"There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love." -Washington Irving
When the light fades from my eyes,
Weak and frail before it dies,
Light a candle to remind
Even though my eyes be blind,
Love still abides in my soul,
Love, the kind that makes one whole!
RIP-NODDING TIL TWO
At dawn’s early light, i’m up and at it.
Mid-morning eyes close in lair, where I sit.
Not merely a wink.
A twenty year blink.
Wake up with cobwebs - Van Winkle’d a bit.
10/5/2017
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rip_Van_Winkle
In the short story, written by Washington Irving, Rip Van Winkle sleeps for twenty years.
For twenty years,
Tears in-between,
Rain and rust
And gray-beard dust.
A flooded flagon,
Empty-dry. Laid aside.
A spook to his wolf,
savior to the squirrels.
A languid man snores
While robins lay eggs
In his briery beard.
Blue and yellow eyes
Startle awake.
Oh what trouble
To sleep all night!
The Kaatskills mock,
In torment
Of bygone years,
This stinking man and
his tangled long beard.
Dame Van Winkle’s
Not dead from grief,
But from restless lips
Of donnybrook.
Like all ages, past to future,
Politics ticks and tocks.
Rip hangs upon the pendulum,
Not knowing which side he’s on.
His daughter’s his savior.
His namesake’s his doppelgänger.
The old man rises from the hills,
Baffled and half-moon shy.
Kim Rodrigues © 2017
This might amuse those who know the story of Rip Van Winkle by Washington Irving.
Ichabod Crane sprang from the brain
Of someone most deserving
Of Sunnyside, his proud domain.
His name? Washington Irving.
He also wrote a tale of note
About one Rip Van Winkle
Who found a sleeping antidote
To shoo away each wrinkle.
His home, intact, you can, in fact,
Both tour and pay a visit.
The costumed guide will not distract
From landscape most exquisite.
With river view, we wandered through
The rooms that Irving favored
And sampled life the way he knew
When simple joys were savored.
A worthwhile trip and here’s a tip –
Before you go farewelling,
The gift shop’s one you shouldn’t skip –
Cool souvenirs they’re selling!
The October night was dark and cold,
As the autumn sun was going down,
When I recalled the legends I had been told,
About this sleepy, little town.
There were tales about the haunted woods,
They say the wind seems to call your name,
I was going where no one should,
And if I survived, I'd never be the same.
I walked through the covered bridge,
As the harvest moon rose into the sky,
I had made it around the darkened ridge,
Just as I heard a lone wolf's cry.
I walked the path of the dark, gnarled thicket,
Through the fallen leaves of maple and oak,
I heard the chirping of a cricket,
Near the hollow, where the bullfrogs croak.
Then, I heard the "hoot" of an owl in a tree,
And the "caw" of a raven on it's perch,
The headless horseman I hoped not to see,
As I passed the graveyard near the church.
I told myself I would be alright,
Just as I heard the hooves of a horse,
But, I knew I would make it home tonight,
Because there are no ghosts, of course.
August 30th, 2013
(This was my tribute to "The Legend Of Sleepy Hollow" by Washington Irving.
I wrote it from the perspective of Ichabod Crane.)
“There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are messengers of overwhelming grief...and unspeakable love.” – Washington Irving
strongest love known
conveyed by tears, not words
powerful the person
allowing tears to escape
walls that hold a captive heart
essence of true compassion
sharing sacred tears
as a loved one mourns
*Entry for Russell Sivey’s “Challenge - 8 Lines Max” contest
by Carolyn Devonshire, October 9, 2011
Dedicated to Joyce Johnson on the loss of her brother
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