I hear faraway thunder as I soak in the rain.
It was never my intention to trigger pain.
Still, here I am, waiting for the storm to hit.
I scribbled memories on a fragile paper split.
Aiming to seize the spirit of a lightning bolt.
But it was never intended to be mine, in short.
Due to lack of caution, I humbly beg for pardon.
Purity will be reborn, in our garden.
Written: May 23, 2023
This high, half-hidden, churchyard
Where coldness and rain find a home
And the nightfall is welcomed at twilight's end.
The lament of the deafened, defining the dusk,
And complecting its blanket, a chilled shielding shroud ~
A poet lies sleeping alone in her cot.
But verses are silently wrested away
Brilliantly noiseless not rhyming nor free:
And how the wind whistles here all about.
Then, strangely, disturbing the shadowless eve
A voice, a beseeching, may softly be heard.
O' Sylvia, Sylvia, why for art thou here?
It's time for a dose of disinfectant
Cleaning both house and home as expectant
Someone get the bleach
I plead and beseech
But not in the arm as an injectant
Hanging out with my acorn friends,
Riding wild winds on writhing limbs
As round capped surfers without boards
I laughed loud when I watched them fall.
Looking up with faces of despair
They could but see my derriere.
As a swinger without a care
I felt loved by the rushing air.
My oak looked haggard when I fell
Its arthritic limbs beseeching
Each passing cloud that drifted by:
Could this acorn be another me?
4/22/2020
Complaining with bitterness
My heart mourns over selfishness-caused angst
Grieving because of pride-bruised infirmity…
Oh, God… correct me, I beg
As I submit to You, humbly broken
Thanking You for chastening me with Your love
For my virtuous transformation…
…never impossible through faith’s strength!
Immersing in failure’s frustration
My soul wallows in futile blame-game
Afflicted with vanity ailment…
Oh, God… Your mercy* I beseech
While I yearn for Your corrective act
Praising You for awakening me by Your grace
Toward triumphant servanthood…
…marked with joyous obedience!
*Psalm 30:10 Hear, O LORD, and have mercy upon me: LORD, be thou my helper.
June 28, 2019
Denouement, I beseech you, take your time.
I see you lurking closely by my gate.
I want to live and love and write my rhyme.
Go finish someone else’s tale. I’ll wait!
I need no resolutions in my life.
One moment to the next I’m glad to live.
I’ll take - along with good times- all the strife
along my path. Denouement, do not give
an early summing up to this nice plot
which is my life. Oh, let my climax be
a long way off! My final page is not
a page that I await too eagerly.
If my end is soon, don’t be forthcoming.
Let them say I never saw you coming!
Written Aug. 21, 2016
Beseech the wooden hip and eye
To paddle off and caper.
Beseech the Maxfold cat and stye
Forlorn with hairy Gator.
Bring not thy chesticle to bear,
Thy open arms to boot.
Beseeching here and everywhere
To hear old Amos flute.
'You can but not cumcumber me!'
He gummed in chitter-chatter,
And passing water from his knee
Knew something was the matter.
Alas! Alak! A Ladybird-
A lullaby in butter.
Beseech in me the rare absurd,
Not sane, not yet a nutter.
( A sequel to my poem “The Lady of Whitelace Castle” )
Are ye, my lady, an apparition
or perchance a fair servant frail?
The ruddiness of pinks
touching neither your cheeks
as you wander about so pale
My lips turn blue from winter’s cold
under this arch of elm sentinels
growing quickly despondent
not knowing the truth
of your present presence tale
Speak, please now, that I may dispel
ghost sagas of Whitelace myths…
Be ye her Mistress
in this ghostly vision
or the fair servant once lost in the mist?
Some hold the truth in the latter
but for me the true facts do matter
as I am the one
that bid Mistress farewell
when her hand was promised another
It’s been bantered about for years
that you seek true love unattained
I’m wondering now
if our forbidden vows
is that love that you search for in vain
I beg that ye now speak your story
tossing my sanity here out as witness
for in health’s decline
my heart also seeks
the lost love of the Castle’s Mistress
I stand here now in this snow drift
shivering skin on now brittle bones
I could surely die
A satisfied man
If my joining your spirit would atone
© 2014 Debra Squyres 01/30
As I was washing the dishes last week
I looked outside my windowpane.
Snow-filled land and winter bleak,
I see a moose—how inane!
Thinking I must be going insane,
Or perhaps something of a retard,
I asked many but the answer was the same
Please get the moose out of my yard
One day within that crazy week
My husband was working in the plains
He went to a bush to take a leak
And there, staring, it was again!
He ran through the village through gasps of fright he just couldn’t retain
Now my hubbie is a lunatic, paranoid and scarred
With no fortune to his name!
Please get the moose out of my yard
Living here with seven babes on a meadow leek
Trying to keep sane
All the neighbors think me a freak
As I try to reassure and explain
And STILL the blasted animal remains
Keeping me absorbedly on-guard
He even trampled my great dane into grain!
Please get the moose out of my yard
Dear Prince, soon King so to speak
I beseech you with utmost regard
If it so pleases I will throw you a daughter for queen
Just please—PLEASE get the moose out of my yard!
Within the weighty door, weary souls went;
as did I as a child of eight, to the silent sentience within…
Upon the stoutest oak they sat, worrying beads.
“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee,”
The penitants, the prayerfull, the pitiful, rock.
The innocent observations of childhood.
Inward stares, upcaste eyes, open hearts, rock.
“Blessed art thou amongst women
and blessed is the fruit of thy womb…”
Beside masterpieces of goldleaf raised plaster pain,
they walk, worrying, burnished beads;
mindful of His journey “…Jesus.”
Each has a path they walk, weighted weary souls.
Yet, they remember in their hearts
His path and it’s toll.
The child in me remembers this in wonder.
Besceeching Mother Mary
to lift their weight, their toll. The Child in me
knows Mary.
Can you not hear my word?
Albeit…
If what I say fails to hold your interest
They are still of importance
These words are a lifetime defined
My joys and lamentations
They are a brush stroke shadowing
What I was…and am now
They are the songs of my children
The silence of standing graveside
Softly fading with times passing
Always of my voice whispering
Perhaps these words are nonsensical
And you uninterested in them
They are my life both past and present
My gift and legacy…
Yet still living