Poppies were always golden,

Or so I thought,

And they came in the Spring

When they grew everywhere

Like weeds—

But I was a California girl

And only four years old.

 

Then one November day

My Gram and my Mom

Brought poppies home

From shopping downtown—

Flimsy paper poppies

Poppies that were red.

 

No one ever explained

Why the flowers had to be red.

I was told it was tradition

Like putting our flag on the porch

For November 11, Armistice Day.

 

When I was five

I met the poppy makers

Or sellers or both.

These were usually men

Who were missing

Pieces of themselves:

A hand, an arm,

A leg or two, an eye.

Occasionally there were women, too,

On the corners, mid-block,

All holding flowers to sell.

 

And everywhere around,

Inside stores,

Along the sidewalk,

On the bus—

A spot of red

Showed on peoples’ clothing:

On a lapel or pocket,

On blouse or jacket,

No matter if the color clashed.

 

Many years later,

I learned the answer

When I saw the battlefields

Of World War One

And the grave sites there

Where poppies bloomed–

Red poppies,

Everywhere…red poppies.

 

 

 

 

Those who like to scare and dare

Say that on certain foggy nights,

Pirates will return

To the glen in the woods

To dance and fight around

Their pirate treasure hoard

And sing their pirate chant,

“Yo Ho! Yo Ho!”

 

One summer night

As the fog horns in the bay

Began their wailful moan,

A young boy left his bed

To travel into the forest.

There he climbed a tree

At the edge of the glen

To see if the tales were true.

 

The sea mist, like the tide,

Slid across the glen

And into the trees beyond.

Then the clouds rose

And boiled like the ocean

Waves that crashed off shore.

When nothing could be seen

Of the empty grassy floor,

Small lights appeared

In the trees, bobbing

Like lanterns carried,

Until they entered the glen

And circled around

One, two, three, perhaps

Five in all arranged in a circle.

Then in the center, shadows

Began to move; though indistinct

They resembled men gathered there.

 

Into the silence came the clinking

Of coins and the clashing of metal

As the faint moonlight flashed

Upon the circle as if on a cutlasses raised.

As the reflected slices of light

Circled around the glen,

There came another sound

Low, from deep within the earth.

It was the pirate’s chant:

“Yo Ho! Yo Ho!”

 

The boy could not remember

Afterward how long he watched

From his perch high in a tree.

But his clothes began damply

Clinging to his skin and he began

To quiver with the cold

(or fear or both)

Before the fog slid down the trees

And sifted back the way it had come

As though called by the sea away.

The small and eerie lights

Followed the receding gray mist

Down the path to the coast

And drifting back came echoes

Of the pirate chant:

“Yo Ho! Yo Ho!”

 

Clambering down to the ground,

The boy searched the glen

For evidence of the pirates—

But there was none.

Following the failing moon

He returned through the wood.

Whenever he heard the tale

In later years, he would say,

“Nay, that cannot be. ‘Tis only a tale.’

Yet, he kept a record in a journal

Of his night sitting high above the glen.

A record for later generations

To find and ponder on.

 

Those who like to scare and dare

Say that on certain foggy nights,

Pirates will return

To the glen in the woods

To dance and fight around

Their pirate treasure hoard

And sing their pirate chant,

“Yo Ho! Yo Ho!”

 

#PirateTales #GhostTales

I hear the planets
call my name
and the ocean in echo
answering…my name

In the wind
the rippling grasses
the rustling leaves
the sand beneath my feet
I hear the whisper of my name

I hear, my brothers,
but I do not understand.

You call and I must come,
but where, my brothers, where?

 

#NativeAmericanDay  #DepressionPoetry

In vain have I fished the sea of memory

With countless nets of woven words:

 

Silken sleekly shimmering nets,

Delicate and gentle,

Laid out upon the sea at early dawn;

 

Childish nets of knotted yarn,

Woolen and warming,

Riding on a summer sea;

 

Nets of woven arms clasped

Against a wall of wave

In a storm ravaged sea;

 

Nets woven cloud soft,

Or with an enduring nylon strength,

Nets of satin or softest down.

 

All of these and more have I tried

Against the ebbing flow of memory.

Yet from out each casting of my nets,

You slip away on the ever receding tide.

 

So I cannot hear your laughter or your voice

Between the lines of poetry

Nor see again your smile,

Amid the intricately crafted patterning of words.

 

In vain have I fished the sea of memory

With countless nets of words

To catch just once more

The wonder of being loved.

 

#Mourning #LovePoetry #NaturePoetry

The childhood games of

Red Light/Green Light,

And Mother May I?

Played with laughter

And sometimes cruelty

Stay with us

As we grow older

For nothing ever changes

When the stakes are real.

 

In adulthood you will find

That the green light

Is actually glowing teal

And the signal may be

Only metaphorical.

While “Mother” under an alias

Decides the ultimate winner.

But the rules remain

For nothing ever changes

As time passes by.

 

In old age when we are

Not more than failing parts,

The games continue

Now reigned over

By the treachery of age

For nothing ever changes

Though time moves on.

 

So, I ask you,

Is it your turn or mine?

And shall it be

Red Light/Green Light

Or Mother May I?

 

#Games #ChildhoodGames