You are the totem, simply told,
In man and mountain lore
Pillared tall, your spirit thrives
Where myths and legends soar –
Among the ravens where they fly,
With creed held fast in hand,
You speak the language of the earth;
You sound the depths of man
And grasp the wisdom of the pearl
Fashioned in the sea,
Calling for the conch to voice
The truth you know to be –
A monolith of latitudes,
With grace not undermined,
Lamenting as the deaf and dumb
Are handled by the blind,
You wear the scars of battles waged
Across the centuries
And grant the bearer of your wounds
The marks of history –
Where now you stand, you now arise
To face the rising tide;
You see the quiet burning sun;
You hear the ocean’s cry
Raise now your silent, muted voice!
Lift up your hooded eyes!
Let loose the chains that time has forged
Where truth and beauty lie –
Exalt us with your noble height!
Bestir the waking land!
Totem, in your boundless grace,
Call forth a better man –
If I see balmy bliss more than bane,
Every leaf filled with fresh new wonder,
Each cloud an omen of copious rain,
The new world would nudge me to ponder…
The dismal would still bestir my brain,
The bizarre would give me boundless joy
To muse if I were a child again--
A wide-eyed wonder-struck little boy!
And for sure, I was just so of late--
As one hopes to be in his eighties,
Lovely did the world look, worth a wait,
Were I bestowed brand new pair of eyes?
A new stance has taught me how to see,
What so far was tunnel look to me.
____________________
Sonnet | 15.03.2017 | child, life, lovely/beautiful, world
Note: Set in anapaest tri-meter. And it was so despite my glaucoma-caused constrained peripheral vision.
The dark of night when turns to day,
When slowly stars begin to blur
And birds, barely from sleep bestir,
Older by day, greyer than grey,
Dreams when spill over my pillows
And in so doing lose some flair…
In dawn’s refreshing fragrant air,
When I wallow in waking woes,
The sun when lights up at the dawn,
My body bones when not so fit
Whine having lost of youth a bit,
And must wake still— me, languid bone,
Here’s my bliss— when some bonus blinks
I steal, dawn unto day when sinks.
__________________________________
Sonnet (Morning musings) | 02.01.2010|
In a temple Floria I see,
Clothed in radiant white from head to feet,
Soft pale hands and Bible on one knee;
Her smile beams on each who take a seat.
Within the room is finest polished wood;
All is clean, and walls reflect the light
Of purity, which sought, is understood,
For here abide the honest and contrite.
Peace resides to blot the worldly strife
Left outside, and solace eases pain.
Many here reflect upon their life,
For godliness and solemness do reign.
In the temple I envision her
Once the Spirit does her heart bestir.
July 12, 2020
for the Strand Completely New(9) Any Form Any Theme Poetry Contest
you usher me
with the allure of your muse
on drafts of featherless wings
through the breadth of night's air
away in the distance of dreams
i am swept
into the depths of imagery
that bestir my imagination
and arouse my ardent desire
wrapping me
in a blanket of verse
that becalms my weary soul
as words fall down tenderly
encompassing me
with the caress of thoughts
that trace the edges of my existence
with the whispers of your voice overheard
as i read each poem scrolled
i lose myself within the lines
as i send wishes adrift on stars
on the drafts of featherless wings
and fade in the distance of dreams
Leaves hang limply from thirsty tree branches
No breeze dares bestir them, foul is the air
The grass lies dying, a faded sere brown
No bird his song warbles, flies thickly abound
Tired pups on streets lie, their tongues hanging out
The sun cooks their fur, miserable drought
Empty the parks, no sounds of kids playing
Rancid garbage piles up, its stench dismaying...
Affairs of the heart, they no longer flower
Humidity drains all their vitals' power
While the sun burns lovers' walks by the beach
The hazy sky's brutal---blood-sucking leech
The dog days of summer extinguish romance
Unbearable heat just won't give it a chance
Iambic Pentameter
our words one can compress
but our focus as wordsmiths
is to let creativity take charge
each and every conversation
becomes a writer’s permit to
master their authorship
choreographed words bestir
and challenge mind-numbing
beware of what you share
pursuits of passion my pen
not to be silently suppressed
Inside a temple Jean sits quietly,
clothed in radiant white from head to feet,
soft pale hands and a Bible on one knee;
a smile she beams on each who take a seat.
Within the room is finest polished wood;
all is clean, and the walls reflect the light
of purity, which sought, is understood,
for here abide the honest and contrite,
and peace resides to blot the worldly strife
they’ve left outside; sweet solace eases pain.
Each soul here can reflect upon his life,
for godliness and solemness do reign.
It’s in the temple I envision her
once the Spirit does her heart bestir.
Note: Jean is my mother's name.She is a very
spiritual person who enjoys the peace of the temples.
March 4, 2015
For the Pick a Subject Contest of Shadow Hamilton
Sweet sounds so dear—
Pure timeless tones of gladness—
Your melodies bestir my soul to flight—
Through darkest night
And doleful days of sadness—
I thank you for my hope and banished fear,
Oh precious music, mine to hear.
In sorrow born—
From dust to dust we wander,
Lamenting, all too late, come winter frost,
The springtime lost.—
Our lives we vainly squander.
The mourning bells do toll for us, forlorn.—
Oh may we hark to heaven's horn!
Sweet sounds so dear—
Pure timeless tones of gladness—
Your melodies bestir my soul to flight—
Through darkest night
And doleful days of sadness—
I thank you for my hope and banished fear,
Oh precious music, mine to hear.
– Harley White
[Song Lyrics for 'An die Musik' – Franz Schubert (1797–1828) ]
'Maria's Canto'
You bestir me, Aztec Princess
Awakening me from slumbers forsaken
Taking me on the path to your Caribbean haven
To my existence you grant sense.
Your mind is keen, shown by a sharp intelligence
On your countenance, your honey skin a godly sheen
In all you've been, as woman and goddess
Heaven and Earth will you rule as queen, but to me
To me you are the premiere enchantress.
Cows bellow, low, heads between rails
such large deep sad eyes, such full bags.
For whom do they await, no one home
to let them out, share out their milk.
Not long ago I saw you wandering off with him
his hand caressing your neck, gripping your arm
holding you stiff, obedient to his will
and you were bound to follow, no sound
escaped your lips, and me, why am I watching
for the scene to play out? Don’t we all know
don’t we all grieve, for the coming of that day
when cowl slips down, the bellow, low aches.
You won’t come home, will you my dear.
I guess I paid the right price for a job well done
Your cheating heart won’t bestir us to wait
Never more. This farm is sold outright.
If God were to smile upon me as in the days of old
If he gentled my step and blessed me
with soft spoken reassurances of love—
If He were to rise on my behalf
with righteous indignation,
and only a portion of my enemy’s curses
smote me and tore at my hard-won peace—
If His hedge of protection
set boundaries on the evil which walks by day
and never sleeps by night—
If once more I heard the sweet strains of serenading love
calling me forth from my hiding place,
and no amount of head lowering
could shake this hound of heaven’s ardent pursuit:
oh! how my heart would stir within,
bringing me to my knees
in soul submission.
I would rise and bestir myself
seeking Him whom my soul desires above all others;
I would shake the dust of this earth from my feet
and making haste
would run to meet Him:
my soul
my darling
my lover, once more.
When did I write such a sad line? .
No date and therefore can’t recall
what circumstances prompted me
that from my pen such grim words fall.
Here’s one about the weather, yes.
So often foggy days occur.
On sunny days my words are light.
Grayer days, dark thoughts bestir.
The Poem
The fog lies low in my valley. *
It’s bearing so hard on my soul.
I’m tangled today in a cobweb of gray,
a fly in an upside down bowl.
Trying to climb from the darkness,
I’m reaching for holds that aren’t there.
Befuddled and on the floor huddled,
just needing to breathe lighter air.
Darling, you’ve taken the sunshine.
I’m struggling to find my way home.
Burdened by fog of my spirit,
I’m lost in this gray catacomb.
I pray the sun throws off his blanket
and brightens my day with his shine.
There… now I have written a poem
from finding that one single line.
*Inspirational line
By: Joyce Johnson 9/10/11 A no. 1 among many
For Carol Brown’s contest “Pieces of paper…A poet’s heart”
Heat days arrive with cloudless skies.
A sultry haze hangs evoking earthquake tales.
Sticky twilight mauve moves
another day, another month
another year passing
as sporadic fireworks explode
weeks before the celebration
of another date.
Dog dead days
bestir record keepers
to pronounce and announce
what few brain cells
have already registered ...
it is hotter than hot.
A small golden ring with a blood–red heart
Rests amid his gadgets and the clutter
Of his desk like some famous work of art.
He gazed at its bright luster then muttered:
“Why must your keepsake evoke this sadness
In my heart each time I gaze upon you?
Her ring remains but also my madness
Lingers on, anguish I’m suffering through.
Oh heart! Must your heartthrob keep on beating
Since my lover’s heart stop beating long ago?
Must this ring bestir in me these feelings,
Unfeeling band must you torture me so?
Will you ever grant the peace I’m seeking
Or remain a hopeless pawn of her ring?”
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