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Lisa Wabel Poem
An agile Cinnamon bear
Saunters across rusty snow
A treacherous avalanche path.
Meandering through fields
Bathed in Indian Paintbrush
And Columbine, Purple
Elephants forcing their faces
Through marshy creek beds.
A futile attempt to find
Berries so near to tundra and sky,
The great sow tears open
Rotted logs, finding morsels
Of insect meat.
The day moves into night
And yet another sun rises,
To the scope of a killer, lurking
In the vast green of the pines.
The sow strolls to creeks edge
For her last luscious drink
Lapping the cool crystal waters
Of her youth.
He watches motionless...
In all the field's beauty
She falls motionless there
Staining the ground as red
As the Indian Paintbrush.
I cried when I heard
That my memory of yesterday
Today lay dead.
I pity that poacher
The kind of man blind
To beauty and grace
Who killed a Cinnamon bear
And ran off with her head.
Copyright © Lisa Wabel | Year Posted 2005
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Lisa Wabel Poem
A fairy boy tinkers with fine little toys
under the gills of a Grand Shaggy Mane.
Protection is granted to fine fairy boys
Coprinus Comatus they called it by name.
WIth rustles of grass he peers out from its pores
To see a small snail on his path to the sea.
The boy bellows out to the snail and his chore
Come sit here by me and quite soon you will see
A pillow of fallen pores perfect for tea.
Despite the delight that beamed from the boy
The stubborn young snail did not stop, not to talk.
So the fairy boy returned to his tinkering toys.
Leaning gracefully back on the grand mushroom stalk.
A murmurer hovered near the Grand Shaggy Mane
In search of a taste of the Red Trumpet's face.
The fairy peered out from the Shaggy Mane Lane
and beckoned the bird to take rest in this place.
But the murmurer evades him with great hummer haste.
The small fairy boy that's alone with his mane,
asks why he can't will them to tinker with toys.
A fairy boy's pleasures are just not the same,
says Coprinus Comatus it's said to be named.
Copyright © Lisa Wabel | Year Posted 2005
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Details |
Lisa Wabel Poem
Rickety shelters at the base of majestic peaks
Nestled here, memories of winters long and cold.
Miners searching treasures, precious silver and gold.
Ghost towns whisper what it is they seek.
Misty clouds linger near jagged, unyielding terrain
Haunting, this sanctuary of aged wood and rusted tin.
Below cracked floorboards, marmots scurry in
As miner's picks echo in the pounding rain.
This place, a souvenir of abandoned dreams
Fragments once buried deep like old bones.
Colored glass litters the ground. It seems
Hard rockers were not always alone.
Remains of a china doll all dirty and worn
To this rugged place a miner's daughter was born.
Copyright © Lisa Wabel | Year Posted 2005
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