The Aspiring Bard

How tiny, And how delicately strong! Your finger clutch - A grip I dared not break. Photo: Kara Pearson Photography So full of wonder, As you looked and found... And  were the magic In our simple lives. And I? Will never be the same Reminded now of all I had forgotten                                                                                

Photo: Pentti Sammallahti Circuitous... The route I take From place to place And save, Unmarked, The virgin snow.

Missouri Weather Tiny golden daffodil Wilting on my windowsill, All outside a pall of white... Winter caught us in the night. Photo: Whimsy Lens Photography Magic Swirling flakes Caress my eyelids, Wrap the world In magic white. Listen Listen To the whisper Of the snow And all the greening things Asleep below

Photo courtesy a hasty Google search The beauty of a closing life - Gentle, patient, slow decline - Wisdom of the gathered years Marked in every wrinkle line. I, who have so small a life, Grasp for words that may define The benediction of a touch... Palsied fingers clutching mine.

Photo: Whimsy Lens Photography Dusty, Scratched, And worn with age (Four metal strings The only shiny thing) And all the heartbreak Of two hundred years Singing, Deep inside.

I believe that the best poems are like sturdy trees. The roots are firmly planted in the very truest and deepest of reality, and the branches reach out and flower into elegant fantasies. My little scribbles are unestablished saplings. Progress is slow, but I like to believe that I can see my young trees growing a little stronger and taller every year. A wrack of sunset cloud, A lonely tree, A child's laughing face, A stormy sea... The rhythmic pulse of life And fantasy Come dance together, Making poetry. 

Have you ever noticed how the night becomes hostile when you try to estrange yourself from it? But if you lay aside your light, night-time becomes a friend. No lantern to illuminate The gentle soul of night, Where all the careful, secret things Are waking out of sight. A hostile darkness gathers 'round Your lamp at daylight's end. But come with me, Forget your fears... The darkness is a friend.

I looked through one of my notebooks today - the small blue one that usually lives in my purse and is the catch-all for the thoughts, rhymes, and pretty leaves I pick up on my wanderings - and found this pair of poems written back in November.  Alone within myself, And singing to the night - How can I be lonely With the starlight For a friend? ______________ Alone But never lonely, My shadow is A constant friend. And then, I jotted down these lines to keep the other two company. My Notebook Virgin pages clothed In penny thoughts And bits of rhyme, Scarlet leaves And little flower-things... Pressed mementos Of another time.

We've laughed into each other's eyes, Completely careless of what people thought, And back-to-back we've stood, To face the greatest challenges of life. We've shared the crust of comfort tossed our way, And in our friendship found it food enough. We've failed and fought and laughed and won, And shared the bitter unity of tears. And in it all, we found the richest thing - The brotherhood of battle - more than blood. The tie that, binding one soul to another, Defies all earthly powers in its strength.