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Ellen Boyle Poem
The darkened sky had hid the sun,
I bravely fought the storm to come.
Its voracious voice roared
'Til reached its peak.
The time had come for me to seek,
The chilling call I'd heard all week.
From the deepest place that lay within
The old orchard wood.
When the stillness stood,
I took a chance, then firmly
Stepped off the porch,
To see what would become,
During my walk through
The old familiar wood.
To learn of things I'd yet to know.
Starting out it was slow.
I noticed first the new, green grass.
Filling in, standing firm, straight and strong,
Each tiny blade found its spot, still becoming.
One was small but adding up, all became an
Armor, an umbrella.
Where stood weaker things til ready
To learn of things too young to know.
A sudden gust of wind, blew across my face.
Taking me back in time.
A memory flashed across my mind, when I was small
I yearned to grow to learn those things too young to know.
An unyielding foe of future days,
When good was in, love was plenty, yet
Needed still my own umbrella.
Protecting me against the ills and woes of things
I had yet to know. My heart beat harder the deeper
I went into the old orchard wood, then,
Attentive in my listening,
Til in the middle of the wood,
I found myself
Where it was full of busy-ness,
Fallen leaves and such,
The colors richly touched with hues of light among the tones
Of silver stones in babbling brook, here lay the heaviness.
Of daily deeds which lay the seeds that would become tomorrow.
Where joy is sprinkled in amid our sorrow.
The day had come to learn of things I had yet to know.
I knew my learning had just begun.
The biggest fight, the one within ourselves.
We grow our armor by choosing hues of light against the dark
Of tones we speak or build to keep
Out the darkest hues that hurt.
Choosing carefully our fate by keeping kindness daily in,
While sweeping hate away and out.
Then under our umbrella keeping safe those smaller ones
Who are too young to learn of things they cannot comprehend.
The past is done and those I loved are lying still and sweet.
While I am here alone.
To fight and figure out
Those things I need to know.
Before it's late, my sun will be down, when
I can no longer walk and learn those things that have yet to come.
That are upon the path, which lays
Deep within the old familiar wood.
Copyright © Ellen Boyle | Year Posted 2023
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Ellen Boyle Poem
Love is the miracle that
cannot be hidden. It is not
envious of it's inner self, it can't
be sown into pride's den, nor does it
want any part of a jealous job
that burns the soul and bruises the heart.
Drive down the raging road where love
is most needed now, to mend the mindless
woe and wars that rage inside each
fighting heart.
What then is love?
From love's own voice and humble home,
it's golden hues of a thousand truths,
hear it please.
Do your part to spread love's sensitive sense
of every tiny wonderment that when you give
love, you live more stronger than before, no
matter if you came from calming comfort or
harrowing hurt.
Love doesn't puff itself up.
Its powerful patience waits until again
it's wanted or needed.
Never asks for payment now or past due,
yet will give itself again no matter how
high its service is needed.
Love doesn't want to stay home long.
Kindness is love in action:
A thirsty stranger,
A forlorn friend or
lonely scared one.
Love is comfort devine.
A calming rainbow, after another storm.
Learn of love's endless ways.
Welcome it first and always be its strongest soldier.
Love will welcome you home with open arms.
Its perfect form knows you well, no matter
if you are alone or among crowds.
The more you love, the more you give,
the more you'll know of
The miracle that we call love.
Copyright © Ellen Boyle | Year Posted 2023
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Ellen Boyle Poem
Look, see my little ones,
whose innocence upon their faces,
I keep safe within the pockets of the spaces,
that lay deep within my heart. Sealed with a
special lock and key.
I guide and guard them by day.
I see my little ones at play, dancing in white petticoats
with silver glittered shoes.
Cover and protect them.
Keeping out growth that comes and
takes my little ones hands from mine to others.
I hope and smile back my fears.
Keep them safe from toil and trouble.
Let them sing among their choices.
Let them always hear the right voices.
May pain hide his face from theirs.
Oh, to keep them little, longer.
I cannot wish upon their lives, only growth
to be stronger.
I gaze upon their play today,
nail polish nearly gone, their knees stained green
from grass, underneath the ripped cloth.
The band aid half off, from
past hurt and think: one day my life will
be nearly gone, my knees sore and stiff from
bending down under old ills and chills.
Underneath the ripped cloth will be yesterday's pain
and past hurt, that's when I'll turn to my secret place,
unlock the box that I keep within the pockets of the spaces
that lay deep within my heart.
Kept safe from current crushes.
The memories of my little one's innocence of past days and voices,
then,
their hands slip back into mine.
I feel their warmth ignite the love, grown cold
from others' choices.
Back with me, the circle closes, their faces glow with pure intent.
As they gaze upon my innocence.
Granted back by growing older.
Til' in the end their love imposed.
Will stay forever in the spaces, that lie within my heart.
Look again, see my little ones.
I trusted and let them go,
and knew one day
they'd return to me.
The day has come, my little ones are gone,
seasons replace year to year.
I see instead my love of them
in their faces.
Love's promises are kept.
My life, my circle is complete,
And I can rest and be at peace.
Copyright © Ellen Boyle | Year Posted 2023
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Ellen Boyle Poem
At the end of the day
With the chores all done,
The children cleaned
And put to bed.
My mother sat and brushed her hair.
100 strokes of each dark strand.
'til each renewed, the brush laid down.
Her hair glowed and was her crown.
Her hands were worn and each did bare
The many jobs her hands performed.
From kneading bread, to kneeling down.
Clasped together, a prayer was said.
Soothing tears by holding hearts.
Scrubbing pots, stirring bowls.
Small hands to hold when comfort's needed.
Each line and worn out spot, each broken nail.
All told a story, all well earned and still,
Every night when the lights grew dim.
Day is gone, her hands had one last job to do.
She'll sit and brush her long, dark hair.
100 times, 100 strokes.
Over the days and months gone by,
Not a sound is heard but the brush pulled down.
Each strand is placed upon her head,
Each finds its place within her crown.
I find peace and love and know,
That each person here within my home,
Has their place within these walls.
Has a place within my mother's heart,
Just like every piece of hair she brushes.
At the end of the day, as she sits and
brushes each strand of hair,
100 strokes, 100 times.
Copyright © Ellen Boyle | Year Posted 2023
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Details |
Ellen Boyle Poem
Give honor to joy.
Trust in its results.
Begin knowing how
deep it richly roots,
From God given traits.
Trade not for empty, endless
hours, that burdens the soul,
inhibits graceful growing and
drags down the human heart.
Dig the hole deep, let all anger,
hurtful hate, useless pity, take them
all and let them depart, fill up plenty
each tiny detail of all joy's journey.
Joy bestows its beginning, lines its walls
with luminous light.
Whether within simple solace or crashing crowds.
Bubbles up from bright, nail thin thunder.
Captures the flash of small, sparkling diamonds,
that seals its coming into each hungering heart.
Teaches all young of all earthly species, that joy
will always be found in your beginning, middle
and endless ending.
Close your eyes.
Imagine a sea of individual, intricate
fields of flowers, rich rainbow of all glorious colors.
Each representing joy's indescribably delight, encouraging
all who wishes to belong to joy's unending
invitation and encompassing reach, that the real you,
the real us, the real truth is this: that all life no matter
who or what, was meant to have joy and feel it too.
Joy is the center of each living thing, so, thank joy for staying,
or welcome it home again.
Oh jovial joy, how more may I thank thee?
I'll honor and keep thee.
Abiding always in joy's unwavering delight!
Copyright © Ellen Boyle | Year Posted 2023
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