Dedicated to Deb Radke
The cottage reeks with
fluid tides of hope,
My baby’s here.
I’ve still no word
coming down the line from Dover.
Spring rains have come
and with it comes the tears all over.
I weep again, my child it seems,
will never know her father.
Today down by the spring
I prayed the prayer so often said,
sorrow turned desperation.
I found a ring left in the cup, since
yesterday laying there, scribed “M”
upon a jeweled stone.
My heart leaped in
I heard his voice inside my head,
where also his face I saw.
I turned and looked...
no one was there...
please God give me
this one discretion.
There must be peace somewhere to find.
I look but must be led
by your grace and mercy.
Again at chores, the babe
asleep, the knock came loudly.
A letter from Michael O’brian maam,
please sign here for delivery.
I hurriedly skimmed,
he was dead,
two days before,
Our little Rose, still in my care,
to receive his name
if she so chose
and all else he owned in Dover.
A ring for me
it seems was gone,
a large garnet with the letter M
on the stone, had disappeared
A seed was planted in winter,
planted in sweetness of youth.
It was a gift from Michael.
He left me alone in the spring---yet,
his flower grew in my garden.
Our error was human.
First feeling trapped, then love,
from this Rose in my life.
Forgiveness is divine.
Love is eternal.
11 Jan 2011 Charles Henderson
Where can I go.
Following me like the black plague,
Droppings here and there for show.
----let them lie where they fall
who is the big cheese
who is the termite at the top of the hill,
rambling longer, saying less,
having to search out a dying whale
simply to have meaning to it’s existence.
Excess baggage intended solely to take up space.
Tainting the atmosphere with worthless mindless waste.
Floating around with an atmosphere of
“too close for comfort.”
Sad isn’t it.
All the lies.
All the make believe
All the deception of fellow
members who take the truth for granted.
Like the willow, which can only bend so far,
drivel faithfully ranted,
comes to a bitter end
fruit of deception....
© Sep 14 2010 Charles Henderson
3 rd in Chris' Senryu contest
It’s nice to get away
for a few hours or a day
As soft breezes stir night air
And salty mist clings to your hair
Stirring memories of Adolescence at play.
It’s nice to have the chance
to hear the song, to do the dance
And though we far exceed our prime
We light our path with love, stopping time
stopping space, and fuel the flame of our romance.
It’s nice in morning rain
to find that spot on memory lane
To look at who, what, where we are from.
While waves and breeze and the noonday sun
Sooth and calm, tan, bleach and burn away our pain.
It’s nice to turn away
From the things old and gray;
And we miss those times at the shore.
But truth is, we like our life now lots more
And we won’t trade tomorrow for all of yesterday
Feb 21 2010 Charles Henderson
a small boy's
head in alphabet soup --
catching a few zzz's
Today I saw a daughter laid to rest.
A mother tries to heed her own advice.
Holding it in surely put her to the test.
She failed more than once or twice.
Her failing was no artificial device.
She tried, Lord how hard she tried.
She simply could not pay the price.
She cried, oh how the mother cried.
She was a fifth grade teacher, the best.
The kids all sought her out for advice.
Fifty Eight, so young but so blessed,
too young, to pay this enormous price,
too old to fashion protective gneiss.
Her mother knew of this fierce pride.
Yet, she couldn’t save her baby’s life.
She cried, oh how the mother cried.
The building now full, still they pressed,
her former students, learning pain of life.
From one loved, who had faced the test,
and had not complained about sacrifice.
While a mother mortally wounded twice
who faced this when her husband died
hopes to God she will not see this thrice.
She cried, oh how the mother cried
The mother, paying the mother’s price,
before her eyes could have fully dried.
With more than enough love to suffice,
she cried, and oh how the mother cried.
For Catie's ballade contest
Feb 22, 2011
Day fades quickly into night.
I try, but cannot fight.
Life wanes with no respite,
I pass into the light.
Far below, I hear the roar
of waves that brace the shore.
I pass the lofty eagle’s soar.
God calls, I am no more.
Instead, I pass with awe and grace,
through time and finite space.
I am a form, no shape, no face.
Yet, not alone in this strange place.
Within myself, I feel god hover.
I am my wife, my child, my brother.
I am the love of father and mother.
I am myself alone, yet altogether, one another
© Feb 20 2010 Charles Henderson.
We all wonder about God, death and an after life. These are some of the answers I have
reconciled in my musing.
sea mist collecting
creeps among rocky tide pools…
the sea never sleeps
for what my eyes see contest
This poem is based on Mythology
She sits above all her domain
an affaire is her delight.
Her love of life you understand:
to keep the reins in tight.
She rules her realm, all fairy land.
Dark man dotes on his queen,
to fetch her tea, or raise his hand
merely to help her preen.
A strong black steed he often rides
into the land of man;
to bring the one of her desire
to her in fairy land.
He rides in haste with one intent
with just one thought in mind;
to get to where he wants to go,
find who he wants to find.
He never speaks, yet in command
no one can disobey.
The one intended mounts behind,
they soon are on their way.
Dark man explains, the man can’t tell
secrets exposed to him.
Or boast of powers he may gain,
not now, or future dim.
For should he fail and break his word,
Dark Man will make him beg.
Will take his eye with fairy sight
or wither arm or leg.
The fairy queen, no gossip wants.
Discretion is her key.
To guard her puritan “delight”
what has to be will be.
© Oct 13, 2011 Charles Henderson
For Deb’s Creepy Irish Creatures contest
placed 2nd in the contest
She mostly sits on the outside looking
into the worlds around her. Day by day
gazing into strong hearts interlocking
with others, bonding in the friendly way.
Her rationale, by and large is to cope
with life as a mom, with a two year old
and the love of a husband giving hope
that neither will be left out in the cold.
She is assured by his drive and his verve.
He - - in return lets her live her own life.
Sometimes her other self loses her nerve:
she revives, being mom, poet and wife
She offers a sonnet for sweet respite,
for life, being young, and living outright