Of Imagination and Memories III.ii.a

Here are the poems from the book Dying Grasses Whisper of Memories. In the physical portfolio, I just put a copy of the book in the binder and in the electronic version, I put in the scans from the previous post, but did not transcribe them as the poems were legible (or could be made so by increasing the view to about 125% in the Word document). But I realize they are hard to read on here and blogs do not have the luxury of being able to zoom in the way Word documents can. So here are the poems in the order in which they appear in the book.

Dedicated to all whose memories are fading, 
especially those struggling with Alzheimer's.

 To a Fading Memory

Dark teardrops recall
the twirling white skirt
in a soft green meadow
and all that’s left
of her curly gold hair
crowning
a laughing rosy smile

Dark teardrops fall
as time slowly darkens
the crisp, bright memory
so the face becomes blurred
and the skirt a white daisy

Dark teardrops wonder
how the scene was
on a happy afternoon
so long ago

Dark teardrops recall
only the fog of time
 

Canoeing with Emily

The water is still,
a river stretching
into the trees,
a silver scarf
tossed carelessly
onto the floor.
Our paddles dip
down
and up again
dripping quiet drops,
sending silent ripples
outward.
No breath of air
to ruffle the heron’s wing,
only the gentle splash
of paddles pushing water,
pulling our little crafts
around
the lazy loops,
toy ducks
following a child’s whim.
Curling leaves float along
beside us
watching our paddles’
rise and fall,
as we watch
the riverbank roll
slowly like a movie backdrop
from anticipated beauty
to reflections
shivering in our wake.
 

After Midnight
Chester Cemetery, Chestertown, MD

I walk and touch the dark air so it crumples,
sends waves to break around the dim headstones.
My whisper, lost in grass, swells, tumbles
through heavy clouds-low, they reflect pale tones.
Mist shivers at my footsteps, puffs away.
Familiar scene, although the details change—

now I note: Both lost, 1894, May,
in storm on Chesapeake. Wife left proclaims:
Unbroken shall be my dear family
I wonder at her faith – a home undone

yet content. Every noise I make asks why,
where is my reason? Why do I walk, run
through this diffuse light? Shadows left me here.
I’m waiting, hoping, sometimes clouds will clear.
 

The Memory of Trees
After the music by Enya

Do you remember when...

Mists of time parted,
and the trees
were green.
Leaves - life green flecks
of the artists’ brush on the sky.
Grand and tall against the blue vault of heaven.
Columned aisles of dark and light
Bursting with life;
sprinkling pollen
in the moss and soft pine needles.
Bursting colors.
Yellow  sun and
Golden light
Twirling down
piece by piece.
Orange, yellow, red,
smoothly blend
on bright blue.
Tumble down,
whirling in honey red wind,
Dancing among the crisp golden aisles
Covering the ground in a blanket.
Bare against the sky
and fading into memories.

Do you remember when...
                         there were trees?
 

A Gentle Shower

Step here, a thin puddle–
there a wide lake.
Splash every puddle, see
lake in the muddy droplets.

Warm bath water–
a secluded spring.
Soak in porcelain tub,
trailing trees all around.

A gentle shower
washes all the leaves away.
See limbs and branches,
free of modest leaves.

Rushing river–
swirling down the drain.
Swollen currents carry
to shores of muddy lakes.

A gentle shower
washes all the mud away.
See skin and veins,
clean, pale and green.
 

 

The Dream Catcher

Dream Catcher,
Weaving a net to harvest erratic thoughts.
They flit by in schools, forget where they are going,
turn, scatter, gather.
Trying to order the memories now drifting,
riding tides, crashing with waves
in the ocean of the mind
where they were carelessly tossed during the day.
Net swishes through the waves,
catching, collecting, storing,
returning thoughts to their rightful places.
Some are salted, dried, carried in tin cans,
hardly ever touched.
Others are eaten, savored, swallowed,
used to nourish, replenish the spirit.
Most return to the ocean,
flowing to infinity, disappearing to dark depths, 
sailing to foreign shores,
resurfacing every now and then,
guided by subconscious currents, grouped by chance,
some sink, float, swim, drown.
Many never return once thrown back by
the Dream Catcher
who weaves his net 
from the mists of sleep.
 

Jaybird Suite for Eastern Shore

fields damp with dripping dew
glistening golden corn
jaybird corn

turning tide washes salt upriver
sea-salt-crusted crab
sweet grass monster

bare feet in marshy miry mud
gathering garden’s fruit
morning tomato

sun-ripened world

After the Sunrise
After the music by Yanni

Awaken slowly

Glorious bursting
onto your consciousness –
a golden glow
dazzling on the snow,
radiating contented glory,
sending light golden touches
across the snowy sheets,
rousing to wakefulness.

Light Shower on a Fall Evening
 
Tedious writing,
never-ending chapters,
the smell of dinner
wafting up temptingly —
broken suddenly—
pause to listen and hear
the pitter-patter on the sloping roof.
Like a sudden spring shower
now decked in the restless 
light grays of a fall evening
with sunset in the trees —
brightly yellow
and purple red,
drooping under gray rain.
 

Drought

It won’t be long before
the stream goes to ground,
leaving me nothing to pour
into the puddle crowned

with the label “Tadpole Pool”
in the local country park where
the restrictions seem cruel –
not even a drop of life to spare

for the babes of frogs,
wriggling thick and black
in mud by the decayed log.
The sun will dry until cracks

lace the ground and dead,
shriveled bodies fall into
these narrow dusty beds,
unable to see the blue,

just mouths, rudimentary bones,
gills, tails, and staring eyes.
 

The Goldfish Library

So long ago it used to be
That every school-year Tuesday
Along the city sidewalks we
Would walk a little way.

In uniforms of blue and white –
Coats in winter, jumpers May –
We opened the doors, brass bright,
Into my favorite sanctuary,
The city’s public library.

Over the polished marble floors,
Past the heavy reference tomes,
Downstairs and through the door –
There was the Children’s Room.

Freed from the silence above,
The childhood books let us roam
The fantasy realms we loved.
At ‘The End’ – I left the books
For the goldfish nook.

Through clear water fingers trailed,
plants rose up, fish swam slow –
Their black and orange scales
Glinted with sun from a high window.

Couldn’t this be from Japan?
I thought, this marble pool below
The weighty words of man.
Perhaps there’s a word or three
just for my Goldfish Library?

          In the library
 is a peaceful goldfish pool.
      Flashing fins of sun.

 

The Drying Grasses Whisper
 
The drying grasses
                     whisper
           ceaselessly
as blade caresses blade–
their final fling
before winter
claims them.