February Blues

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.

This House

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

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

“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

- 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

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

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~._.~._.~

Clockwork

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.

Summer Scene

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.

CAT TRICK

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

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

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.

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

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!