Dark Side

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

Dying To Know You

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.

To the Archaeologist

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.

(c) Anne Bryant-Hamon

- COLORING BOOK -

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.

AfterImage

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

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.
______________________________

Sunrise

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