Thursday, November 5, 2009

Life (In Poetry)

So, I have this crazy idea that I came up with. I have been writing poetry for years and have decided that I would like to read back through some old writings and post select poems with a "Life" theme. These poems were written individually at different times and in different styles (spanning from the mid 1990s to the present day), so they are not meant to connect with one another (that is why if you read it straight through it will seem quite disjointed). Nevertheless, I have decided to arrange the poems beginning with adolescence until old age (childhood gets caught in the section of young family life, if you will). Some poems may make perfect sense on their own, others may need an explanation. If you would like additional information, simply post a comment with your request and I will respond with details (for example, if you are wondering when a poem was written, who or what the poem is about, specific references, images, or meanings of figurative language that it contains, etc.). Keep in mind, some of the poems are more personal, and others are stories or experiences that I have never had but that I have created. So please, do not necessarily assume that a poem written in first person is about me (although it may very well be). Anyhow, I hope that you enjoy it. . . there are a lot poems, so you may wish to scroll through and pick out the one's whose titles sound more interesting to you.
--Brett Hall

TO MY STUDENTS

Past midnight on the coastal sounds,
The haunting foam appears, resigns--
Mutating in the darkness, reappears,
Groaning toward the shore with jesting sneers.
I watch as nature rages where I stand--
A scene surreal, yet of its own divine.
The winds that ravish, fill my soul with dread;
The intermittent silence in my head,
Brings horror,
Submits peace again.
The storm may rage and I in awe of it
Contemplate
Its throes, inward admit.

Upon these shores the fiercing elements
Move not my students, standing unaware,
Oblivious to storms, why should they care
For piercing cries,
For specters in the foam?
They dally forth--obscurely how they roam
Despite the wind, the rain, the violent storm.
The crashing waves.
The churning of the sea,
Whispers not within their revelry.

They do not care to view Antonious Block,
Nor dear Johannes with his severed mind,
Which offers sight to all around him blind--
A discourse true about our failing faith.
And what of Pelle in his distant world
So foreign.
So foreign.
We cannot understand the Northern Sea
Uttering discourses on our vain humanity.
Instead we're born, grow old, and die,
Lacking the knowledge as to why.

The storm abates--
Indifferent, they walk away.
The silence settles on the timid air
And waters rest beneath the moon.
What of the storm beneath the surface of the sea
That rages while the earth appears content?
And I?

Alone.

Alone I stand within the silent breeze,
Resting from the weariness of life.
The peace is short-lived--
Irreverent clouds huddle on the horizon,
Soon to reach the blissful shore.

The greatest gain of truth
Comes in the silence between the storm.

I WANT TO LOVE

I want to love and ravenously so
With feelings real, not some pretense of lust,
But with my heart and mind--a living trust
That moves my heart to her--this I must know.
I want to love and be loved in return,
To feel the warm embrace of one I hold
And kiss her as true lovers kiss so bold,
And know her dreams that they in me may burn.
I want to love and feel excited too
Because I've found the woman of my heart
With whom I could not bear to be apart
Due to the happiness of my love true.
I want to love with all my energy;
With all my strength her love I want to be!

SADNESS

I choose my sadness on warm summer nights
When all the world is free
And all the air is love
And I walk all alone
In mourning hours beneath the moon.

AT YOUR DOOR

How many times?
How long shall the glass be pressed upon her lips,
This woman at the luncheon of the boating party?
Her thoughts, are they distant from the scene
Or of the scene?
Is she frail with bones as are the glass-man's,
Or stalwart as a gnome cemented to a shrine?
Amélie
Has shown me what it means to be a man
Standing at your door--
The imagination and the dream
That settles like a mist on women's hearts.
It is a wondrous dream
That moves a heart to stir,
A mind to dance in revelry.
Love's palpitations are the lifeblood of the soul.
But there's no magic in me.
There's no mystic force that leads me,
Despite my will,
To silent scenes of serendipity,
Where I appear as fresh as morning dew
Within your heart. . .
At your door.
So it is I stand,
Naked to the truth of who I am. . .
What I am not.
The reality that is my being,
Alone,
Aware that all I am and all I do
Is but the blackness hidden in the shadow of your dream.
And so I go
Unnoticed. . .
Standing. . .
At your door.

SHE WAITS

She sits anxiously at the table,
Hands folded before her,
Peering out of the window with a hope
And with a sigh.
The wind howls through the bending trees
Then dies again--
A quiet peace
Wherein she hears the screaming of her heart.
Another gust
And distant chimes ring
While window panes creak with the commotion.
It howls and dies and howls and dies again.
Se sits alone.
She wanders in the mind to a reflection,
Staring poignantly upon her soul.
She bows her head and sobs a tear or two
For memories
By now he has forgotten.
The wind howls.
She lifts her head and looks beyond the glass
To dancing bushes and skipping leaves.
She hears in them a laughter.
It dies again.
And silence.
The sun's rays dim and darkness rises
With the howling gust returned--
Returning to a fade.
A soft light burns upon the table
Casting shadows upon her face.
She gazes deeply at the passing scene
Outside--
Motionless.
The wind howls and the trees bend.
It dies and trees return again.
She waits anxiously--
Her heart beats out seconds to the hour.
Darkness.
She sits alone
And the window gazes inward on her,
Peering deep into her soul.
It howls and dies again.
She bows her head within her hands
Numbness
And a distant rage.
The wind howls
And a distant voice fades into a memory.
Another tear.
Another hopeless glance into the dark.
He does not understand.
The wind dies,
And the glass shatters deep within her soul--
A million tears pumped through a bleeding heart.
Pain and suffering--
The thought of an enduring love.
The wind howls
And dies again.
She sits in darkness
Gazing sullenly upon the world
From out a window
Surrounded by a pane creaking in the midnight hour.
He never said that he would come.


THE COLD HEART

Do not place on my heart your warm affection,
I've omitted it times past, nor seek it now.
Each tender word you speak will face rejection;
To love, to understand, I know not how.
My heart is cold, indeed I'd say its frozen
And cannot grasp effectual delights
That are displayed within the acts you've chosen,
As do the dancing of the Northern Lights.
Though beauteous, in awe one may behold
The splendor of that colored by-frost bridge
That beckoned to the norseman sagas told
Leading the faithful to Valhalla's ridge;
It of itself could not unfreeze the land,
Nor was its tundra toasted by Thor's bolt,
Nor is my heart warmed by your soothing hands
As every tender touch meets with revolt.
And every softened word that hereto falls
Upon my ears, causes such sorrow, such pain
That from my hardened heart beckoning calls
Me to ignore its pleasant wind, and to refrain
From such a myth that you impart upon
My anguished soul. How may it be that I
Could love, when all I've known is lust? I've gone
To the extreme where truth becomes a lie
And I believe, I believe that naked,
Stark reality that binds my heart in
Its hypocrisy where love is faked
In lust's designs that fills my soul within.
I pray, Do not caress me with affection,
It only leaves me bleeding in my mind.
I cannot bare to face you with rejection
And walk with your false hope trailing behind.

AN EMAIL TO SANNA

A philosopher once said: "Where neither love nor hatred is in the game, a woman's game is mediocre." I had not the strength to elicit love within your treasured soul, nor had I the heart to stir hatred within your mind, and having neither evoked love nor hate, a silent sadness ensued wherein you gently faded in the passing days and weeks and months, till time with her soft rain drops washed away the memory of one I thought to love.

NO MAYAKOVSKY

No Mayakovsky with "caustic contempt"
Bleeds through a putrid heart.
No pen--
The poet's dagger--
Carves superfluous sinews
Of an unrequitting soul.
The blast of bombast will not bruise my brain,
And love in lithe attire
No more will haunt me.
For I am no Mayakovsky.
Your supple sultriness insinuates
Suffering in the man who longs to view
The softness of your form.
Woman.
And though at times I've longed,
I will not beg,
Crying from the streets to let me in!
For I am no Mayakovsky.
I'd call you Lily to my love,
For you are just as fleeting.
Temptress!
I'll be not "calm
Like the pulse of a corpse,"
But as peaceful as the midnight sun
Touching the horizon as it turns
From a wayward course.
I will approach,
Then flee into the darkness of a
Wintry sea
Forgetting forever,
Lily.
For I am no Mayakovsky.


TO A FRIEND UPON HIS DOUBTING

What can I say or write to ease your mind
So troubled by the fleeting news of day?
I'm pained to see the storm in which you sway
As in its eye, its madness makes you blind
To the reality, the truth of who
You are. You say you do not know. I think
That you deceive yourself--you happ'ly drink
Your bitter cup and wallow in your blue,
But no, that is not you, 'tis not the man
That I behold. For strength I see; a son
Of God whom to his Father's outstretched hands
Is ever reaching, active in his plan.
Your faith and your desire make you one
Whom in the midst of God at last will stand.

LINES UPON A COUNSELOR AND FRIEND

In silent hours, when moved to pondering,
I cannot help but feel such gratitude
For such a friend with a great attitude
Whose heart the hymns of Zion always sings.
I have been blessed to call you counselor,
To have experience where spirit unfolds
A tiny glimpse that the wide Heavens hold
For us to view and ponder evermore.
The work you've done, the way which you inspire
Your fellow men to engage in the work
That otherwise, less faithful, they would shirk,
Is one of many things that I admire.
And now our tenure meets a fitful end--
No more a president, but a true friend.

THOUGHTS: UPON YOUR ILLNESS

What pains are yours I do not claim to know--
The trial manifested in this way
That leaves you laid-up for unnumbered days,
Seeking some relief that arrives slow.
I can't pretend to even understand
The smallest portion of your private pain
That has returned and will return again
With its fierce fortunes, frightening demands.
But this I say in utmost honesty
That I admire the strength and fortitude
That you possess, along with gratitude,
Despite the illness you bear painfully.
I know no other woman who could live
With such a trial and be as positive.


THERE COMES A TIME

There comes a time
When suddenly the pleasures of our youth
Seem nothing more than pleading
For a truth to make one whole.
The void appears in shadows
Between vainglorious applause,
And one cheers louder for the self
In hopes to beat back this recognition.
I've filled my life
With many a fun and frantic thing--
Hobbies, education, career,
Spontaneous pleasures of the day,
But quiet hours come
And in the silence of such moments
The shadows reappear
And nothingness settles on the soul.
There is something more to life
Than merely me.
Suddenly. . .
It is strange just how intense
Can be desires. . .
Desires for responsibility,
Not for the fame or business of the world
But for a quiet moment
With a baby in one's arms.
To be a father--
To be a part of something greater
Than oneself.
To hold the only future
That in the end supersedes
All of the accolades of life. . .
Yes,
There comes a time,
And now I recognize that happiness
Is not found in the self
But in the selfless.

TO TAKE YOU BY THE HAND

If I could reach and take you by the hand
I'd lead you down a street of cobblestone,
Past architecture past ages had known--
Perhaps on local shores or foreign lands.
If reaching proved your hand was held in mine
I'd cherish the soft touch and warm embrace--
Though I'd be dizzy as my heart would race--
Such joy to me would be an act divine,
For I would hold the hand of hallowed grace,
Reflecting on the miracle that I
Experience as I gaze into your eyes
And find in each a dream I'd like to trace.
Such dreams are woven, carefully entwined,
As would your fingers be if held in mine.

IN THE ORCHARD AT KRISTIANSAND

It was a pleasant afternoon
With gentle light amid the shade
That danced resplendent through the air--
The air so fresh and sweet--
That she and I strolled hand in hand
In the orchard at Kristiansand.

She wandered free and full of life
Through thicket and a royal crown
Which Nature wore with elegance--
Her soul held to our view--
And here I felt the innocence
Of the orchard at Kristiansand.

She moved about from tree to bush
Into the open fields where lay
The inspirations of her dreams--
Her blessed imagination--
She seemed to float, no present cares,
In the orchard at Kristiansand.

I smiled at the freedoms found
So deep within her playful heart
And felt a joy bursting within--
Happy in her happiness--
Which moved my heart to live again
In the orchard at Kristiansand.

She looked t'ward me and I at her.
We moved together then embraced,
And held onto each other's dreams--
She held my heart, my all--
And then we kissed and kissed again
In the orchard at Kristiansand.

My heart was singing deep within
The silent chambers of my soul,
And a soft tear swelled in my eye--
A tear of happiness--
I holding all I cared to hold
In the orchard at Kristiansand.

We tightly cleaved--a long embrace--
In the light of a fading sun.
Our shadows long upon the grass--
We two as one, alone--
And then our arms to our sides fell
In the orchard at Kristiansand.

We moved about the apple trees
And plucked the fruit for our delight.
The blossoms held a mystery--
Beautiful and whispering--
They spoke within the fertile breeze
Of the orchard at Kristiansand.

She pressed the fruit upon her lips
The juices running down her chin
Sparkling in the twilight sun--
My heart was full again.
I wiped the juices with my thumbs
In the orchard at Kristiansand.

She took my hands within her own,
Removed them from off of her face
And held them sweetly for a time,
Our eyes locked in a gaze.
I whispered gently in her ear
In the orchard at Kristiansand.

She left her hold and walked away
Amid the shadows of the trees,
To feel the moment, to live life--
She's one with earth's beauty--
She stopped to sudden pondering
In the orchard at Kristiansand.

She was alive and I in her
felt of all the earth's rejoicing,
Amid a soft, romantic scene--
Magical and so serene--
Where my heart for her is yet growing. . .
In the orchard at Kristiansand.

ON NEWS OF HER ENGAGEMENT

My heart leaps up with joy at the good news
Of your engagement, of a union sweet,
Where two hearts and two minds forever meet
Within the mount of God--celestial views.
To think, my friend, that you have found the one
Who does inspire the greatest height of thought,
And stirs within the deepest love which ought
To move you through the course marked by the Son.
I cannot help but feel an intense joy
Within the happiness which life unfolds
In your behalf, where two as one will hold
The greatest gift which God to man employs.
For in true love one learns the life of God
For which the hosts of heav'n and I applaud.

CONCEPTION

The steady palpatations of two hearts.
The fusion in the silence of two minds.
This is the moment mortals are divine--
The only true creation we impart.

WITH CHILD

From the window comes caressings
Of the morning hour air,
Cool upon the silent mother's skin.
Drapes flutter,
Dancing with the twinkle of the stars.
The darkness shudders softly
From the touching of the moon,
Soft in misty mellowness.
She stands against the wall,
head lifted lightly to the breeze
That tickles gently her sweet neck,
Tracing the dear contours of her throat.
She peers upon a silent street
Sleeping in the arms of a lamp's light,
Bending in the shadows from the hedge.
The sound of stillness in a cricket's voice.
Her fingertips rest gently on her chin--
Move slightly to the velvet of her lips.
Pause.
Moves slowly to her chin, her neck, her breasts,
Downward through her slightly parted gown.
Her palm rests on the silk that is her skin
Pulled taught around the roundness of her form.
Her organs stir--
The movement of the world within.
She presses sweetly on her stomach, bare.
He is the first--
His motions a discomfort revelled in.
His movement,
Genesis.
What comforts compass the dear child's world!
Both hands stir readily
Around the form.
Both eyes pierce deep into the night.
And inward, thoughts of love abound.
Her child.
Her first.
Her husband lost within the comforts of their bed.
Alone--
Yet not alone--
She ponders on the future of her son
And whispers, as the crickets chorus swells,
A lullaby to serenade her dreams.

MORNING

Morning.
And all is stripped away
But her dear innocence--
The beauty of her being.
She is as nat'ral as the light
That dances on her skin--
Soft,
Reflective of the light she holds within.
Her hair in wisps untainted,
Wild and free--
Unkempt to some, most beautiful to me.
Her hand upon her face
Evokes a morning grace
Where impressions part for that which ought to be.
A blissful morning memory--
Soft light, soft smile,
Soft and so lovely--
I cannot think a time more beautiful
Then in this moment when rising I espy
Sanna in red,
Recently risen from her bed,
So nat'ral with the dawning of her day.

Morning.
And how I long to hold her in my arms--
To feel the warmth of her soft skin--
Embrace the light she holds within
And dream in innocence.
To place my hand upon her face.
To run my fingers through her hair.
To hear her voice melodious sing.
To hear her heart speak wild and free.
There is a depth which is revealed
When parting realms of sleep,
And hers is one that I'd explore
And ever hope to keep.

Morning.
And nothing is more beautiful
Than when she first arises.
She is the sun whom imparts life
Within my sleeping soul.

IN A LONELY COTTAGE

Candles burn--soft light illuminates the night
And shadows shiver with the welcomed warmth.
A room in all simplicity
Transformed to bright felicity
Stands still and frozen with the eve's delight.
Two silhouettes are dancing on the wall
In motion, motionless though they may be,
A trick from flames that flicker fervently
Within the breath of Autumn's revelry--
Two souls, they sit across a table bare,
Soft words have settled and softly they stare
Down upon their folded hands
Held tight together, somberly.

Moments pass, and gently on the air
The soothing notes of Grieg are gently played.
The melted wax begins to run
And tears of joy are lightly sprung
And race upon the cheeks of this young pair.
A smile breaks upon the couple's face--
A breath of laughter following a sigh
When young love meets within their dreaming eyes
As future hopes within their hearts take flight.
And in the silence of a dying flame
They whisper softly once again the name
Of their newborn who softly sleeps
Within the room beside.


FATHER TO SON

I see him through the glass
Seated with son upon his knee--
A small child in a large world.
His back is to me,
But his happy child's face bobs into view--
Bouncing in a silent distance.
"Ride ride ranke. . ."
It is a joyous moment for the two,
Fleeting as it may be.
"Hesten heter Blanke. . ."
We mount our horse when young
And quickly gallup to the west--
Our lives' own setting sun.
"Hvor skal vi ride. . ."
And so this moment,
As the years of life,
Quickly pass into memory.
"Til en liten pike. . ."
It is a beautiful sight to see--
A moment brief--
Bonding,
Father to son.
The boy's sister will be next.
"Hva skal hun heter?"
But now--
This moment--
From a distance viewing--
I reflect upon my memories.
"Anna Margarette. . ."
A silver dollar and a smile--
We grandchildren stand in line to count to ten. . .
En,
To, tre,
Fire, fem, seks,
Sju, atte, ni, ti.
A silver dollar and a smile.
"Når vi kom dit. . ."
Twice a year we would travel.
Grandparents--
Morfar (Amerikaner med engelsk forfedre)
With his violin,
Playing in the evening twilight.
"Var ingen hjeme. . ."
Mormor (Amerikaner med engelsk forfedre)
In her garden
With grandchildren at her feet.
"Uten for hunden. . ."
Farfar (Svensk med svensk forfedre)
Upon his knee we count to ten.
A silver dollar and a smile.
"Som lå under benken. . ."
Farmor (Norsk med norsk og sveitser forfedre)
In her kitchen preparing a family meal.
"Og røstet på lenken. . ."
I loved those summer days and winter evenings,
Nestled in Sandy and Salt Lake.
"Den vesla sa, 'Vuff, vuff, vuff, vuff. . . '"
Memories--
To travel to a continent,
The lands of my ancestors,
With marevelous vistas peering in upon the train
I peering out upon her view.
Yet inward,
In a distant seat, a stranger sits
With a boy-child on his knee,
And all else fades within this moment--
Father to son--
This is pure humanity.
I smile at the scene.
"Men store han sa, "VUFF, VUFF, VUFF, VUFF!'"

WHEN UNCLES COME TO PLAY

I

FE, FY, FO, FUM--
I SMELL THE BLOOD OF A LITT-LE-ONE!
he he he
fuss fuss fuss
shhh--
or the scary monster'll find us!
Four-lit-tle-voi-ces-laugh-and-scream-
Un-der-the-ta-ble-all-hi-ding.
One-with-a-gig-gle-
One-with-a-snort-
All-safe-wi-thin-the-make-be-lieve-fort.
FE, FY, FO, FUM--
I CAN-NOT FIND ALL THE LIT-TLE-ONES!
WHERE ARE THEY HI-DING?
WHERE CAN I FIND. . . ?
UN-DER THIS PIL-LOW!?
BEHIND THIS BLIND!?
NO. . . NO!
he he he
fuss fuss fuss
ya better be quiet
or he'll find us!
Four-lit-tle-voi-ces-laugh-and-scream-
Un-der-the-ta-ble-all-hi-ding.
One-with-a-leg-out-
One-with-an-arm-
Still-they-don't-see-a-cause-for-a-larm.
FE, FY, FO, FUM--
I SMELL THE BLOOD OF A LIT-TLE ONE!
WHERE ARE THEY HI-DING?
WHERE CAN THEY BE. . . ?
UNDER THIS BLANKET?
BEHIND THE T.V.?
NO. . . NO!
he he he
fuss fuss fuss
poor little monster
he'll never find us!
FE, FY, FO, FUM--
WHERE IN THE WORLD ARE THE LIT-TLE ONES!?
The-voice-at-the-ta-ble-
The-feet-on-the-ground-
Next-to-the-chil-dren-
How-their-hearts-pound,
Beating-so-loudly-
Stri-cken-with-fear-
Now-that-the-mon-ster-
Has-come-near.
I-mag-i-na-tion-swells-in-their-heads.
shhh--
be quiet or we'll be dead!
FE, FY, FO, FUM--
I SMELL THE BLOOD OF A LIT-TLE ONE!
Four-lit-tle-voi-ces-laugh-and-speak-
Un-der-the-ta-ble-then-a-
SHRIEK!!!
AH--I GOT-CHA!!!
Hearts-all-poun-ding-the-chil-dren-laugh.
do it again, they say at last.

II

"Uncle B, Uncle B,
We want to ride on the hor-sie!"
Quick is the swarm with swift grabbing hands
The horse is subdued--no longer he stands.
Down on all fours, they climb on his back--
Without enough room, they're on the attack.
"We'll all take turns, so please don't cry,"
Says uncle B to their shimmering eyes.
Three on at once--the third quickly falls,
The swarm resumes and the hor-sie is mauled.
"One at a time and we'll all get a turn,"
Says uncle B with a voice less stern.
Klip klop klip klop klip klop,
Whi-nieeeee!
Ppppbbbbbb.
Klip klop klip klop klip klop.
Round and round,
Then "Buster-Bronco" takes them to town.
The one falls off,
The whole group laughs.
The swarm resumes and the uncle laughs.

III

"Uncle B, uncle B,
We want to hear a troll stor-ie!"
Up on the bed the children sit,
"We want your trolls to tell us it!"
Off of the shelf the trolls he takes--
Deep in his throat a new voice makes.
Though the troll is scary with eyes all wild,
He receives a kiss from every child.
He asks each girl about her day
And asks each boy in the same way,
And then he asks which tale to tell.
The girls say, "Princess," the boys as well.
"And we want berries and berry pie,
And make the trolls nice so no-one dies."
The children listen to the tale,
With hearts that pound and eyes that swell.
They each add to it their own thoughts,
Twisting and turning the old plots.
The tale is finished, the troll is friend,
The children like a happy end.
Back on the shelf the trolls return.
"We want another!" the children spurn.
"Uncle B, uncle B,
We want another troll stor-ie!"
"The trolls are tired, its time for bed--
The story's done, they sleep instead."
So with a kiss he says goodnight,
Gives each a hug and turns out the light.

WHEN AUNTS VISIT

Quick to the kitchen, the kids gather round
All tiny helpers with sharp squealing sounds.
One finds a stool and up quickly climbs
As do the others, metered in time.
One grabs a chair, another a pail,
Reaching the counter, they all feel swell.
One grabs the sugar, another the yeast--
All are excited to help make the feast.
One counts the flour, another the eggs--
Oops! One just fell down between sister's legs.
Crack! O so gooey, it covers the floor--
The boy thinks its funny and throws down some more.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
giggle giggle giggle
squirm squirm squirm--
wiggle wiggle wiggle.
The aunt returns from washing her hands:
"What's going on?!" The aunt so demands.
giggle giggle giggle
squirm squirm squirm
"Help clean it up all you wiggly worms."
wipe wipe wipe
wiggle wiggle wiggle
smear smear smear
giggle giggle giggle.
All tiny helpers cleaning the mess
Just makes it worse the aunt must confess.
She gets out the mop and tidies the floor
One mess is cleaned up, get ready for more.
Quick to their stations the children abound--
All tiny helpers with sharp, squealing sounds.
One spills the oil, another the salt,
Each blames the other--its nobody's fault.
measure measure measure
pour pour pour
whisk whisk whisk
measure some more.
It's all mixed together in one big pile
The kids, though they're anxious, must wait awhile.
sit sit sit
wait wait wait
One little voice rises--
"We sure did great!"
They quickly lose interest
In waiting around--
Off now and quickly with their squealing sounds.
The aunt in the kitchen surveys the mess.
She both loves and hates it she must confess.
The kitchen is clean and the children come back,
Hungry and eager to eat a small snack.
sniff sniff sniff
yummy yummy yummy
Kids can't wait to fill up their tummies.
smack smack smack
gobble gobble gobble
Kids are full--see how they wobble.

STONE COLD AND EVER GRAY

How many times he's longed to look away,
Lost deep in thought, to some uncertain dawn
Whose rays of light dance lightly on his brow
And smile and laugh until his cares are gone.
How many moments silently betray
The happy memories of yesterday
And steal from youth the vigor and the braun
To leave the man in pensive mood below
With nothing but his dreams to think upon--
These dreams that ever seem to slip away.
And what in silence does a mother say
With her dear hand upon his shoulder now.
What thoughts or memory could she endow
On her lone son, stone cold and ever gray.

REFLECTION

Animated with a child's heart
She moves upon the wint'ry crag
Experiencing the world renewed--
Experiencing a life that often fades
From hearts and minds
Whose cares become the world.
Not hers.
She lives and loves the freedoms of the earth.
She seeks the thrill the senses give.
She stretches out connecting with a life
That breaths beneath a liquid sky.
A liquid sky--
A perfect mirror--
It holds a depth which harbors life;
It holds an image from above--
Reflections of eternity.
She feels eternity reflected in herself,
Her simple soul.
She reaches through the mirror to grasp her heart.
She reaches deep, reflecting on her soul.
Still. . .
Clear. . .
A pureness undisturbed by her rejoicing touch.
A simple moment words cannot describe--
Connecting life and living to her heart.
This is beauty in a bending touch
Where all the earth may offer enters freely
Through her coursing veins--
Freely through her longing heart--
Offering a mellow fruitfulness
Of peace--
Serenity.
Verbal profundities abandoned,
She touches, feels, connects and understands
The value of a life that simply is.
That which is most profound comes not by words.

TO BE A CHILD AGAIN: IN RESPONSE TO W. B. YEATS' "TO A CHILD DANCING IN THE WIND"

O that I were this child again
But dancing in the wind
Upon some shore with tempest waves
That dance bold next to me!
O that the storm could pass me by
And I in awe of it
May look into its dreadful eye
With wonder and repose.
O that the winds my hair could curl
And lash about my face,
And I, and I, a child again
May laugh and live in grace.

"IN WINTER STANDS THE LONELY TREE"

O barren tree, stretch forth thy arms into
Cold winter's night, and think not of the birds
Once perched who since have taken flight. I've heard
Their songs and seen them dance a day or two
Within your lofty branches wide and in
Your colored hue. But summer's gone; nowhere
Is found a fowl so gracious and sincere
As to accompany your soul within
Your outward fallen hour. Yet I alone
Do mourn for you with silent chirps unmarked,
Unnoticed once when I, too, came to sing,
To dance. O how quickly fades past days gone,
And how I wish, like then, and now, thy bark
To nestle in and bring about your spring.


THIS PASSING HOUR

My thoughts have reeled both far and wide
In search of your sure countenance.
I'm stunned by my thought's maintenance
Wherein your beauty still abides.
That simple look I stole from far away.
That gentle glance that passsed from your own eye
That first night I beheld you--what a sigh
My heart beat out that wond'rous day.
O how we met, though we had met before,
No ineffable romance on that distant shore.
So foreign, foreign was our love,
We saw it as we view our God above:
In faith we moved toward devotion,
Lost within that graced emotion
That brought us to be one in time,
As in time's warm effulgent breast
We gently moved and forward pressed
Until we reached this state sublime.
And when I think upon your mind
That opened up a brave new world
For my own life, in yours refined,
I praise my God for blessings thus bestowed!
Great is the giver of the life
As is the life his masterpiece.
The Master Sculptor, sculpt my wife
In mind and spirit, beauty leased for all the world to see,
And I to hold.
What of the world,
Who cares for recognition?
You have stole my heart and I petition
Day and night to seal you mine, and I yours,
Throughout that timeless tale--
Eternity.
To think upon those walks that we first took
Beside a simple road or bumbling brook.
It all was heaven! Heaven I could see!
Each step I took when you were next to me,
Though on cold concrete,
T'was like Arcady!
Those times we talked upon the thinking stump,
The view outstretched that lies before us still.
To speak of life and life's grand winding rill,
And plunge into the depths of our minds' sea.
To think of feelings deep within us stirred,
When flesh was mixed of flesh
And brought forth fruit--
The offspring of a queen and of a fool
That proved as like the former most astute.
(And might I add, our babes were rather cute).
And when we kneeled, each time as had before,
Upon the mountain top
We saw the shore--
The endless sands of Abraham.
And when I think of you and I and this,
We kiss the kiss of happiness of bliss,
And dance about in grand celestial ways
That carries on beyond our mortal days.
Each flirting touch, each passioned smile, each glance
Of wild eyes in ecstasy; romance
That lives in one another's arms.
To have a knowledge of the truth:
In Christ we find eternal youth
And in His home we find a binding love
That will transcend us through His courts above
Wherein we prove the passions of our age
Clothed within a pureness all arrayed
In love, devotion, admiration sweet,
A romance fit for gods, we're now complete.
For as I look upon you in the grave
I cannot help but give my God such praise
Knowing you'll be His but for a time,
Then eternally you will be mine--
And we theirs.

RESTORATION

The evening hours blossom as a rose
Before it wilts within the dark of night
And shadows lengthen with somber repose
Upon the wooded hillside in twilight.
Amid the silhouettes of nature's fleece
There kneels a woman long since past her prime
Who inward searches for a lasting peace
To make such sorrows settled seem sublime.
Her hands both frail and old caress the stone
With loving words etched carefully in place.
She kneels before the grave as if a throne
Upon which sits a king who's full of grace.
A tear drop shimmers from her wrinkled eye
And weary rests upon her moistened cheek.
Her love, though twenty years passed since he died,
has grown more fond each day and passing week.
And in her heart her feelings brightly burn,
And in her mind her memories reflect
Upon the days when younger hearts had yearned,
Matured through years into common respect,
And in old age achieved a love that's pure.
She wipes away her tears with praying hands--
Her frail, old hands, from constant work grown sore,
A soreness that devotion thus demands.
For on the lonely hillside but few sleep
And none are paid to keep a constant care,
And fewer still frequent this place to weep,
For 'tis an ancient cemet'ry laid bare.
And so her hands the noxious weeds repel,
And with her hands the wind-swept dirt's removed,
And with her hands she plants the flow'rs as well
And prunes them, thus her constant love to prove.
And as she kneels within the hast'ning hours
With hands held in an attitude of pray'r,
Her gentle lips supplicate heaven's pow'rs
And her moist eyes produce a throng of tears.
The night wind blows across the woman's chest
As rouged kissed sky vanishes in the dark,
And gratitude sinks deep within her breast
As she envisions hands that bear the mark
Of He whose death lasted not e'en three days
Before His body rose out of the tomb.
And so it is, her lips offer such praise
For the Begotten Son of Mary's womb.
For through the resurrection of the Christ
The woman's hope and faith is made assured,
For with His death the law has been sufficed
And with His life, her love will be restored.

2 comments:

Rachel said...

Okay, this is A LOT of poetry, and it took me about a year and a half to read through all of it but I feel like since you posted all of it, it deserves to be read. And as usual, I think you have a real talent for it. I particularly liked "to a friend upon his doubting" and "to take you by the hand". And not just because they're short. Okay, maybe sort of because they're short. Sonnets suit you.

We should do sonnets at our next poetry night!

Mr. Hall said...

Rachel,
It is a lot of poetry--the truth is that I did not expect anybody to read through all of it. I thought perhaps someone might scroll through the titles and find one or two that sound interesting and read those. Needless to say, I appreciate you having read through them all, but please, never feel obligated to do so.
Thanks for the compliment regarding my talent. Obviously some poems are better than others. We most certainly need to do sonnets for our next poetry night! I suppose we should all get out our calendars and start looking for a date. . . :)
Thanks again for your comments.