Friday, November 6, 2009

Less crabby, but still unsociable ;-)

Green Fortress

by Moni

If there's one thing I love dearly
It's a hidey hole.
Symbolically impenetrable and private.
I can't see you, or maybe I can and I'm spying
But either way, you can't see me.

The highest incarnation of hidey hole
Is under God's great sky
Not plaster, dry wall, or acoustic tile.

A fortress with ants, and birds, and air circulation.
Preferably breathing green walls.
Carpeted with honest, friendly, life-holding filth.

My cherished childhood hole was a long, narrow vestibule.
With a back wall of light blocking, vine-permeated fence
And a front wall of spade shaped leaves and spindly trunks.
The jacket-snatching ceiling began where the leaves began.

More of a crouching hole than a standing hole.
Years of leaf litter on the soft, roly-poly infested floors.
The upstairs neighbors squabbling and gossiping
About kids, and nests, and worm scarcity.

And around Memorial Day, a smiling, teary, enveloping fragrance
Of lavender and white, and memories
And love from the earth and unseen beings.
Loneliness absent in my lilac home.

Monday, November 2, 2009

One bad poem deserves a good.

Blessed Burdens

by Moni

Shoulder this burden so I don't have to.
Pull this cart
Bear this baby
Pick this cotton

Do the work that I could not or would not.
Be this man's best friend
Keep this house
Pick this fruit

And you must like it.
You must want it.
You must smile, and never shirk.
Serve me willingly, have no wants.
Be swallowed and find salvation.

Because, someone must do this work.
And it shan't be me. I don't like it.
So it must be you. So you must like it.
Whether you like it or not.

From Ode Inscribed to WH Channing

by Ralph Waldo Emerson

...The horseman serves the horse,
The neatherd serves the neat,
The merchant serves the purse,
The eater serves his meat;
'Tis the day of the chattel,
Web to weave, and corn to grind;
Things are in the saddle,
And ride mankind.

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

And so I start a blog because poems are too big to fit in a Facebook feed.

Come, Rest In This Bosom

By Thomas Moore

Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,
Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here:
Here still is the smile that no cloud can o'ercast,
And the heart and the hand all thy own to the last.

Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same
Through joy and through torments, through glory and shame!
I knew not, I ask not if guilt's in that heart,
I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art!

Thou hast call'd me thy angel, in moments of bliss, --
Sill thy Angel I'll be, 'mid the horrors of this, --
Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,
And shield thee, and save thee, or perish there too!

Baby Steps to Blogging--I'm a blogger! I blog!!

This is a trial run. If blogging and I don't see eye-to-eye this time around, we're kaput, I mean it. Probably. Oh sure, we had that fling in livejournal. But that was years ago. There wasn't even a name for what we were up to back then. Anyway, what's in this relationship for me? I'm a pseudo-Jean Arthur who's found her Jimmy Stewart. What more can life offer? Let's see what you've got.