Details |
Barbara Attaway Poem
Whirlwind lifting shapeless seas
Frosted
Crashing
In hot breeze
Searching about
A shell to be found
Not bare, raw flesh
No nudity
Sandpiper sifting shells for food
Millions
Billions
On top it stood
Searching about
A bug to be found
Umm umm good
Nude, beach combing, swinging free
Lordy
No
He's eyeing me
Searching about
Virgin eyes cast down
Bare, raw flesh
Nudity
Escape behind eyelids blushing red
Seconds
Minutes
Eternity
Searching about
May solitude be found
No, a fallen sign
Nude Beach ahead
Copyright © Barbara Attaway | Year Posted 2011
|
Details |
Barbara Attaway Poem
To preserve this day, I pick red plums wild
Within my soul, I dream a while
A vision ancient, to me smiles
Of plums growing wild in thickets dark
There for taking by man or lark
Beside running waters where beaver barks
I hear the drum for miles
Smoke signals lifting high in sky
On summer's breeze they drift and sigh
Indian village steals my eye
Women gathering, pounding, grinding
Saving fruits for summer's ending
In cakes for winter's cold day feasting
'Round evening fires, high and dry
Painted ponies heading west
Hunter's talismans cover chests
Put their knapping skills to test
Not one willing to be the lag
Arrow drawn to down his stag
Rights this night will be to brag
Whose spearpoint flew the best
Allegiance to "Great White Father" sworn
Many moons later, treaties torn
Their ways, their days, their hopes forlorn
For wild plum cakes and venison stews
Thought safe in tepees 'neath cold skies blue
Sore gleaning here in peaceful view
For them I shall forever mourn
While picking I shall forever mourn
Copyright © Barbara Attaway | Year Posted 2013
|
Details |
Barbara Attaway Poem
Sitting at brackish-brown water's edge
Hands, blue-veined, sore to the bone
Strong searching fingers through muddied sand dredge
Seeking Early Man's sharpened stones
Breeze soft with whistles of melodious song
Waves lapping rhythm to Earth's heartbeats
Strong searching fingers through muddied sand long
To feel that ancient, sharpened strength
Floating on jasper and obsidian dreams
My mind re-creates this place long ago
Strong searching fingers, through muddied sand glean
To reap Early Man's sharpened stow
A stone sharpened to pierce, take down
A spirit meant to feed, make warm, to survive
Strong searching fingers, through muddied sand drill
For the need to know him; sharp and alive
Sitting at brackish-brown water's edge
Hands all shriveled, sensitive, clean
Strong searching fingers, through muddied sand, slide
Touch, then know perfectly sharpened means
To feel with strong tanned fingers, this
To hold though none have held before
Since one who sent this lance to kiss,
Ask forgivness and become his store
Such a moment is addictive
Such a moment is quite rare
What a victory to have been predictive
I pray he knows, I know he was here
Copyright © Barbara Attaway | Year Posted 2013
|
Details |
Barbara Attaway Poem
He listened to The Master
Voiced not his woes
Reply was sombre, pensive
"I know the time is close"
Eyes view within...
Then...
"Love, I had more in life than most."
When The Master summoned
He breathed deeply then slipped away
Though there were those
Who begged him not to listen...
Yes, this keeper knows
Copyright © Barbara Attaway | Year Posted 2011
|
Details |
Barbara Attaway Poem
I saw myself a dirty stranger, Lord
Not worthy of your glance
Ne'er deserving of the blood you shed
My sin --- your fatal lance!
You saw yourself a lowly servant, Lord
Washing my filthy feet
Teaching me and giving hope
Your gifts --- like honey --- sweet.
O Lord, my God, how new I am
My clothes are bright and clean
Glowing with YOUR righteousness
Not stranger --- now saint --- my name!
Copyright © Barbara Attaway | Year Posted 2015
|
Details |
Barbara Attaway Poem
The dark, heavy beauty
Thundered foreboding
Ferocious, blue-grey violence
Erupted from her stormy heart
She sang a steady rain and
Danced with magical lightning
A love story
Copyright © Barbara Attaway | Year Posted 2011
|
Details |
Barbara Attaway Poem
We hiked in the hills for a long, long way
My privilege was to gift their feet that day
Soak them in water, soothe with mint lotion
Seemed to me just the right heaven sent potion
My desire, you see, was to mimic my Lord
Their refusal to allow it caught me off guard
My gift was unwanted, unaccepted and scorned
No concern had they; oh, how my heart was torn
It occurred to me then how my Savior's gift waits
To be opened and entered as tabernacle gates
Will his everlasting Gift I glibly ignore
As He washes my feet on His infinite shore
Copyright © Barbara Attaway | Year Posted 2011
|