in repose
in shadowed places
emerge
assuming postures of new design
The desert room
no longer indistinct and gray
alight with the searching beams
began to flower:
dust-devils danced
in prismatic maze
I knew
(the wild surprise of it!)
that I had only to open the door
for they had come to remind me
that I, too, am one of
the golden children of the sun
Long ago
–almost unremembered
but not quite—
Someone called
Inside:
the sheltered room
closed and warm and safe
Outside:
the winter night
cold, black, insistent
Ice—stillness and depth-ache
And then
the muffled call, far-off:
Margaret Margaret
I waited
heart-poised
vigilant
It never came again
Time passed
–a river flowing toward the sea—
Now
Removed by years and other yearnings
I wonder:
Why did I
hear that muffled call:
Margaret Margaret
From the cold still winter night