Poems & Such by - Anne Bryant-Hamon

Heather and Logan with Henry

2011-05-18T21:41:00.000-07:00

Secret Garden - Always there

2011-02-04T22:54:00.000-08:00

Shifting Sand

2011-01-15T19:08:00.000-08:00

CELINE DION - SO THIS IS CHRISTMAS

2010-12-25T02:29:00.000-08:00

O HOLY NIGHT - A CHRISTMAS CAROLS BY CELINE DION

2010-12-04T04:36:00.000-08:00

The Searcher's Prayer - a poem by Ruth Fawell

2010-11-01T15:11:00.001-07:00

THE SEARCHER'S PRAYER - by Ruth Fawell

You know well how the search for reality
Goes on throughout our lives,
How truth must always find new language,
New symbols.
Help us while we walk the pilgrim way
Of searching and re-searching
To hold fast to what we know of truth,
To heed the promptings
Of truth and love
In our own hearts
And in the world around us
Which only grow in us
As we obey the given light,
And dwindle as we disobey.

Strengthen us, we pray you,
To live them out
This day and every day,
So that our wills are fortified
By your will,
Our loves
By your love,
And our fragments of truth
By your truth.

Easy Death

2010-10-22T23:33:00.000-07:00

Oddly, I had just heard a preacher today on Youtube talking about how terrible a thing death is. Yet the true Christian faith teaches no such thing. So I thought to myself, that man doesn't have a clue what he is talking about. Several times when I have felt overwhelmed by all the "stuff" happening in this world and at my wits end with too many thoughts, I hear a gentle voice inside of me that says, "Nothing good will die". I'm thankful when I can hear that voice speak. It soothes my soul, quenches the anger that would consume me. I think anger has a purpose, as does death - to consume that which shall not be any more. I've not read the book below (yet), but I sure do like several of the quotes from within its pages...

"Death requires a loving, fearless, sorrowless, unangered volunteer of me. Death requires the feeling-heart's participation—enamored, self-forgetting, and without anticipation."

"Death is an un-selfing kind of wind — a sudden weather, any day. Death is the body's True fidelity to life, to love, and to Reality — regardless of the weather and the day."

"Death is utterly acceptable to consciousness and life. There has been endless time of numberless deaths, but neither consciousness nor life has ceased to arise. The felt quality and cycle to death has not modified the fragility of flowers, even the flowers within the human body."

"Therefore, one's understanding of consciousness and life must be turned to That Utter, Inclusive Truth, That Clarity and Wisdom, That Power and Untouchable Gracefulness, That One and Only Reality, this evidence suggests."

— Avatar Adi Da Samraj
from the Prologue to Easy Death

My Newest Hobbie . . . . B - i - K - i - N - G

2010-10-19T20:45:00.000-07:00

I've been biking for exercise for about six weeks now and the benefits are undeniable: lower blood pressure, gradual weight loss, increased mental clarity, improved circulation, and firmer muscle tone. Now if I could find a way to go completely car-free and use my bike for all my local travel, I'd save a bundle of money and get in much better physical condition faster. So, I hope I can keep it up. It's good to be moving my body around again!

Dark Side

2010-10-10T19:04:00.000-07:00

On its label
the honey was called
"Island of Moon".
I found it up on the second shelf
near the back,
to sweeten my cup of hot tea,
a beverage I only drink when I'm feeling
under the weather.
It was a much deeper amber than the usual
clover or orange blossom kinds I normally choose.
It's hue was deeper than scotch whiskey
drawn from an old barrel.
The taste, the look, the smell, and especially the name
made me think of the dark side
that space of obscurity
where I keep all my jagged thoughts hidden
as one who turns her face away from the sun
like the button-black centers of blood-red poppies
when they close themselves up at night.

Anne Bryant-Hamon 10.10.10

How to live without money

2010-09-25T20:31:00.000-07:00

I find this concept very fascinating. I wonder if I have what it takes to live such a different lifestyle?

S e p t e m b e r

2010-09-13T07:41:00.000-07:00

A dwindling summer lingers on.
Bright zinnias hold out stubbornly.
Gold buds crowd the chrysanthemums,
their petals buried tight in green
cocoons. And by next month they’ll bring
us autumn sunbursts. Drink with me
a toast to Browning and to Frost
and one to dear Ms. Emily —
for summer days will soon be lost
to ghostly winds and leaf-filled streams.
I look to Ezra Pound and Faust
in shortening days of in-betweens;
and try to find the words to say
September never cared for me.

© Anne Bryant-Hamon
9.11.10

For You- by John Denver

2010-09-08T23:07:00.000-07:00

How Beautiful

2010-07-27T01:29:00.000-07:00

How Beautiful Is the Body of Christ ....

"How lovely on the mountains Are the feet of him who brings good news, Who announces peace And brings good news of happiness, Who announces salvation, And says to Zion, "Your God reigns!" - from the prophet, Isaiah

Gerry Beauchemin - Author of "Hope Beyond Hell"

2010-06-11T05:30:00.000-07:00

Joan Osborne - One of Us

2010-05-26T20:02:00.000-07:00

If God had a name what would it be?
And would you call it to his face?
If you were faced with him in all his glory
what would you ask if you had just one question?

Yeah, Yeah, God is great
Yeah, Yeah, God is good
Yeah Yeah yeah yeah yeah

What if God was one of us?
Just a slob like one of us
Just a stranger on the bus
Trying to make his way home

If God had a face
What would it look like?
And would you want to see
If seeing meant that you would have to believe
In things like heaven and Jesus and the saints
and all the Prophets

Yeah Yeah God is great
Yeah Yeah God is good
Yeah Yeah yeah yeah yeah

What if God was one of us?
Just a slob like one of us
Just a stranger on the bus
Trying to make his way home
Just trying to make his way home
Back up to Heaven all alone
Nobody callin' on the phone
'cept for the Pope maybe in Rome

Yeah Yeah God is great
Yeah Yeah God is good
Yeah Yeah yeah yeah

What if God was one of us?
Just a slob like one of us
Just a stranger on the bus
Trying to make his way home
Like a holy rolling stone
Back up to Heaven all alone
Just trying to make his way home
Nobody callin' on the phone
'cept for the Pope maybe in Rome ????
- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Josh Groban - You Are Loved (Don't Give Up) [HQ]

2010-05-23T22:20:00.000-07:00

Dedicated to all who are pressed in on all sides by the weight of the world....

CASUALTIES OF THE GULF OF MEXICO DISASTER: Beneath the Surface

2010-05-23T00:33:00.000-07:00

Dying To Know You

2010-05-18T20:53:00.000-07:00

I tell you the truth, unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds. - John 12:24
________________________________________________
"I shall never get you put together entirely..." from The Colossus – by Sylvia Plath
________________________________________________
- Dying to Know You –

I shall never get you put together entirely,
though I’ll spend years unraveling myself,
trying to map out who you are,
as though I’m trying every key
in order to unlock the mysteries
buried within you.

I shall never get you put together entirely,
and heaven knows I've come to realize
there really is no need to do so.
Finally, I understand
that each of us is a peculiar puzzle
designed by the hand of God.
And some mysteries simply are not ours.

I shall never get you put together entirely,
Yet I will remain intrigued
enough to turn you over piece by piece,
delighted by the fragments of your whole,
that frame the wonderment of your soul.

(c) Anne Bryant-Hamon
________________________________________________
(revised again! this May 19, 2010,one of many revisions of the original poem I wrote) - This poem began years ago as a challenge/exercise given on a poetry forum I used to frequent. The challenge was to take a famous line from a poem and create my own from it. The man who gave the challenge, Rod Nichols, has since passed away, as have so many of the poets I've shared time with over the years.

Crack O' Dawn Report: Predestination & Gummy Bears

2010-05-12T23:39:00.000-07:00

Another lesson from one of my favorite bible teachers... (are you a gummy bear or a chocolate covered raisin?)

Akiane: child prodigy, artist, poet, "Indigo child"

2010-05-03T00:18:00.000-07:00

I was happily reminded of this girl, Akiane as I watched a program on the Science Channel. She is a reminder to me that "GOD IS".

Crack O' Dawn Report: Romans 14: Into The Frying Pan

2010-04-24T21:16:00.000-07:00

Question posed to Universalist Christians

2010-04-18T18:48:00.000-07:00

The link below is just a drop in the bucket of a really large Christian forum where many of the participants believe in and teach the doctrine of eternal torment(which, if you know me, I thoroughly reject).... I've not written any poems lately, so I might as well post something about my faith... perhaps it will be of help to someone who stumbles upon it. For some reason, I am not having any success at putting links in, so you'll have to copy/paste this link to go to it ----

Universalists: Please Explain Why You Believe Like You Do

http://www.city-data.com/forum/christianity/942868-universalists-please-explain-why-you-believe.html

Talking to myself – since I’m the only one listening

2010-04-15T15:18:00.000-07:00

I have a friend who talks to herself on her blog. She’s quite bright and so she figured out long before I did that no one else in this world can really listen to us – at least not all the time or even most of the time. I’ve known that for a while, but I’ve tried to deny it. Not that that is anyone’s fault – we’re all sealed up in our soft shelled tombs of silence. Or to put it another way – our house has been left unto us desolate. Adam’s race has been dashed to bits against the stones – perhaps his body has lost more blood than it yet has left to lose. There is a death in realizing that no one wants to dance anymore. There is a grief that occurs when the song in one’s heart can no longer be found. Maybe tomorrow I won’t feel this empty space. Or maybe I will – who knows? Maybe tomorrow will never come and I will go to sleep tonight with all those souls who have slipped beneath the eternal quiet place and no longer contemplate joy nor fear sorrow.

Northern Mockingbird, Sounds, All About Birds - Cornell Lab of Ornithology

2010-04-12T02:34:00.000-07:00

Northern Mockingbird, Sounds, All About Birds - Cornell Lab of Ornithology

I've been listening to a mockingbird at night during the spring break. I love to hear them. I counted nearly 20 different sounds coming from that bird in a matter of a few minutes. I'm not sure exactly what type of mockingbird we've got. Above is a picture of a Northern Mockingbird that I found on-line.

Last Hour in Gethsemane

2010-04-02T18:23:00.000-07:00

(Revised April 2, 2010)

"Could you keep watch with me this hour?",
it's written that our dear Christ said,
in that dark garden where his bower
wove mustard seeds with thorns. The bread

had made the Lord's disciples full –
so satisfied, they would not last.
They felt the weighted earthly pull,
sins’ gravity – the cross was cast.

Though Jesus knew all men are weak,
oh how it must have grieved his heart
to be abandoned by his sheep,
the ones he’d chosen from the dark.

And it is so for each of us
in that steep valley of the skull
where our travail is ominous,
and cupped with trembling – till a lull

shall lift us from the anguished floor
of threshing where God’s angels swarm
to separate the chaff before
the wheat is gathered in the storm.

© Anne Bryant-Hamon

Good News for All People on Good Friday

2010-04-02T14:05:00.000-07:00

Today being Good Friday, I want to turn my thoughts to the truly good news of God's love for all of humankind - yes, ALL, not just some. I've been really struggling lately with some hard issues, been pretty lonely, been feeling a touch of desperation, but I'm glad that God has a plan that includes every person. And I'm glad that I truly believe this with all my heart - it gives me great peace in the storms of life. Since I very much dislike organized religion, I don't talk about my faith too much on my blog. Because so many horrible things have been done in the name of Christ, it has caused many rational people to stop listening and there certainly are plenty of "crazy" (hateful) people naming the name of Christ in the world who go about proclaiming bad news in God's Holy name (which is a shame). I became a convinced Universalist Christian in 2001 - nearly ten years ago. For that deliverance of my soul, I am truly thankful. But honestly, even in UR circles, there is still much religious bondage. However, it was largely through the labor of love of Gary and Michelle Amirault's ministry at http://www.tentmaker.org that I was enabled to come into God's Spiritual River of Freedom. I hope and pray that many souls are released from the prisons of fear and hopelessness this weekend as we celebrate the Resurrection of Christ.

2010-03-25T02:58:00.000-07:00

Aubade
(Red Sky In Morning)

Maybe I am awake before dawn
so I can imagine the sound of water
that will soon rush over his hands,
then trickle effortlessly through his fingers.

I consider the mingling of H2O with his DNA
spilling into the white porcelain sink,
the microscopic blueprint of him
that will soon travel down the copper drain
trailing off to a secret place
somewhere below the ground we share.

Such scenes are circles of springtime
washing over my thoughts,
leaving me pale green with envy
in the faint light of this cool, March morning.

I will wait for a red sky at night – sailor’s delight.

© Anne Bryant-Hamon
March 25, 2010

In His Shoes

2010-03-24T04:05:00.000-07:00

This was written last year, and even posted here last year, but since a friend of mine on a board where I fellowship reminded me of it, I decided to post it again and changed the title today. It was previously titled, "Sympathy for God".
______________________________________________

In His Shoes

Imagine that He is
but has no father or mother,
no one to whom He must answer,
yet no one to whom He may inquire.

Imagine that He is spirit
with power to create bodies,
both terrestrial and celestial,
yet cannot be reduced to a body
because He gives life to every body.

Imagine that He is Agape-Love
bound by the essence of ultimate purity,
yet He is opposed
by all sentient beings
who cannot comprehend Him
or understand His true intentions,
nor can His creatures help their lack of understanding
without His help, His love, His grace,
His granting of wisdom
to those who seek wisdom.

Imagine being God
and desiring fellowship with sentient beings
made in His likeness.

We were taught that God needs nothing and no one,
but perhaps He needed us
in order that His joy be made full.

God WAS, and IS
yet did not and does not want to BE alone!

Imagine creating such beings
without creating robots
who can only comprehend their own god-like-ness
by being made subject to sorrow and death.

Imagine that those He subjected to death,
(in order that He could convey the glory of life and righteousness and goodness),
were mostly confused by His dilemma,
or unresponsive, uninterested, unappreciative of the glory of His being
or even worse - thought him cruel or non-existent.

Imagine God wanting to be loved and understood
to the same degree that you and I want
to be loved and understood.

Imagine.

(c) Anne Bryant-Hamon

Let Me Be Like a River

2010-03-20T08:17:00.001-07:00

Some words that came to me this morning... I don't know if they are mine or if someone already said them before. But I was thinking about whether to sulk over my recent mistakes or to just move on. It seemed like I was given to make a choice. I think we are mostly faced with a choice over whether or not we will enter into the joy in life or hang back and be sad, and so these are some word thoughts that occurred to me a few moments ago:

Let Me Be Like a River

The River - it always sings and it always runs
as it claims the wind for a melody
and reflects the light around like ten thousand tiny suns.

Wintertime in Spring

2010-03-17T22:58:00.000-07:00

There is a time when winter comes in spring,
though trees are brimmed with budding up and down,
and winds are soft and sweet – the birds still sing,
but something’s missing – yet it is unknown
to me just why this melancholy spell
has seized upon my heart, I cannot tell
myself or God or any other one
how new life blossoms, and yet I feel undone.

A Mysterious and Unexpected Book

2010-03-15T23:22:00.000-07:00

I want to make a note of this here on my blog, something that happened to me last week out of the blue. Last week (March8-12) was one of the most anxiety ridden weeks I've experienced in a long time. I won't go into the reasons why, but I felt that some huge change was happening in my life and it was making me tremble with fear. Fear of what, I'm not exactly sure. But I came home from work on Wednesday, March 10th to find a package lying on my front porch wrapped in sky blue paper with small multi-colored dots of diamonds. And I thought, oh, that is probably from my friend Brenda - she had said she planned to mail me a movie. But it was not from Brenda. It was not from anyone I am aware of knowing. And it was addressed to "Anne Bryant-Hamon" my poetry signature-name. It had come from a woman named Mary who lives in Las Vegas, NV. I've never been to Nevada and I don't know anyone who lives there! I opened the package and inside was an old copy of an old children's book called The Sorely Trying Day. I sat down at the dining table and read the book and looked at all the illustrations and felt an intense calm and peace cover me. And I just want to say, "Thank you, Mary, one of God's dear children, for the book and for listening to the Spirit that caused you to send it. The timing was stunning!

Comin' Around Again - by Carly Simon

2010-03-15T03:20:00.000-07:00

I love her voice, her style, her songs. She will always be one of my favorites...

To the Archaeologist

2010-03-14T20:28:00.000-07:00

I am your fossil
shaped by and for love,
a green leaf pressed into rock
long ago by
great heat and pressure
that fell with the stars
from heaven to earth.

I wait to be lifted and touched,
handled and smoothed,
softened by the grain and grooves
of tool prone hands.

I long to be studied
through eyes that are
rightly fascinated
by that which is both
ancient and ever new.

Turn me and sift me
with fingers trailing.
Measure me.
Lay me down...
pick me up.

Write me into your leather book.
Press me deeply into your memory
of permanent records,
a marking of your
latest excavation.

Tears of Sleeping Beauty

2010-03-10T10:43:00.000-08:00

I've been revising this poem for 3 years now. Can't tell if it is getting better or worse. But the revision made sense to me for now - for the things I've been going through. So in that sense, it works. The first line is from a Science magazine article I read back in '07. I knew when I read that line, there must be a poem (probably many poems by many poets) spun from it.

Tears of Sleeping Beauty

And the LORD God caused a deep sleep to fall upon Adam,and he slept; and he took one of his ribs, and closed up the flesh in its place. - Gen 2:21

Moths drink the tears from eyes of sleeping birds.*
The same is true of certain butterflies.
Sometimes the facts sound just like pretty lies
that poets chose for loveliness of words.

It may be that the strangest facts in life
exist to help us weave a melody
as if God knew that every flower and tree
would comfort us, as does a man, his wife.

There’s beauty even in the realm of death.
Without such splendor we might not endure
this earthly plane. With suffering there is grace.
For every teardrop – may there widen the breadth
of love. And in the end there lies the cure
when grace and peace are etched on every face.

original © 2007
(Revised for the umpteenth time March 2010)

Postcard from Jennifer came today...

2010-03-08T14:33:00.000-08:00

She writes... "I'm so excited that I am going to live in California. Choosing between Cal Tech and Stanford University is a difficult decision." I think she'll choose Stanford. But I am not a betting person since our kids have left us nearly broke!

STANFORD UNIVERSITY - The Road In

Perhaps Love - by John Denver

2010-03-06T02:46:00.000-08:00

Couldn't find sleep, so I have been awake listening to old songs by John Denver. They are timeless - ever new. He was an angel among us. His spirit lives on through his music.

Where the Sidewalk Ends - by Shel Silverstein

2010-03-05T14:54:00.000-08:00

A contemplative poem by the late Shel Silverstein (God rest his soul). I'd not read this one before but it is lovely.
-~-..-~--~-..-~--~-..-~---..-~--~-..-~--~-..-~---..-~--~-

There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.

-~-..-~--~-..-~--~-..-~---..-~--~-..-~--~-..-~---..-~--~-

Why I Sit Beside the Door

2010-03-04T13:18:00.000-08:00

I wait
and think of what I’ll say
in quartered years –a slice of day
with fifteen minutes of his ear
to talk about my joy and fear.
I wait
I wait for him – I try
to gather thoughts of what or why
I’ve come – and yet my thoughts are thin,
yet here I am – I wait for him.

I wait, I wait , I wait
for him –
I sit beside the entrance door
and place my purse down on the floor,
glance at the mantle to my right –
stocked full with pamphlets - gleaming white.

And in a ‘half-moon’ little while
he lights the room up with his smile
and clean, pressed shirt – I love that style!
A hint of ocean blues, his eyes
are full of mystery and surprise.

With seeming care he calls my name,
then I remember why I came.
I came, I came to talk to him
about the issues – bright or grim
and yes, about the medicine
I need. At least he knows my name
and never makes me feel insane.

My eyes meet his – it’s my turn now
to sit, to talk, to cry, to smile,
to do whatever I must do –
before my time with him is through.

Anne – February 23, 2010

To my Mother - Margaret

2010-02-28T11:48:00.000-08:00

Dear Mom,
Today marks the one year anniversary of the day you died. I hope to die as peacefully as you did. You were a blessed woman, even though you had many disappointments in life. You never had a seriously sick child or lost a child. You were never homeless. I know you felt lonely and rejected by the men in your life - which is the fate of so many women. But you were strong in so many ways. And you did the best you could with what you had. I miss you. I hope that if you are conscious that it is in the paradise you hoped for. I love you, mom.

Hummingbirds

2010-02-25T02:47:00.000-08:00

It matters how the stirring waters
fall into our thoughts,
the weight of liquid, heavy like a dark, spring cloud,
muddies the heart's wanderings,
turning sunny yellow pondering
into ruddy, mud-slick floors,
changing a land-locked sense of certainty
into an island, damp with questions.

It's best when the rain falls softly
to break the shell of silence
that seals us into quietude
rather than being deluged,
flooded by the worried self,
that watcher, called Ego who
imposes layer after layer
of false god images over us.

Wanting to escape being alone
is not the same as the desire to 'not be'.
Yet a universal veil
covers each of us with an illusion,
a blind-spot given to all our earthly eyes
that causes us to believe
that spirit touching spirit
is a mirage, something unattainable -
always just out of reach.

Surly God knew first that 'to feel alone',
was, in itself, the main cause for grief.
So today I will cover your head
with halos of love,
longing to convey somehow
that I see your true beauty.

Yet if I speak my love
and my longing to share
a common joy in linear time,
I fear you may soon recede
like the evening tide.

There is an unwritten law
that we all follow:
the desire for embracing
fenced off by a compulsion for autonomy.

Like hummingbirds, we tread air –
are constantly moving,
always beyond any resting place,
drinking deeply,
while looking back at what was,
tasting what is
and dreaming of what shall be
when we fly away.

© Anne Bryant-Hamon
“Somewhere Between Heaven and Earth"

Chasing Sunsets

2009-10-06T00:24:00.000-07:00

A dwindling summer lingers on
as zinnias hold out stubbornly.
The buds set on chrysanthemums -
by mid-October they shall bring
us autumn sunbursts. Drink with me
a toast to Browning and to Frost,
and one for dear Ms. Emily,
for summer's green must soon be lost
to ghostly winds and leafy streams
and graves that were not tilled in spring.

A I R <---> M A I L

2009-10-02T21:10:00.000-07:00

For my mother (Oct 17,1932 - Feb 28, 2009)

The stamps you left inside your roll-top desk
are lady liberties worth thirty-nine
cents each. And in this chair I'm like a guest
in a closed Bed and Breakfast as I sign
this poem/letter that I'll never send
to you because the place is much too far
where you have flown. I cannot cause the wind
to carry my fond wishes to your star.

We last spoke on a Saturday by phone;
the final time was February-gray.
I told you I would call you back at home
that afternoon. I never got to say
the words I would have said if I had known
how quickly death would swallow flesh and bone.

Anne Bryant-Hamon (c) Oct. 1, 2009

Drift Wood Summer

2009-09-20T23:44:00.001-07:00

We're on a sand dune sloping toward the ocean,
our eyes reclining with the setting sun.
Gray silhouettes form shadows from the motion,
of palm trees, though the painting's not yet done.

The artist may yet choose to add some trouble,
a salty water-spray caused by a gale,
or driftwood pieces spread among the rubble,
with sea gulls huddled on a split-wood rail.

Perhaps he'll place a storm cloud in the distance
for contrast, (purple doused with midnight blue).
and make the faces of the couple listless
to hint of sadness that the summer's through.

Regardless of the painting or its weather,
their bare feet trace the drifting sand together.

Flu Away! Fresh Vegetable Juice

2009-09-14T23:00:00.000-07:00

It's meatless Monday and I just finished a delicious healthy glass of what I call 'Flu-Away' fresh vegetable juice.
This is truly making a difference in my life. Nothing energizes me quite like fresh vegetable juice with a dash of Celtic Sea Salt.
When I drink this, I imagine sunlight coursing through my veins. The glory that radiates from our faces comes from the sun we drink!
I always start with a base of 4-5 medium tomatoes, then add the freshest ingredients I happen to have on hand, often what has
been picked from our garden that day. And never, never throw away broccoli stems - it's like throwing away gold.
Any combination of veggies will do - just do it! Make sure you have dark greens involved. You need an electric juicer, of course. I use a Juiceman brand.

Today I had freshly juiced:
5 Tomatoes
Large Bunch of Kale
1 Whole Carrot
2 Stalks Celery
1 large Green Pepper
2 Large Broccoli Stems
Fist full of fresh picked Green Beans
1/2 tsp Celtic Sea Salt

***I prefer this drink with one hot banana pepper, which we sometimes have handy in our garden.

BEAUTIFUL ONE

2009-07-25T21:58:00.000-07:00

Independence Day Relief!

2009-07-04T09:10:00.000-07:00

SENSUAL MUSIC

2009-06-30T10:41:00.000-07:00

Dedicated to Margaret Menamin who passed away June 3, 2009

Where touch ends, its music plays on
like the light on a surface of water that bends
at first glance - then appears to be gone
where touch ends.

I have friends, though I'm often alone.
They’re like sail boats that sift on a lake of soft winds.
Touch reaches toward words whispered clear to the bone
that my hands may not grasp, though a yearning descends.

And loneliness – sometimes it sends
my needy heart searching for sun
where touch ends.

Anne Bryant-Hamon (Revised Feb – 2010)

May Morning

2009-05-23T23:38:00.000-07:00

Open wide as a market umbrella,
a white crape myrtle shades my front lawn,
newly pebbled with patches of yellow
dots of dandelions. Just after dawn

I awake to the sound of glad singing
breaking forth in a song without words.
There’s no need for a language; the meaning –
resonates from the joy of the birds.

To their open air concert I’m bringing
only bare feet and sleepy, green eyes,
and my coffee, of course, while I’m flinging
on a tee-shirt and blue jeans. I rise

up delighted by Spring-time this morning,
and deft beauty of nature’s adorning.

© '08

Janet Waking - One of my favorite poems...

2009-05-05T07:31:00.000-07:00

I love this poem. And not without a good cause. This morning a situation I was watching made me think of it again. I even considered writing a poem about how part of me would like to interrupt 'Janet's ' crisis, but as Peter learned, that is not the mind of Christ about the matter.

______________________________________________________________
Janet Waking

By John Crowe Ransom

Beautifully Janet slept
Till it was deeply morning. She woke then
And thought about her dainty-feathered hen,
To see how it had kept.

One kiss she gave her mother,
Only a small one gave she to her daddy
Who would have kissed each curl of his shining baby;
No kiss at all for her brother.

“Old Chucky, Old Chucky!” she cried,
Running on little pink feet upon the grass
To Chucky’s house, and listening. But alas,
Her Chucky had died.

It was a transmogrifying bee
Came droning down on Chucky’s old bald head
And sat and put the poison. It scarcely bled,
But how exceedingly

And purply did the knot
Swell with the venom and communicate
Its rigour! Now the poor comb stood up straight
But Chucky did not.

So there was Janet
Kneeling on the wet grass, crying her brown hen
(Translated far beyond the daughters of men)
To rise and walk upon it.

And weeping fast as she had breath
Janet implored us, “Wake her from her sleep!”
And would not be instructed in how deep
Was the forgetful kingdom of death.

_____________________________________________

“Janet Waking” is a metaphor for her initiation into knowledge of grief, loss, and the irreversibility of death. After a pleasant sleep, nothing seems amiss in Janet's world, but her true awakening begins when she decides to see how Chucky (a “dainty-feathered hen”) has “kept” (a colloquial expression referring to its well-being). As she pauses to give each parent a dutiful morning kiss, it is obvious that she usually gets her way. Next Janet runs “across the world upon the grass” to Chucky's house. In running from her home (where she is in control) to Chucky's house, she figuratively runs “across the world” because her world is about to be completely changed, as she moves from innocence to knowledge. (The speaker may also be punning with the Southern colloquialism of ’run across’ meaning ’inadvertently discover.’)

Janet discovers that “alas” Chucky has died. “Alas” both suggests the depth of her shock and loss and, by its very extravagance, creates a mock serious tone that undercuts and balances her grief. Chucky has died from a bee sting on its bald head. The “venom” (a term usually associated with evil) has caused a large purple knot on Chucky's head and rigor throughout the hen's body. The speaker observes that now Chucky's “poor comb” stands straight but Chucky does not. This flippant understatement seems intended to distance the speaker from Janet's emotions and remind the reader that a pet hen's death may not be taken very seriously by adults.

This initiation poem, which begins with literal sleep, ends with death (a sleep from which Chucky cannot be awakened). Janet attempts to “wake” Chucky, but the hen is “translated” beyond the reach of earthly power. Weeping so hard that her sobs seem inseparable from her breathing, Janet then turns to the adults, begging them to intervene. When they try to explain the concept of death, Janet simply rejects this idea that she is not ready to comprehend.
Bibliography

Brooks, Cleanth. “John Crowe Ransom: As I Remember Him.” American Scholar 58, no. 2 (Spring, 1989): 211-233.

Cowan, Louise. The Fugitive Group: A Literary History. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1959.

Howard, Maureen. “There Are Many Wonderful Owls in Gambier.” Yale Review 77 (Summer, 1988): 521-527.

Malvasi, Mark G. The Unregenerate South: The Agrarian Thought of John Crowe Ransom, Allen Tate, and Donald Davidson. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1997.

Modern American Poetry Web site. “John Crowe Ransom.” http://www.english.uiuc.edu/maps/poets/m_r/ransom/life.htm.

Quinlan, Kieran. John Crowe Ransom's Secular Faith. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1989.

Rubin, Louis D., Jr. “The Wary Fugitive: John Crowe Ransom.” Sewanee Review 82 (1974): 583-618.

Young, Thomas Daniel. Gentleman in a Dustcoat: A Biography of John Crowe Ransom. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1976.

I Have A Dream - Video

2009-05-01T03:32:00.001-07:00

Mercy Me 10 Year Anniversary

2009-05-01T02:36:00.000-07:00

Passover - Easter Greetings

2009-04-08T22:24:00.000-07:00

I figure I probably should post something at least once a month, otherwise, why keep a blog? The photo is a reminder that we are both alike and different than each other, but we all need love and friends. I have a few good friends. That is enough.
I have not been writing much poetry since late December when I was kicked off Eratosphere. And that's not a bad thing, actually. I'm paying more attention to 'real' people and other 'real-life' things and doing more in my house and garden. I did read CE Chaffin's poetry collection of poems "Unexpected Light', which I recommend as a good collection of free verse poems. I'd started reading it at the end of February and had planned to finish it then. But mom died on the 28th and that, along with some of my own physical ailments seems to have swallowed up the entire month of March. I am feeling a lot better than I did in February. The darkness appears to be deepening if one measures it by looking at the news; there has been an increase in violence and mass killings which is surely connected to the economic downturn. I do my best not to be troubled by the tossing sea. My biggest threat from my perspective is to be done in by a broken heart from being witness to such mass suffering and confusion. But it is not in my control, so I wait for God to bring everything to the light in due time. I wait. I wait for the Lord of all the earth, the God who gave me a spirit, a soul and a body. He will be faithful to all his Creation.

- COLORING BOOK -

2009-03-15T21:59:00.000-07:00

The March issue of POETRY lies open on my desk
As I wait for Mr. Durden’s
2nd period Pre-Calculus Algebra students
Who will rush through the door when the bell rings.

I flip randomly through the pages
Knowing full well I’ll have to read
A pile of debris passed off as poetry
Before I find (with just a little bit of luck)
A couple of gifts tucked between the covers,
Perhaps satisfying enough to prevent
The recently pondered cancellation of my subscription.

I twirl my freshly dyed brown curls
With the fingers of my right hand
As I hold the edge of a page with my left thumb.
A thought comes to me upon reading a poem called
“Landscape With Horse Named Popcorn” :

"I could have saved myself the trouble
Of applying hair color last week,
Could have just pulled all my gray hairs out today
One by one as I turn these pages."

Instead, I take out red and blue dry-erase markers
And scrupulously scribble colorful comments
In the margins of this literary rag.

in Remembrance of my Mother

2009-02-28T20:27:00.000-08:00

John 14:1 Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me. 2 In my Father's house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. 3 And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also. 4 And whither I go ye know, and the way ye know.

Margaret Elaine Bryant - b. Oct. 17, 1932 - Passed - Feb. 28, 2009
May she rest in peace from all the troubles and pain in this world.
I don't have a poem. But more tears than I expected.

- with love from your 4th/last child - Edith/Anne Bryant-Hamon

______________________________________

From March 4, 2009 Atlanta Journal Obituaries:

Margaret Bryant

Family-Placed Death Notice

BRYANT, Margaret Elaine Bryant passed away on February 28, 2009. She was 76. Mrs. Bryant was proceeded in death by her husband William R. Bryant. She is survived by her sons Donald S. Bryant, David R. Bryant and daughters Susan Bragg and Anne Hamon and a host of grandchildren and great grandchildren. Her Funeral will be held at 12:00 Noon Wed. March 4, 2009 at The Church of God of the Union Assembly 3105 Bankhead Highway Litha Springs, GA 30122. Pastor Jack Giles officiating. Graveside services are private family only. Family request no flowers.

_____________________________0-0__________________________________
HERE ARE A FEW THINGS I FOUND IN ONE OF MOTHER'S SCRAPBOOKS
THAT SHE'D SAVED....STUFF SHE'D CUT OUT TO READ OVER AGAIN - THE OPENING COMMENTS IN ITALICS ARE MINE....

I was thinking about death and the purpose of death. One thought always leads me to another. I was thinking about certain sins that we find disgusting whether in ourselves or others, behaviors and weaknesses in humanity that we would not want to have to dwell with forever. Death is necessary to "drown" those things - to extinguish them - to release us from the bondage of sin's grasp. Sin can only reign in the mortal realm. Sin has an appointment with death - thank God!

My mother left behind several journals with things she clipped out and prayers she wrote to our Heavenly Father. Mother loved God. Mother was a loving person. But mother, like everyone I know still battled with sin. In that regard, she was no different than any other person. Mother and I did not see eye to eye on everything spiritual. In fact, it was difficult for us to communicate about the things of God and about the scriptures because she was set in her ways of thinking from the church she was raised in. But she knew what I believed about Christ saving ALL of mankind. And she didn't argue with me, nor did I argue with her. I found so many lovely things she'd saved in one of her scrapbooks. Since I think it will bless those who read them I will post some of them here and perhaps add more to this thread as time allows.

A NAME, A NAME, A NAME

I know a soul that is steeped in sin
That no man's art can cure;
But I know a name, a name, a name
that can make that soul all pure.

I know a life that is lost to God,
bound down by things on earth;
But I know a name, a name, a name,
that can bring that soul a new birth.

I know of lands that are sunk in shame,
of hearts that faint and tire;
But I know a name, a name, a name,
That will set those lands on fire.

- Author Unknown -

___________________________________

THE QUIET HEART - Precious in His Sight

Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints. - PSALM 116:15

Can this be death -
to be released from fear and sorrow,
from sickness, weariness, and pain?
To be removed from sin's enslavement,
From Satan's influence and domain?

Can this be death -
to be presented in His presence,
the One who loves me evermore?
To be accepted in the fullness
Of Christ whom I adore?

Can this be death -
to know complete fulfillment
as I look upon his face?
To feast upon the glories
and the riches of his grace?

No, this is life-
with all that it can offer,
It is joy that overflows!
It is peace that knows no measure,
It is victory o'ver my foes! - MARTIN WEDGE

_________________________________________________

--- The greatest event which can take place in the life of a believer occurs when God delivers us
from the bondage of our bodies and our spirits go to be with him in heaven. What a glorious thought
that is! There is nothing to dread, for it is good to be with the Lord. Death is forever swallowed up
in victory. - HAROLD LINDSELL

_________________________________________________

I do not want to go too soon,
before that final grain of sand,
but neither do I want to be
held back by some unwilling hand
that does not understand God's way
of changing these old clothes I wear,
from frazzled threads of faded flesh,
to robes of grace as light as air.

I want to go out unrestrained,
when he who gave life sets it free,
and pass through with that final grain
of sand in joy and victory. - HELENE STALLCUP, Conway, Arkansas

_________________________________________

Precious, oh how precious is that blessed sheep,
Folded in his bosom, wrapped in slumber deep;
None but Jesus giveth rest so true and sweet
For the weary body and the wayworn feet.

Precious, oh how precious, he alone can know
What a blessed respite after human woe;
Only he can measure their eternal gain,
When they leave forever earthly care and pain.

Precious, oh how precious, to behold his face,
Ever to be with him and to praise his grace
Ah, when Jesus giveth his beloved sleep,
'Tis the tenderest token of his love so deep. - AUTHOR UNKNOWN

_____________________________________________

By day and by night, in life and in death, may I ever be true to Thee, O Lover of my soul,
my ceaseless Friend, my unchangeable Savior. Into Thy hands I commit my spirit. - F.B. Meyer

For a Flighty Wind Bag

2009-02-27T17:42:00.000-08:00

- flimsy fLight verse -

To a Janus-face from the land down under
full of too much wind and waves and thunder:
When you cut my nose off to kite your face
you perceived as ignorance my worn out grace.
To a world class queen who knows it all,
may your heel snap off in an Opera Hall!

February Blues

2009-02-22T21:53:00.001-08:00

Shall I inscribe my eulogy to joy
on this, a lonesome, February day
over a man I'd thought of as a boy
until he sealed my lips. I held no sway,
no current strong enough to draw him out.
My language blurred the lines, then ran astray
into a grayish space that conjures doubt.
My tender words were meant to chase away
the heaviness that lay upon my shoulder.
I poured three cups of flirting with a smile.
And not expecting it – he grew much colder
as if he’d seen some ghost or phantom guile.
Perhaps the coming spring may turn around
that repertoire of joy I thought we’d found.

You Say My Name

2009-02-03T23:35:00.000-08:00

You say my name yet I don't know from where
you learned to curl the vowels like whispered twine
on silken breath of gossamer. With care
you say my name.

You speak and all your words become like wine
and California poppies, grapes and air
as thin as in some northern mountain clime.

Your voice of elegance makes my name rare
and takes me to a place outside of time
where I forget my sorrows. Like a prayer
you say my name.

AfterImage

2009-02-01T22:49:00.000-08:00

I see your face and hands
through a dim-lit, panoramic view.
My memories of you are like milky glass
wrapped around far-off days,
metaphysical lines funneling through my dreams
tempting me to reach beyond that which I can grasp,
into vagrant fields where children used to play.

In my eyes, you were high upon a ledge
and I, the trailing ivy on your wall,
my curvy tendrils seeking a firm attachment,
my leaves growing outward toward the light.

I recall you seemingly obscured,
packing suitcases,
often traveling – a distant notion.
Yet I can still recall the love from your eyes,
their lovely hue, like the heaven-blue of morning glories.

I heard about you through stories
from lips that fed me ‘who you were’ –
words from mother’s sacred urn of reminiscence
mixed with ashes of her ire
and fragments of your Colorado haze.

I cannot capture the hereafter,
nor touch you as I once could.
Yet sometimes in reverie,
I envision you:
skipping rocks across a river,
sailing a boat across a lake,
laughing heartily for the joy of life,
an ordinary boy who once was
my father's mother's son.

__________________________________________________________

“Remembering my earthly father”
William R. Bryant - (Born - March 26,1932 - Denver Colorado
– Died September 10,1969 - Birmingham, Alabama)

Lonely Girl's Lament

2009-01-12T08:13:00.000-08:00

for the innocent children of Gaza and the war-torn world

May I sit in your sandbox?
I'll be very quiet.
I'll bring my own shovel
and leave all the contents.
I'll sweep off the grains -
you may keep all the sand.

I'll stay in a corner;
and you can pretend
you don't know me from Adam
when your friends come around.

Perhaps you'll impress them
with an appearance of charity
along with your rare way
of managing knowledge.

And there's self-satisfaction
in your blithe condescension
as you bend toward a gentile
(read: less than a dog).

I would not have come here
of my own volition;
I was sent by some other,
His reasons unknown.

There's only one Sun
for us here in this garden
to light every playground -
One God for One Earth.
______________________________

Love on the Tip of My Tongue

2009-01-01T21:09:00.000-08:00

The words in my mouth have become
Stuck, stuck on - the tip of my tongue.

Where lofty thoughts would skate
They soon encounter hate, hate, hate.

Such violence seems to me pathetic.
The world lies aposiopetic.

Dreaming of a White Christmas

2008-12-06T04:35:00.001-08:00

This House

2008-12-06T04:32:00.000-08:00

This house is falling down. The roof has seen
its better days, even the trusses sag.
Don't let the moss that's growing in between
the shingles fool you with its charm. The swag
of roses on the door, tied with a bow,
are hung preserved and bundled near the bell.
And when the bell is rung we’ll have to go
to find something to buy – something to sell.

This house is tired of spinning round and round.
The window panes are covered with a haze
of dust and in the garden there's a sound
of tanks and bombs where little Johnny plays.
Through many trying years this house has stood
with hope and fear and nail prints in its wood.

Seed of Doubt

2008-11-01T02:42:00.000-07:00

Why should I want to know you if it’s true
that even love is temporary? I
could find no joy if love could only glue
together earthly bodies. Would the sky
exist if there were no one who could see
the glories of the heavens? Science knows
the Sun won’t last forever. Yet 'to be',
it seems requires that there be One 'we'
that permeates through spirit all that glows,
and all things beautiful – each lovely rose
can bloom eternally in the sublime.
Each seed produces after its own kind.
Could love and hope and peace and joy abide
if 'nothingness' composed our formless side?

Last Hour in Gethsemane

2008-10-21T11:01:00.000-07:00

“Could you keep watch with me one hour?”,
it’s written that the good Lord said
in that deep garden where the flower
dropped sleepy poppy seeds.. The bread

had made the Lord’s disciples full –
too full to suffer till the last,.
their eyelids heavy, felt the pull,
earth’s gravity was very vast.

Yet Jesus knew that all are weak,
but still, it broke his human heart
to be abandoned – sold for sleep
by those he’d chosen from the start.

The same is so for each of us
down in the valley of the skull
where every thought is ominous,
a cup of trembling – till a lull

shall lift us from the anguished floor
of threshing where the angels swarm
to separate the chaff before
the wheat is garnered from the storm.

Two Trains to the Zoo

2008-10-20T19:43:00.000-07:00

- for Andrew David Hamon, my beloved son -

White moths are feeding on chrysanthemums
as squirrels are rolling acorns through the roots
of red oak trees. Gray elephants eat tons
of hay. "Snakeskins Should Never Cover Boots!",
a sign read as we left the reptile home,
(the place where eggs of gilamonsters lay).
Gazelles, so delicate, are free to roam;
orangutans seem happy as they play.
Cream stripes are lovely on brown bongos' backs.
"The Zebras Will Return To Us This Fall",
was posted near a far-out field of yaks.
"Hey, look! Great turtles just beyond that wall!"
"It took two trains to get us to the Zoo!",
exclaimed delighted, three-year-old, Andrew.

Anne Bryant-Hamon-1998
"Summer In Washington"

While I Was Sleeping

2008-10-19T22:30:00.000-07:00

While I was sleeping
some children went unfed,
and bankers kept on reaping
their useless, leavened bread.

Poets were keeping
their records of the dead.
Autumn was sweeping
spent leaves of gold and red.

And dreams were steeping
like tea leaves in my head
while I was sleeping,
and resting on my bed.

I was not weeping
nor filled with cares or dread
of darkness creeping
or evil rumors spread.

While I was sleeping
sweet slumber wove a thread
of visions leaping –
as joy and peace were wed.

Ghost Riders

2008-10-17T18:05:00.000-07:00

scribere ad nauseum necessa est

Two poet ghosts cling to these hallowed walls,
from Oedipus and Chiron by & by.
Some ghosts prefer to haunt old shopping malls.
But these ones, no! They light here on the fly
making themselves at home like gypsy thieves
disguised with party favors and spider webs
and pumpkins garlanded with autumn leaves,
their silent presence is hidden as music ebbs
its magic through the guests this Halloween,
slow-dancing in our dim-lit sitting room.
These ghosts stand watch and hear us in between
the laughter gliding on a witch’s broom.

The moral of this story is like a spell:
a secret riddle – so sorry, I cannot tell!

~._.~._.~scribbled here on 10.17.08~._.~._.~

The Green Vampire

2008-10-13T06:33:00.000-07:00

- for my Aussie friend Paul -

Among stalactites, deep in molten caves,
La femme Batilda hangs out as she waits
for green hors d'oeuvres Some patrons barely leave
a trace of hemoglobin on their plates.
The only blood Batilda will consume
is chlorophyll, slow-cooked in leafy veins.
She craves the heads and necks of raw legumes
and fan-shaped radish tops on rose red flames,
(ummmm.... spicy balls of fire topped with sage).

Her taste for tofu waxes – then it wanes –
she’d much prefer to dine on cabbage rows.
‘To-die-for’: pumpkin seeds at Halloween,
ambrosia of bean-sprouts and plump mushrooms.
Make love! Make love, not war beneath the moon!
Batilda hopes the whole world soon turns green.

Clockwork

2008-10-12T02:10:00.000-07:00

It's said that love is stronger than the grave;
but if not, may we drink eternal sleep.
Oblivion might be the thing to save
us from a world too terrible and steep.

But if not, may we find that death can keep
the evil from our eyes – far from our sight;
a respite from the tears we’ve had to weep.
Let nothingness become a wingless flight.

Unending sleep may cauterize the fright
that haunts us as the years unwind and blend
themselves in search of joy and love and light
as we await the stillness of the wind.

Oblivion might just as thoroughly save
should death outweigh love’s power in the grave.

Sunshine and Shadow

2008-10-09T02:12:00.000-07:00

Sometimes it seems that God just wants to play
a game of hide-and-seek with all his sons
and daughters. Darkness keeps his face at bay --
the goodness of his glory. We're the ones
who form his shadow. Perhaps he dims the light
so not to slay too soon with zephyrous sun.

How bright the Day when God must break the night!
In love he knew we'd need a place to run -
a rock to hide in - lest we be exposed
before the whole world. The naked have no clay!
All hearts shall faint when all has been revealed
and we shall fall as dead. Yet we'll be healed
as sin and death and hell must flee away
and every tear is evermore transposed.

Mood Swing

2008-10-08T07:53:00.001-07:00

Temporarily Removed pending publication (Sorry!)

One Begotten

2008-10-08T06:13:00.000-07:00

Once I saw nesting
like fine woven glass
low on a pine bough
in a cradle of green

a tiny perfection,
unique as each man,
a crystalline symmetry
formed by the hand

of a masterful artist
whose invisible brush
had seemingly swept
with a mystical gust

and a magical breath
clear across the blue lake
whose mellifluous heart
formed each lonesome snowflake.

A Measure

2008-10-05T09:56:00.000-07:00

The pine wood boards were washed in egg-shell white.
Soon they would rise to brighten bedroom walls
of lavender. Green ferns would nestle tight
in faded terra-cottas bought in malls
from Barcelona's RAMBLA. Old World clay
we bought ten years before melds with our home,
small tokens fashioned for these shelves. "The way
that life should be", I say. A taste of Rome

or wisps of Spain now spread themselves around
our place in Florida. They comfort me
with memories I would never wish to trade
or chase away. That is the way I've found
to measure a thing's value worthily,
and know to keep or toss back in the sea.

first published in the Chimaera - Summer '08

Mood Rings

2008-08-25T01:10:00.000-07:00

I'm tethered in the moment to a mood,
its shadow cast beyond penumbral light,
a bract of purple-green on blackish blue.
Some guy made rings that measured things with hues
around the time that Armstrong swept the moon
collecting rocks into his gunnysack.

With outstretched hands he gazed toward the earth
now tiny as a marble in its form,
its night lights splaying psychedelic blooms
reminiscent of the time when Hendrix played
his strange guitar strings. Flower-children swayed
and turned in round-a-bouts of scattered gloom.

It's all about escape, each trip we make;
a search for love in war’s long interlude.

Sympathy for God

2008-08-15T01:38:00.000-07:00

Imagine that He is
but has no father or mother,
no one to whom He must answer,
yet no one to whom He may inquire.

Imagine that He is spirit
with power to create bodies,
both terrestrial and celestial,
yet cannot be reduced to a body
because He gives life to every body.

Imagine that He is Agape-Love
bound by the essence of ultimate purity,
yet He is opposed
by all sentient beings
who cannot comprehend Him
or understand His true intentions,
nor can His creatures help their lack of understanding
without His help, His love, His grace,
His granting of wisdom
to those who seek wisdom.

Imagine being God
and desiring fellowship with sentient beings
made in His likeness.

We were taught that God needs nothing and no one,
but perhaps He needed us
in order that His joy be made full.

God WAS, and IS
yet did not and does not want to BE alone!

Imagine creating such beings
without creating robots
who can only comprehend their own god-like-ness
by being made subject to sorrow and death.

Imagine that those He subjected to death,
(in order that He could convey the glory of life and righteousness and goodness),
were mostly confused by His dilemma,
or unresponsive, uninterested, unappreciative of the glory of His being
or even worse - thought him cruel or non-existent.

Imagine God wanting to be loved and understood
to the same degree that you and I want
to be loved and understood.

Imagine.

Furvy

2008-07-10T16:44:00.000-07:00

I have uncovered
a newly discovered
fact...

Concerning the reason our rugs
never stay in tact:

Our cats are all furverts,
they claw just like perverts;
all things soft or fuzzy they've hacked!

Tears of Sleeping Beauty

2008-07-06T13:09:00.000-07:00

"This is but one of several 'versions' of this poem..."

Moths drink the tears from eyes of sleeping birds.
The same is true of certain butterflies.
Sometimes the facts sound much like pretty lies
that poet's choose for loveliness of words.
I've wondered if the strangest things in life
exist just for the sake of poetry,
as if God knew that surely we would be
in desperate need of things that take a knife

to all the sorrow in this veil of death.
Without such wonders we might not endure
this world of pain. In beauty there is grace.
Perhaps for every sadness there's a breath
of love - and in the end all things are pure
as virtues etched in Christ's angelic face.

_________________<3____________________

http://www.newscientist.com/article.ns?id=dn10826"
***"Moths drink the tears of sleeping birds"

Summer Scene

2008-07-02T20:25:00.000-07:00

I like a veil of leaves on summer grass.
Their absence shows the path where I have mown.
And as I turn to cut another pass,
it feels as though I've hemmed the season's gown.
The golden-brown confetti on my lawn,
kaleidoscopic through the summer haze
is like a printed fabric soon withdrawn
reminiscent of my passing youthful phase.

De Tails

2008-07-02T20:18:00.000-07:00

"Don't fret about your prickly thorns,"
said the devil to the rose -
"I'd be quite lost without my horns!"
Such things as these, all heaven knows.

CAT TRICK

2008-06-16T01:27:00.000-07:00

I have a disappearing cat
who loves to play in snow.
He doesn't need a magic hat
to carry on his show.

Because, you see, his fur is white
from ear tips down to claw.
He does a trick that's out of sight
until the noon-day thaw.

Lavender Blue Haze

2008-06-11T00:44:00.000-07:00

Butterflies in a cage of emotion,
longing to be free, calling out with the notion
that inexistent is the key. - Michel Dargis -1996

Poem temporarily missing, pending publication rejection notice :-)

May Morning

2008-05-29T05:28:00.000-07:00

Open wide as a market umbrella,
a white crape myrtle shades my front lawn
newly pebbled with patches of yellow
knots of dandelions. Just after dawn
I wake to the sound of glad singing
breaking forth in a song without words.
There’s no need for a language, the meaning
resonates from the joy of the birds.

To their open air concert I’m bringing
only bare feet and sleepy, green eyes,
and my coffee, of course, while I’m flinging
on a tee-shirt and blue jeans. I rise
up sky-lighted on many-a-morning
to the beauty of nature’s adorning.

The Watering Gate

2008-05-24T00:08:00.000-07:00

This very well be the only sestina I ever write, so I thought I'd post it.

- The Watering Gate -

Two people stood atop a distant hill
I saw them as I left today from work
as soon as I had closed the wooden gate
behind me and had drunk a cup of water.
There was no place I really had to go,
and so I took my time. I didn’t run

the way I sometimes do – I often run
as if life were a race. There on that hill,
the silhouetted couple stood. I go
and come the same way every day from work,
taking for granted earth and sun and water.
Familiar things get lost. Sometimes a gate

will make me pause and think; a creaking gate
especially so, and sounds of things that run
like trickling brooks - the peaceful voice of water,
its liquid echo circling down a hill
from clouds that have released their burdensome work,
and like me, found the peace of letting go.

The lie of time says moments come and go
as fast as little lambs run toward a gate
in search of freedom. There is always work
enough to keep us feeling ‘on-the-run’.
The move toward pleasure seems to be up hill,
against the laws that govern moving water.

But nothing is alive where there’s no water
that’s stirring. Living things must ebb and go.
Stagnation lies beneath a silent hill
of graves - behind the locking of a gate
of wrought iron coldness. Living things must run.
An idle body has no means to work

to keep the spirit flowing. Life needs work –
and workers need a living well of water
to keep the heart from fainting as they run.
Recycling is the only way to go.
Our life’s a circle and each of us a gate
that God has set upon his lovely hill.

I bike to work near waterfalls that run.
They’re brisk and full of life and through the gate
I drink the sun-rise lilting on the hill.

Sometimes You're the Windshield - Sometimes You're the Bug!

2008-05-22T00:54:00.000-07:00

Maybe there's a moral hidden inside this poem that was waiting till now to be revealed~

L A D Y B U G

(A Wee Morsel Of Nonsense)
- with homage to Edward Lear -

Lady bug dangles her delicate feet,
hanging on edge by the tips of her toes,
dancing her digits to Beethoven's beat
while gorging herself on the leaf of a rose.

Over and under, the aphids they go,
just for a peek at her red petticoat,
towing and rowing through chlorophyll's glow
on the miniature stern of their pea green boat.

Lady bug blushes to see such a sight,
this parading of morsel-sized, tiny, green men
watching her feast on the garden's delight,
so she hides underneath a wild rose-petal's stem.

"Lady bug, lady bug, feminine one,
come out and stroll in the beautiful sun."
shouted Sir Edward, the aphid's fine king,
"Come through the garden, there to you I'll sing."

"Lady bug, lady bug, why do you hide?,
hop on my raft and I''ll give you a ride,
climb up onto my wee vessel of love,
I'll take you sailing on oceans made of
all of the liquid I've pressed from the leaves
of finest wine roses. I've rolled up my sleeves!

Lady bug turned, gave a smile and a sigh,
doubting that she could resist such a guy!

Trees Talking

2008-05-19T21:57:00.000-07:00

POEM TEMPORARILY REMOVED PENDING PUBLICATION

Where Flowers Bloom

2008-04-27T00:22:00.000-07:00

Where flowers bloom in desert sun
a passion from the heat is spun.
An unexpected beauty buys
the wonderment that lights our eyes
where flowers bloom.

When cactus-yellow and pink adorn
the sand, dead-dry from lack of storms,
I'll find my faith, though paper thin,
renewed as life springs up again
where flowers bloom.

And when the day is finally gone,
now put to bed, the flowers dawn
in dreams as we retain the prize,
a comfort for our lazing eyes
where flowers bloom.

A Klee In Blue

2008-04-22T05:28:00.000-07:00

A Klee in Blue

Abe sketches trees in charcoal
as he rides the train to London,
makes sure they're true-to-season
without the luxury of color.

He pauses now and then,
the same as when
the rain rests intermittently
beneath the underpasses.

Abe moves his pencil once again,
rakes smudges into fruits,
then curves his thoughts
to what stays in the main:

a day in March two springs before
when all was new
and leaded lines of Oxford's trees
had not turned lavender
to shades of mourning blue.

©1999 - first Published in 2RiverView

Sunrise

2008-04-21T22:53:00.000-07:00

Sunrise

He makes love to me in the mornings.
We are a sun rays striking a tree.
I am a leafy Queen. He is a Monarch.

He lights upon my branch,
then with a sudden hush
I turn pale green.

I might have fainted
had he not given pause,
a softly measured reprieve.

Once, then twice again
he flutters up and down.
Crescendos dawn
to waken every vein.

First published in Lucid Rhythms - Winter '07

To Vincent

2008-04-11T23:06:00.000-07:00

To Vincent

I wish he could have seen the fields of Spain,
the massive blocks of sunflowers,
their pug-nosed faces upturned toward the sunset;
more than enough to paint past thirty-seven's gate.

Have you seen yellow ochre past a tender age,
its vintage kept by shaded, airtight glass
beyond the pale of early learning years,
still wet enough to draw the latter rains?

In Holland there are colors known to few
where pails of silver poured the milk and lime.
I saw them once and never left behind the taste
of umber's golden sunburn on my tongue.

I wonder if he listened to his peers,
which paintings that we'll never chance to view,
forever buried under yellowed graves,
and if, perhaps, the best were left undone?

- first published in Fall/99 2Riverview

****There are other versions I've written of this poem. I can't seem
to settle on just one. So I keep them all scattered about.

At Trevi Fountain

2008-04-08T23:46:00.000-07:00

At Trevi Fountain

Remember how the chuckling water fell
on marbled stones and horses galloping,
and coins we tossed behind us in a spell
of wonderment like pearls thrown from a string?

Recall the ripples that we made that day
the drops that swirled together, circling out – - -
and out forever. People stopped to pray
at Trevi Fountain as children ran about.

I saw your eyes; they pooled with joy and fear,
and in them shone the sunny hills of Rome
reflected from a half-reluctant tear,
our journey nearly ended. Traveling home,
we saw three roads and took the highest one
that rises towards the all-consuming sun.

Cranberry Glades - (Monongahela Song)

2008-04-06T17:33:00.000-07:00

Cranberry Glades
(Monongahela Song)

A weathered boardwalk circles through these Glades
for hikers trekking surly woodland scenes.
Bemusing chipmunks furrow rye-grass blades
and sparrows search for worms. The mountain greens
weave offerings of freshness through the air.
The West Virginia sun splays mellow beams
as rolling hills betray a harsher glare.
Cool river water fills our small canteens.

Monongahela is the forest's name
from natives who traversed this rugged land;
their spirit that moved here seems to revive
when cardinals light up cedars with their flame
and dulcimers and banjos carved by hand
rise up and “Almost Heaven” comes alive.

You Say My Name

2008-04-06T17:30:00.000-07:00

You Say My Name
- for William R. Bryant -

You say my name, yet I don't know from where
you learned to curl the vowels like whispered twine
or silken breath of gossamer. With care
you say my name.

You speak and once again – your words are wine
and California poppies, grapes and air
as thin as in some northern mountain clime.

Your voice of elegance makes my name rare;
it takes me to a deeper place and time
where I forget my troubles. In a prayer
you say my name.

JOURNEY - (Last Hours of Ancient Sunlight)

2008-04-02T14:53:00.000-07:00

I want to walk with you while there is light
and breath can still be drawn to feed our lips
with sacred words. As we approach our flight
to the beyond and join the ancient ships –
those vessels that endured the wrath and winds
blowing below the heavens. How we’ll sing
for joy of recognition, like lost friends
who know a celebration is the thing
we've come for. Even in the midst of war
let us remind each other of the day
we're navigating toward – it’s not too far,
our journey to the light. Let’s keep at bay

the passing darkness – and not let this night
obscure our upward visions of delight.

Calico Quipping

2008-04-02T13:18:00.000-07:00

Calico Quipping

Our orange-cream calico is quite polite.
She comes to visit very patiently,
does not meow or paw me with a slight
concupiscence for petting. Silently,
she seems to know the power and the pull
of meekness – how its beauty draws me in.
Her peace commands attention. Now a full
but tempered purring brings my face a grin
as I contrast her personality
with Blacky's – how he nibbles at my feet,
not sparing my own flesh his tooth or claw.
I love them both, what's better, they love me.
And if they really had nine lives – how sweet;
our home would be a feline Taj Mahal.