|
Details |
Danielle White Poem
I once heard the whisper of falling snow,
saw a spark in the eye of a coal-black crow,
felt the power and awe of a swift river's flow,
the older I get, the less I know.
My hair was once braided in golden cornrows,
by Jamaican friends in an island below,
a psychic once asked me about Jericho,
the older I get, the less I know.
The hot southern asphalt that scalded my toe,
the rope swing that swung us, to and fro,
Christmas Eve and the tree in the firelight's glow,
the older I get, the less I know.
Everyone's gone, but where did they go?
Why is my spirit sinking so low?
Is it true we reap only what we sow?
the older I get, the less I know.
©2010 DanielleWhite
Copyright © Danielle White | Year Posted 2010
|
Details |
Danielle White Poem
She kept it all inside her
and never spoke a word,
though her thoughts flew and darted
like a trapped and frantic bird.
Inside her was a garden
that was hung with Spanish moss,
like the massive oaks were weeping
to remind her of her loss..
The spider wove at breakneck speed,
a perfect work of art,
watching it, she had her doubts
that humans were so smart.
The southern air was sultry
and the sea salt cloyed the skin,
the yard dogs dug depressions
and the alley cats grew thin.
The black top roads got sticky
when the southern sun beat down
and the heat forever rises
forming monstrous thunderclouds.
When the blue sky rolls and blackens
soon the thunder shakes the ground
and the southern landscape flattens
as the blinding rain pours down.
Nostrils flared, she filled her lungs
with the dank and heady scent
of peat-rich soil, decay and loam,
of lavender and mint.
And in her secret garden,
reptiles raised their faces high,
and blessed the cooling water
that came pouring from the sky.
She loved the iridescence
of the blue-green dragonflies
and marveled at their flying skills
as they went whirring by.
The rain soon turned magnolia leaves
into miniature garden ponds,
there the dragonflies must lay their eggs
before the rain is gone.
Wrens and sparrows chirped and chattered,
they enjoyed the cooling rain,
but the squirrels were wet and grumpy
and the jays were raising Cain.
The girl did not seek cover
and the rain ran down her face,
on her lashes rain drops trembled,
much like crystals gently placed.
The thunder never frightened her
nor did the lightning scare,
to nature she was connected,
to living things, aware.
She lived in every moment,
soon the thunderstorm would end
and the dark earth would start steaming,
then the heat would come again.
Suddenly all fell silent
in her garden of delights,
all living things were quiet
as the steam began to rise.
The gray squirrel broke the silence
and if squirrels could really speak,
she knew he would be cursing,
surely swearing a blue streak.
And then she saw the blue jay
madly pumping out his call,
his angry face was comical
Mohawk feathers standing tall.
She swam the Sea of Apathy
and the Ocean of Ennui,
there the waves upheld her gently,
washing over memories.
And the earthworms turned the soil
in the garden of her mind
and the trees again were weeping
from the echoes left behind.
Copyright © Danielle White | Year Posted 2008
|
Details |
Danielle White Poem
Born of glaciers, rivers flow,
turquoise ice and untouched snow,
deep green valleys far below,
ancient stands of hardwoods grow.
Icy rivers running deep,
through the mountain's midnight sleep,
darkened waters crest and leap,
earthbound secrets rivers keep.
Stoically the mountains stand,
nurturing the age-old land,
born before mere time began,
when Earth was pure, devoid of man.
River rocks were once rough stone,
water-smoothed, by eons honed,
each grain of sand is sand alone,
truths unspoken lie unknown.
Listen to the waters speak,
every river, ocean, creek,
there lie answers all must seek,
flowing from the mountain's peak.
©copyright2009DanielleWhite
Copyright © Danielle White | Year Posted 2008
|
Details |
Danielle White Poem
A true story, based on family oral tradition
from the oldest part of the city of Bern,
capitol of Switzerland, where my mother was
born and raised, in the Nydegghoff)
He lighted the candle with a quivering hand,
his overcoat seeming to weigh down the old man.
He paused in the aisle to genuflect,
and wondered if God knew his heart was a wreck.
He found a pew and got to his knees,
hands clasped together, he sent out his pleas.
He is old and he's tired, now he's alone,
his wife died last Spring, now his house wasn't home.
They'd been blessed with one son, he'd died in the war,
and now there was nothing for him to live for.
He prayed until his knee pain was great,
then sat back in the pew and tried not to shake.
The cathedral was beautiful; he loved the stained glass,
but, oh, they brought memories of Sundays past.
How could he make it through Christmas alone
in a house that was empty, no longer a home?
The kitchen was silent and cold as a tomb,
but her scent lingered on in their modest bedroom.
He said one last prayer, then rose to his feet,
genuflecting again, he went out on the street.
He walked home near blindly, not even aware
of the snow that was landing on his shoulders and hair.
He was cold inside, his heart like a stone,
and he felt completely and utterly alone.
He turned down his street, saw his porch light's glow,
and only then realized it had started to snow.
He opened his gate, thought of making some soup,
but froze in his tracks at the sight on the stoop.
On his porch sat a basket, the old wicker kind,
he thought for a moment, he was losing his mind.
Inside the basket that sat on his mat,
were three tiny kittens and one momma cat.
What a pitiful sight, so cold and so thin,
he scooped up the basket and hurried them in.
He found some canned tuna and warmed up some milk,
gently petting the babies, whose fur was like silk.
He never discovered who left those cats there,
but, as his love grew, he no longer cared.
His wife had loved cats and this comforted him,
as they slept on his head, or tucked under his chin.
The kittens grew quickly, as they're wont to do,
amused by their antics, his love grew and grew.
There was laughter and joy 'til the end of his days,
for God works, as you know, in mysterious ways.
Copyright © Danielle White | Year Posted 2008
|
Details |
Danielle White Poem
When the night wind changes course
sending breezes from the north,
when farmer's fields lie brown and fallow
and empty ropes swing from the gallows,
when children's faces are drawn and gaunt
and earth-bound spirits wail and haunt,
when eagles scan the barren snow
and field mice shiver deep below,
The dragon stirs deep in his lair,
the townfolk sense him with despair,
the mountain rumbles as he wakes,
he spreads his wings, the valley quakes.
He snorts and breathes a sulphur fire
and eyes his cache with dark desire,
gold and gemstones line his cave,
a sea of diamonds with emerald waves.
The trees are black against the snow,
one warrior stands to face his foe,
chain mail clanking, his sword is honed,
he goes to face his fate alone.
Fire breathing, wing-spread vast,
the warrior is at first aghast,
the dragon's chest and stomach, too,
shine with gems of multi-hues.
He'd slept so long upon his loot,
he wore a jewel-encrusted suit.
He saw the warrior's weapon glint
and chuckled at this innocent.
The dragon swooped and breathed his breath,
the warrior smelled the scent of death.
Many times the dragon dove
and set aflame the fields and groves.
Lost in this game, he gave no thought
to the warrior who mattered naught,
and as the dragon flew by low
the warrior drew his mighty bow.
The bow and arrows were Elfen-hewn,
inscribed with words in ancient runes.
The warrior held his breath and aimed
and steeled himself against the flames.
The dragon saw the arrow cocked
and turned his head, their eyes were locked.
The arrow's flight was straight and true,
into the dragon's eye it flew.
The warrior was elected king,
he wore fine jewels and heavy rings,
but though he tried, he found no peace,
he'd formed some strange bond with the beast.
The corpse was plucked clean of its jewels
and all the people danced like fools,
though he was king of hill and glen,
they never saw him smile again.
Copyright © Danielle White | Year Posted 2008
|
Details |
Danielle White Poem
Robot-like, I move through life,
I feel no pain, endure no strife.
Each day's the same, each smile is fake,
broken, I no longer break.
I live my lifetime in a daze,
blindly fumble through a haze,
I've never known a day of fun,
I can't remember even one.
All I do is work and sleep,
and pray the Lord my soul to keep.
©Danielle White
Copyright © Danielle White | Year Posted 2009
|
Details |
Danielle White Poem
For the last few days
her depression had weighed
heavy, a thick woolen shroud,
her thoughts thickened by darkening clouds,
in an endless tunnel the sides closing in like a narrowing funnel.
She sat, immobile, staring
through the window of the house she'd built with such caring.
It'd started as a shack by a pond on some land
and she'd hammered and built it
with help from no man.
She kept adding on, room after room,
as if she, too, suffered from the Winchester doom.
Eccentric, they'd call her, if she had any bread,
but, since she was poor, she was "soft in the head."
A tiny little woman, emaciated, so thin,
she was not much more than frail bones under skin.
Yes, she was surely a pitiful thing,
shoulder blades jutting like primordial wings.
Like an old phonograph with its needle stuck,
she prayed for death, so far with no luck.
Suddenly there came a tremendous din,
like demons scratching on her roof of old tin.
Startled, heart pounding in her bird-cage chest,
she was suddenly afraid of a cardiac arrest.
Armed with her twelve gauge she crept to the door,
a thousand claws scratching, louder than before.
She'd always been brave and her life had been hard,
so, gun at the ready, she stepped into the yard.
Locked and loaded and aimed at the roof,
she feared for her life, to tell you the truth.
(Not minutes ago, she was begging for death,
now she was worried this might be her last breath.)
Then she looked at the roof and let out a gasp,
the rifle fell heavily from her stunned grasp.
There on the roof and thick in the trees,
was a sight that made her weak in the knees.
HUNDREDS of VULTURES all eye-balling her,
clacking their beaks as they seemed to concur.
Aunt Kate started laughing and laughed 'til she cried,
she hooped and she hollered, holding on to her sides.
The birds, having reasoned she'd make less than a bite,
stretched out their wings and took off in flight.
Her depression has lifted and, I heard a rumor,
that her life had been saved by God's sense of humor.
********Many thanks to Aunt Kate for this wonderful true story.**************
Copyright © Danielle White | Year Posted 2009
|
Details |
Danielle White Poem
Did you hear the night bird call
as Summer tumbled into Fall
and leaves piled up against the wall,
it's then you miss her most of all.
Did you hear the night bird sing
as Winter tumbled into Spring
though flowers bloom, no joy they bring,
her absence colors everything.
Did you hear the night bird cry
as endless seasons tumbled by,
unanswered still, the reason why
she left you here alone to die.
Did you hear the night bird's song
as time forever tumbled on,
memories, the grief prolong,
without her everything is wrong.
Copyright © Danielle White | Year Posted 2010
|
Details |
Danielle White Poem
Death belies the darkness summoned,
tombstone-colored is the sky,
shards of memories merely fragments,
wailing wind the sole reply.
Violent storm winds strip the tree limbs
like a poltergeist, unseen,
tawdry feeders, heavy wind chimes,
beat against the window screens.
Waiting for the glass to shatter,
like so many childhood dreams,
china teacups, rosebud patterned
in the dustpan, unredeemed.
© 2009 Danielle White
Copyright © Danielle White | Year Posted 2009
|
Details |
Danielle White Poem
Though they thought it didn't matter,
fate would soon decry its loss,
those who stroked the raven's wing,
cushioned by the verdant moss.
They who spun the silken fibers,
iridescent shades of blue,
molten silver coursing downward,
hissing through the morning dew.
He whose gray eyes knew their essence,
he who flew on velvet wings,
when the final toll was taken,
wrote the lyrics rivers sing.
Copyright © Danielle White | Year Posted 2008
|
|