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Katharine L. Sparrow Poem
[heptapent sonnet]
The Sun has been off, hiding, where its warmth is far from here,
its lustrous fingers stroking other planes.
And I, abandoned to the winter's ruthless time of year,
exist in hope that somewhere spring remains.
The wind will blunt the spirit like a whittler dulls a knife.
The darkened days will bleed intention dry.
It seems that surely all the world stands, tremulous and rife
with creeping cold, as icy snowflakes fly.
I long for gentle summer days, where bluebirds light and sing
from flowering trees where blossoms flutter down;
to dance with fireflies in sacred starlight, worshiping
the moonbeams, dressing me with lucent crown.
Here I await, with cherished hope that summer's melody
will loose the arms of winter's will that binds the joy in me.
Copyright © Katharine L. Sparrow | Year Posted 2022
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Katharine L. Sparrow Poem
Its wings were double fronds of gauzy green,
its fragile form a long and tapered flair—
this fallen dragonfly I had not seen
before, when I had walked out on my stair.
I bent and saw that it was not alive,
its body crushed, its wings ravaged and torn.
Yet something of its beauty still survived—
a remnant of the luster it had borne.
I marveled at such elegance in death,
a noble creature, still, upon my stair.
A wave of melancholy took my breath,
and eyes welled for a thing so fine and rare.
I put the grief away and dried my eyes.
Such is the way of tears and dragonflies.
Copyright © Katharine L. Sparrow | Year Posted 2024
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Katharine L. Sparrow Poem
The Emerald Isle lies misty green,
an ocean's gem, a land between
the water's edge and blue of sky,
her magic wonders seldom seen.
For those who know her can't deny
although, in truth, they wonder why
the Irish spin their wondrous tales
to friends and strangers, stopping by.
An Irish story never fails,
in all its glorious details,
to weave a world of fae and sprite
who hide amongst the woodland trails.
The little folks keep far from sight,
but if you're very still, you might
just catch one dancing, unaware,
when day is slipping into night.
As songs of evening fill the air,
listen close and tread with care,
with little folks about somewhere—
with little folks about somewhere.
Copyright © Katharine L. Sparrow | Year Posted 2023
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Katharine L. Sparrow Poem
I've lived where orange blossoms fall
and flutter on the streets of Spain.
In Germany I've seen the wall,
and snow-capped mountains from the train.
I've known Bahamas' sunlight gleam
where palm trees shift in sultry air,
but Africa, exotic dream—
imagination takes me there.
I see the restless plains that stretch
to meet the blue, forever sky,
alive with teeming herds that sketch
a savage scene in my mind's eye.
I picture people, tall and proud,
whose ancestors have braved this land,
and tamed a wilderness, unbowed
by flooding, droughts, and burning sand.
And in this dream, white jasmine sends
a honeyed scent that hangs and bathes
the senses where the blue grass bends
to spice the air in pungent swathes.
At sunset, coral streamers drape
across horizon's purple bars,
and nighttime spreads its velvet cape,
bejeweled with half a billion stars.
I live in North America—
so cool and tame everything seems!
I've never been to Africa,
but I have seen it in my dreams.
Copyright © Katharine L. Sparrow | Year Posted 2019
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Katharine L. Sparrow Poem
I have a tree named Lou, a great, spreading beech
the shape of a gigantic pear with the stem upside-down.
I named it Lou so it could be Louise or Louis.
I don't know which.
But when I walk in summer,
I smile when I reach its gentle shade
and listen to the shooosh of a thousand silvery leaves
like huge, soft thumbs rubbing together.
And in winter, I urge Lou to hang in there,
brave the icy winds through its skeletal fingers
and stand tall, resolute and silent.
We know, Lou and I, that spring
will come
again.
Copyright © Katharine L. Sparrow | Year Posted 2020
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Katharine L. Sparrow Poem
It was the feathered purple of a blossoming iris,
kissing the laden air
with trembling lips.
I was awakened by its fragrance,
the newness of its ancient story,
told yet again by a moistening earth
in silvery birdsong.
Sometimes,
I have missed the turning from gelid and motionless
to the softening sway that unerringly follows.
I have been embittered—
brittle and bare as a crooked branch,
scraping a vacuous sky—
but not this time.
This time, the tenderest breeze,
prodded by the fingers of a spreading sun,
finds me waiting—
eyes closed, smile turned eagerly upwards
to greet the renewal
of creation.
Copyright © Katharine L. Sparrow | Year Posted 2023
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Katharine L. Sparrow Poem
The sea
that surrounds this narrow land
floats its salted scent across
on a misted wind.
It calls to us,
a rolling song
of a thousand voices,
swallowed
by its merciless depths.
They chant a crashing chorus
of ships and sails,
prayers and fishing nets,
protesting
their watery fate—
as if to affirm
their seafaring souls,
which are never lost,
but summon their
earthly brothers
to the shore.
Copyright © Katharine L. Sparrow | Year Posted 2020
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Katharine L. Sparrow Poem
And still some nights you touch my dreams,
though all is done and past, it seems.
Yet, out of nothing– sheer surprise...
I wither when I see your eyes,
and all that I'd thought gone at last
assaults me, as if I had asked
to visit anguish once again,
return to how I suffered then.
And still you slip behind the veil
of sleep, a realm that's soft and frail,
and tangle into all that went
away, a grief that's through and spent.
And yet how fresh it seems from there,
that darkened place. So unaware
the sleeping heart, so feebly cast—
in dreams is bound to all that's past.
Copyright © Katharine L. Sparrow | Year Posted 2023
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Katharine L. Sparrow Poem
Spring hangs
like a dripping woolen coat
from the pewter frame
of a glowering sky.
Why is it that poets write of spring
as if it were made
of rose petals and birdsong?—
and insist that spring is when 'true love' blooms?
There are no flowers, no birds, no eager lovers
with this horrid impostor, this con of a season.
Here by me,
on my windswept, narrow land,
I know well how it goes—
spring holds winter's slushy hand,
and the two of them laugh heartily at us,
flinging their icy spittle
in our faces.
Copyright © Katharine L. Sparrow | Year Posted 2023
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Katharine L. Sparrow Poem
How sweet the sound of my own lover's voice!—
he speaks to me of honeyed blossoms where,
in tangled gardens, vine and rose rejoice,
entwining both the spires and petals there.
How soft the dew of my own lover's kiss!—
anointing neck and trailing over breast.
His lips of velvet speak to me of bliss,
without a sound, as tongue to flesh is pressed.
How gently glides his touch where hands are laid!—
a feather first and then a firm caress;
my body, in his hands, a goddess made,
each swell and curve, my lover's to possess.
At last my love and I, a twisting vine,
wrap 'round where thorn and blooming rose combine.
Copyright © Katharine L. Sparrow | Year Posted 2023
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