Sunday, Dec. 2, 2012

I thought I’d share the following poem I came up with while my dogs and I explored some nearby waterways.

This Hidden Paradise

Waterways connect—

A hidden highway

Off the beaten path.

Bobbing boats highlight

Stacked kayaks that spotlight

A smattering of yachts.

Passerbys stroll the meandering pathways

That hug the waterways,

Creating a secret oasis.

Arching tunnels yield

To decorative iron benches

On which to rest.

Taking in the scenery

While enjoying the view—

This hidden paradise.

Afraid to blink

Lest it vanish into a dream

A wonderful…magical dream.

Sunday, Nov.11, 2012

There are passages in life when I’m more drawn to poetry than others.  Course, give me a cold day, me curled up in front of a fire, and I’m even more inclined….  LOL.  Flipping through the pages of some of my poetry books, this poem called to me today.  It’s by Elizabeth Alexander.  I realize that the grammar and punctuation are not top rate, but have copied the poem in its original printed form to maintain the integrity of the author’s intent. 

“A Poem for Nelson Mandela

Here where I live it is Sunday.

From my room I hear black

Children playing between houses

And the El at the Sabbath rattle.

I smell barbecue from every direction

And hear black hands tolling church bells,

Hear wind hissing through elm trees

Through dry grasses.

                                    On a rooftop of a prison

In South Africa Nelson Mandela

Tends garden and has a birthday,

As my Jamaican grandfather in Harlem, New York

Raises tomatoes and turns ninety-one.

I have taken touch for granted: my grandfather’s hands,

His shoulders, his pajamas which smell of vitamin pills.

I have taken a lover’s touch for granted,

Recall my lover’s touch from this morning

As Mandela’s wife pulls memories through years

And years my life is black and filled with fortune.

Nelson Mandela is with me because I believe

In symbols, symbols bear power, symbols demand

Power, and that is how a nation

Follows a man who leads from prison

And cannot speak to them.  Nelson Mandela

Is with me because I am a black girl

Who honors her elders, who loves

Her grandfather who is a black daughter

As Mandela’s daughters are black

Daughters.  This is Philadelphia

And I see this Sunday clean. 

Sunday, Oct. 21, 2012

Here’s a poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox.  Hope it finds you well and brings a smile to your face as it did to mine. 

One ship sails east and the other west

On the selfsame winds that blow.

‘Tis the set of the sails and not the gales

That determine the way they go.

Like the winds of the sea are the ways of fate,

As we Voyage along through life;

‘Tis the set of the soul that decides the goal

And not the calm or the strife.

Wednesday, Oct. 2012

I love poetry.  Always have.  Whether I’m feeling adrift, buoyant, pleased with life or looking for deeper meaning, I’ve always turned to poetry.  As a little girl, I began writing poetry early on, venting the frustrations, joys and accomplishments of my soul onto pages I meant none to read…though some did.  And what they read, I was told was good—very good.  Though my stylization didn’t follow traditional stringent poetic guidelines, it did have a rhythm and tempo all its own.  One that worked, even though it seemed to labor against itself at times.

A while back, I picked up book of poems from a writer friend of mine who no longer had use for it.  The book is called The Venus Hottentot.  Elizabeth Alexander writes all poems contained within.  Her style of poetry spoke to me.  Reminded me of my own…in a fashion.  Though I suppose no two poets ever mirror one another’s styles.

As I finished the final touches of unpacking yesterday, I came across that book, placing it on a shelf in my office where it would be close at hand, many of the poems contained within having struck a chord in me.  Here is one that spoke to me today.

Zodiac

You kissed me once and now I wait for more.

We’re standing underneath a swollen tree.

A bridge troll waits to snatch me if I cross.

Your bicycle handles are rusted blue.

 My mouth has lost its flavor from this kiss.

I taste of warm apple.  My lips are fat.

If these blossoms fall they’ll mark our faces:

Gold shards of pollen or flower-shaped dents.

Is it bird wings that bat between my legs?

Is there a myth for trolls?  Bulfinch says no.

My mother has a friend who reads the stars.

I am fourteen.  “My dear, you look in love.”

Your fingers stained dull orange from the bike.

Svetlana eyes and hands, no crystal ball.

White ripe blossoms on a trembling tree.

Again, I think.  I want you to kiss me.