coarse sand forms brown rills
hard scree, rock cleft trills
fine clouds frame red kite
string slack; old maid wills
I'm walking on a tight rope on poles so tall.
Don't know who will catch me when I fall.
Don't know who'll dance at my wedding ball.
Don't know if I'll even ever have one at all.
MAID OF ORLÉANS
Poem written for and submitted to “Myth and Memory” Poetry Contest, Vanya Evangeline, sponsor.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A warrior saint came from the plains of rural France,
a beautiful maiden named Joan, dressed in simple clothes,
not of noble lineage, but of modest beginnings
her faith unmatched.
Shielded by heavenly whispers,
she took up a religious cause~
mounted on horseback, brandishing God’s mighty saber,
she fought for her country in the name of the Lord.
Unscathed from battle she emerged,
waving her banner of courage throughout the land,
but treason and betrayal
would one day bring her untimely end.
Alone she stood in the court of politicians,
falsely accused and forsaken; yet,
in the face of pain, Joan’s faith and resolve
would not be contained, her spirit and fortitude remained.
The humble shepherdess warrior, was bound to a stake
her body consumed by fire, her valor inspirational.
This humble warrior saint, later canonized and martyred,
continues to embolden and enthrall.
by Russ Dodson (c) 1968. 2025
I've never had a unicorn
because I couldn't catch one
and I know no virgin maid
whom I could send to fetch one
I was seven, barefoot in the hallway,
nose pressed to the brass knob of the guest room—
she’d left the key out,
but I wanted to see through,
the way you want to see the belly of a piano,
strings naked, all hammer and throat.
The maid caught me,
her voice full of linen snaps and starch—
What are you doing, Miss?
I lied. Said I was looking for the cat.
There was no cat.
Only the shimmer of her hair under her cap,
and the broken goldfish bowl of my curiosity,
spilled on the carpet of my chest.
That night the sky turned dark like a locked door.
I thought about the keyhole,
how it had looked back at me.
How secrets sit still like fish
in the murk of people’s lives,
waiting for someone small and stupid
to come tap the glass.
And I,
with my hollow hands and soft mouth,
wanted only to know
what lived behind things.
I’m at the age where
I’ve grown really long hair
And I don’t denim care
That the trend is to cut it
No longer wearing high heels
Just for a flex or a thrill
More about how my feet feel
And they don’t love it
I don’t have many pink plans
Flying by seat of peach pants
Keeping my praying hands
I am blessed with contentment
Becoming a red recluse
Enjoying sandy solitude
Embracing my various moods
Without any raspberry resentment
I wonder of me what they say
Am I now an old onyx maid
Because there’s no wedding day
It tickles me pink to think
That my out of wedlock birth
Gave my life priceless worth
Despite sermon of online church
I entertain purple pondering
In dawn's embrace, she strolls the dew-kissed fields,
Her tender touch, to morning's yield.
Silken hair, a cascade of midnight's grace,
Soft hands whispering, love’s gentle trace.
Beneath the boughs where shadows fade,
She moves with ease, the milking maid.
Her breath, a sigh in the cool, crisp air,
Her eyes, a promise, a daring dare.
Each motion, slow, deliberate, kind,
Her touch, a whisper, to the bovine mind.
Sunrise glows upon her skin,
A dance of light, where dreams begin.
The rhythm of her work, a sacred song,
A timeless dance, where she belongs.
Her form, a curve of pure delight,
In the gentle dawn, she milks the night.
In every glance, a story told,
Of warmth, and care, and hearts of gold.
The world awakens to her tender art,
The milking maid, with a lover’s heart.
gray spider web waves
will white wind whisk it away
insect dream crushed by maid
Inhaling the mist on Niagara's waters, we sail,
Love and romance, in the mist's sweet tale.
As couples, we mirror the falls' ebb and flow,
Peaks of passion, in the mist's soft glow.
Yet a lone soul, lost in the cascade's thrall,
Streams of loneliness, down the falls do fall.
In search of love, in the mist's swirling sea,
Losing identity in the falls' mystery.
Disembarking the boat, we bid adieu,
Exhaling farewell, to a friend so true.
My anger when watched all but nude,
It soon beat a hasty retreat.
Fury’s a shy maid in black mood,
When exposed, ogled at, would quit,
Feel helpless, void of all her wit.
_______________________________
Reflections | 03.05.2013, revised January 2024|Quintain
Callie Croakers was always a frogmaid, never a bride.
Her disappointment she very often would try to hide.
You have more dresses than anyone know I said.
But she lamented, none are my favorite color, which is red.
My brother Richie used to turn into a loon when he got the old Maid.
His face would turn red, scarlet, plum, and a bright fuchsia shade.
The rest of us would know, and we could not stop laughing at him.
The one who laughed the hardest was our crazy Uncle, Weird Jim.
Weird Jim tormented Richie after he got the dreaded Old Maid card.
Mom tried to warn him, because Richie got angry terribly fast and hard.
He ran after Uncle Jimi with his head down like a bull, and ran into a wall.
We now have a head dent in the dry wall, and Mom is on a doctor’s call.
Thy young maiden,
Peck her Lily flower a shake.
A brittle sound of break,
Sobbing till tears make.
Bare feet on wet grass.
Alas, her life, soon ‘twill pass.
Rough churn ocean delivers her in dignity
Innocence paints in peach, lustrous Venus
Scallop swaps out pearl for Spring felicity
Implores warriors enter her restful nucleus
Never swept by squall of zephyr incessant
Guardian horas of orange grove bless her
Froth pop in scallop separates her calves
Regenerating mer manger cradle naivety
Offers primavera infant influenced charm
Muse of newness heralds erudite Mercury
Transcendent shed tail maid rules tranquil
Hails bay pleasant placid beside Poseidon
Enchantress of ocean, cove bliss thankful
Swathes of honey inhabit hips of sea siren
Enigma captures canvas Campaspe nubile
Anadyomene imagines baptism birth fertile
Rising From The Sea
21st December
I truly apologize to any reader.
I've run out of change for my poetry meter.
Please send me some quarters or a quartette.
The meter maid has not been by yet..
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