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Two Poems


“There is a kind of skitteryness about November, thinks Flossie. It is a month both ominous and nervous. The crisp displays of October, all its smart oranges and yellows,

have been spoiled and scattered about as November rushes in, dragging winter behind it like a trail of rattling cans.”

From The Whalebone Theatre by Joanna Quinn

Two Poems

When Dad died and left Mom alone, she went through her things and found enough items about my early life that she was able to present me with a bulging scrap book. Today I was going through it and found a poem written when I was thirteen. What was I thinking then? Read it and tell me.

A voice cries out “Stay, stay,

Don’t go there, come this way.”

Another bellows “No, you’re wrong.

It’s over here that you belong.”

Someone shouts “You fool. You’ll fail.

Your travels are to no avail.”

And yet I wonder am I wrong?

Is it false to sing my song?

I’m happy as I choose to be,

I live the life I want, I’m free.

So glad that others aren’t like me.

Again, I ask. What do you think I was thinking?

Let’s jump ahead to 2023, when I’m seventy-six. Here is a recently published poem. It was selected to appear in this spring’s issue of The Arrow, A Journal of Wakeful Society, Culture & Politics. This issue honored Buddhist Monk Thich Nhat Hanh”s life and teachings.

So Hum

I am the scent of a trellised flower,

climbing pink Peace Rose

on this sunny, summer day

at an open second story window.

My intoxicating inhalation of me

carries my mind away to Heaven:

Paradise within my soul.

I am a dancing raindrop

falling on high Beech Hill

into river’s rampant flow

rushing through the lowest places

then gliding through smaller ponds

slipping across a mammoth lake

on to my own true ocean home.

I am a stunning shining star

embedded in the Milky Way

often seen from Earth so brightly

other times behind high clouds

made of flimsy ice crystals

or dimmed by full moon light,

my presence scarcely known.

I am the breath of Winter Wind,

harsh one day, but warm another.

Erratic gusts thrust at you,

biting northwest after a storm.

Followed by a deceitful southwester.

Then back to frigid gales

with hail and heavy snow

I am a tiny dormant seed

tossed into a garden furrow,

Left to sprout or rot in dampness.

Fate is not my choice alone

until the warm spring sun

coaxes my fate into bloom.

I am a rose.

I actually like the first poem more than the second. What about you?

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