She was petal soft,
and slender stem of green,
Rooted in the earth
beside a flowing stream,
Blushing Bride and Queens Lace, all
blowing in the breeze..
A Willow softly weeping,
A soldiers call to arms,
All joined in the courtship
to the girl who picked them all.
Her basket overflowing
made posies for the masses,
and along the banks of Kingdoms,
a trampled field of grasses.Cat
7-3-11

The Locket
I snipped a tress of golden hair
And framed it near a picture dear,
Engraved upon the case the date,
And strung a chain around it’s fate..This tarnished love – a prison makes..
The case now worn,
The date misplaced,
A faded image,
A golden lock,The missing link.Cat
7-25-11

She nods into slumber
Tranquil in her beauty
A slipcover of softness
Caressing the night.
Hemlock and Spruce
Pined in her silhouette
Under the constellation of dreams.Cat
7-17-11

Thunderous dark and foreboding
A crack and bolt, for the few
no chariots or ball of fire
not one flame of love for you.The earth did not rise to meet heaven,
no cupids, with wings for a view
no love tipped arrow shot skyward
no name in a contrail of blue.But Nebulous, he was a flying
All roiled and poisoned with lust
that the devil himself had to wonder
what crimes of love were unjust…

Cat
5-31-11

Two Volumes waiting to be read, sat upon the mantle shelf.
Would it be Stevenson or Emerson,
which one- would win out ?
I took both down , blew the dust off the pages edge,
inspected the worn leather ,and foxing stains within.Gifts from my son, from his favorite shop,
Curiosities and Memories were our favored jaunts.Heavy were the volumes
For “All their Works” were there;
every written verse,
every thrilling tale !Purposely I browsed each one,
(it just was not fair)
that I should have to decide the fate
of the author’s I held dear.

So I placed once more upon the shelf,
both volumes side by side.
And even though they were not read,
“I’ll cherish most -this special gift”,
than any word inside.

For William
5-29-11

Pendulous and flowing graceful I am
stirring in the breezes
Laughter lingers in my elegant limbs
and mingles with the rustling of my leavesYou once played under my arching boughs
sharing your secrets
dreaming of child hood plans
and I hid all of them for you while cradled in my branchesFor a long time I sang your songs
sent them along the gentle breezes
waiting for your return I gracefully bent my boughs
and wintered the storms for our summer greetingsYou returned one year no longer a child
and sat under these limbs now heavy and laden
and I cradled you once again
You whispered this time and I wept

The songs have all faded now
my leaves are all gone the winds have taken my limbs
No longer to cradle the child I played with
I have surely become the weeping old willow
no longer graceful my friend

I wrote this in memory for my sister . Jackie xxx

Know what I miss ?
I miss chasing fireflies that my mother would let me keep in a jar, when I was no bigger than a grasshopper playing in the tall fields of grass. And the crickets I would hunt for by the shrill of their chirp. And the sound the tree frog makes on a hot summer day.
I miss the warm summer evenings, when our mother’s would lather us in bug spray, and we didn’t worry about pesticides that could cause illnesses, nor would we have worried about the bug bites and tick bites and all the creepy crawlers . No, and I was in love with the warm night air, and the sweet aroma of clover, the shooting stars, and laughter and song as family would gather round the old stone fireplace, singing songs like “Goodnight Irene” and listening about the tales of my ancestors, and visiting with cousins I wouldn’t see for another whole year. Childhood memories.So innocent and young were we then. How time has aged us, and time has made scapegoats out of us all.
Our world is supposed to improve , or so we thought. The harder we try to make it safe, the less freedom children have today. And so where have all the those enchanted evenings gone? How comfortable are we letting our children roam the streets in our own neighborhoods. To explore the little patch of woods behind our homes? I remember mine..I revisited them once , years ago, many years older. They were not as big as I remembered them. Perhaps because there now sat newer homes that changed my landscape. The places I could hide and be alone to explore. Not just the little swampy bog I learned to ice skate on, which by the way never really freezes over. But here were enough trees to grab onto, while you practiced gliding from one tree to the next, and bravely going places deeper into the wood as to not hear Mother’s calling voice.Here is where I learned about myself. Independence for me has always taken me into the wood. I guess I imagined myself to be a pioneer. That or too many Fess Parker shows on a Sunday night. Oh, yes , I once told my Mother I was going to run off into the wood and look for Daniel Boone, so she gathered a stick and tied a foursquare hankie to it with my lunch inside and asked me if I would be home before dark. I did consider staying overnight, and I was 5. I was more afraid my mother would get lost looking for me, than the other way round. I knew those woods blindfolded, well just about. Today they are gone. Given rise to condominiums and the copycat homes of some quick rich developer, alongside the greed of city and glutenous revenues.And my landscape, the one that I will cherish and return to, although not original, is buried deep within who I am. Forever forging , striving , for that inner peace. The tranquil adobe of nature from the hard realities of a grown up world. Where the only sting or prickly nettles I need encounter, will come from wandering blindly into the wood, and following it’s path back home. Ill need to bring a jar…

Cat 5-5-2011