SEPTEMBER’S GRAY SHAWL
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
September fog, a grey shawl,
settles on the fields, the trees,
erasing edges, softening lines.
the sun, a ghost behind gauze,
offers no sharp edges,
only a mist-diffused light.
footsteps muffled on the path,
each one a gentle drumbeat~
walking meditation.
soul softens~
between inhale and exhale,
a quiet contemplation.
thoughts unfurl
like ferns in the damp earth~
clamor fades.
what remains~
the quiet hum
of my own inner landscape.
Mom With Prayer Shawl
*
In this time of sorrow
We are reminded, that none of us get out alive
Yet, I treasure the belief
With remembering we all survive.
*
On my last visit to Mom
She wore a shawl
Draped over her thin shoulders.
“The shawl is so beautiful, Mom.”
“Yes, Son, I love the soft blue.”
*
“The other day a young woman
Came to my room, opened a box,
And there was the shawl.
She said members of the church,
Crochet prayer shawls.
The young woman asked
If I would accept this Shawl of Hope
With their love and prayers.
Now, Son, I didn't
Mean to make you cry.”
“I know, Mom, but you always said
I was a sensitive guy.
I wrote it in my diary.”
“You and that diary...
One can't get away with anything.”
“Nope, I got it all on paper
And treasure it.”
Mom looked at me with tears
And asked me to come closer.
She whispered,
“I am being warmed
By loving hands
Responsible for each
Entwined strand of wool.
The shawl is blessed with hope
And its warmth
Keeps fear out in the cold.”
“I will sit by you, Mom,
And feel its warmth.”
*
There was an old lady who wore an old shawl,
knitted it herself with wool bought at the mall.
Now old and ragged, Granddaughter Pennie thought
my friends and I could knit a new one, and we ought!
Two friends agreed, but it will be a big job.
We need two more, maybe we should “lob”
Put on the bulletin board, no one signed.
Then, on a church pew, accidently left behind.
Pastor Jim told Pennie's mom: I know two who knit;
one is black, one Chinese; won't be a problem, will it?
Pennie's mom, Mary, said: my mom's thinking is old hat.
Maybe we won't tell her til it's knitted, how's that?
So, the four girls got together and knitted away,
forming friendships that last even to this day.
Grandma knitted with them, said they were all cute.
Thinking can change for we're all from one root!
Pure white shawl
In the ravine steeps
Shining snow
Red rose peeps
Crystalline sky greets warmly
Nature of winter
© Mahtab Bangalee
Chattogram
26/01/2023
snowflakes evanesce
blankets of snow cover limbs...
and warm frigid tree
Unassuming and natural, many did not notice Heather at first.
Her grandmother knitted her a soft blue shawl the color of her eyes.
Now she stood out, and the boys came running over to be listened to.
Why did she have to make it that color? Asked her son, Heather’s Daddy.
This old gal is desperate for a new coat
Rust covers her cracked and peeling frame, but
No one seems to notice for
In Winter, an icy lace shawls warmly wraps around her.
In Spring, misty dew drapes her shoulders.
In Summer, variegated greens and blues surround her like a fine silk scarf.
In Autumn, her mottled tones are enveloped within Joseph's arms.
She stands a stately Queen robed in royal array,
Reigning over her domain with
Seasonless grace and grandeur.
Blue shawl unfurls
Furls spreading white fringes
Waves covering the cold shore
6.7.2021
HAIKU- FIRST PLACE
Veiled by a misty shawl of raindrops,
a shy sun fails to show its face.
And colored leaves fade fast;
for trampled underground
they morph into mold
as scarecrows sag,
abandoned
at their
posts.
~
Rain
dampens
tinder hopes:
setting a mood
oft fueled by gloom;
summoning depression.
And as Winter approaches,
a melancholy grey sky weeps
for Fall: as it bleeds into the soil.
The gift of friendship
A most precious gift of all
True friends are always there for you
Come running when you call
Whatever the time
Be it day
Be it night
Whatever the wherewithal
You may not see them for a while
But when you talk upon the phone
It feels like only yesterday
As if no time has passed at all
A friend you trust with everything
They share your highs and lows
Such special souls sweet angels on earth
Priceless gems their friendship’s worth
In life we meet just one or two
They feel the same ‘bout me and you
Our love and care goes back and forth
Our hearts and souls a magic force
Friendship has no boundaries at all
They sense your pain before you call
Wrapping your soul with love and warmth
Like the softest luxurious cashmere shawl
Written 9th August 2020
Contest Strand Completely New (20)
Sponsor Brian Strand
FIRST PLACE
There is no moon tonight.
Wine fills me with melancholy.
Movement of boats on the Seine soothe me like choral music.
Illuminated torches excite nostalgia.
The sound of an Aurignacian flute can be heard down the boulevard, or maybe only the glint of a memory.
Worn feet ache.
Tired lines tell the story of a life of curiosity in a weary smile.
An old woman knits.
She wears a faded pink shawl to cover her years.
Flour from the morning’s baking lightly coats her wooden shoes.
The pebbled beach on which we walked at dawn
The sun was dancing singing stone to stone
The sea was pale as silk and gently ran
The tide was coming in, the day began
Why is my memory so deficient here?
I remember little but you near
I remember Portland Bill at dusk
The sea was wilder then with many thrusts
Happiness was like a golden shawl
A world like Eden, man before the Fall
Today they say, illusion, I say, no
What matters is where this insight makes you go
The fruits of meditation are its test
May we be generous, may our souls be blessed
As the sun shimmies down blue skies and sets,
clouds streaked with pink, mauve, and grey pave its way.
And the night gets wrapped in a black silk shawl,
whose threads slowly snuff out the light of day.
As Mars and Venus arrive on the scene,
Luna rises to reveal a pocked face.
And twilight dims, setting the stage for dusk,
fixed within the fabric of time and space.
Clouds of bats swarm out of secluded caves
to feast on moths, snatched right out of the air.
And while ebony shadows shift and merge,
yellow eyes in the gloom seemingly stare.
And the haunting hoots of an owl are heard,
as the line between day and night gets blurred.
May my poems be a downy shawl
That guards against the cold;
As peaceful as the flurries fall
That about the woodlands fold.
And May my words sustain you,
Even as a coat of fur—
Warm the soul and hope renew,
As the images occur.
And should you feel the least alone,
May my rhyme a comfort be—
My words a wrap of quietude;
Of repose and harmony.
Coverall and A Shawl
Remember when men wore a coverall,
And in fall women will wear a shawl;
Hair had been a bun;
Thought of having fun,
Also an apron are things that I recall.
When the day did end or start and begin,
Was while women would wear an apron
Did cook a lot,
On stove in pot,
Or could crochet, knit and some flax spin.
Jim Horn
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