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Mary E.W. Stephenson Poem
I know of, and I rest in awe of the illimitable greatness of the river Congo, and the Yangtze.
I know of and I rest in awe of the brilliance and grandeur of Mt. Everest and Mt. Speke.
I know of and I rest in awe of the beauty of the Aurora borealis and the hop-skip terpsichore of the wallaby.
I know of and I rest in awe of the splendour of the sun setting in the fall sky, casting its aluminiferous orange and gold rays over the descending life of the maple, elm, birch, oak, and the willow tree, and projecting it"s image over the vast sea.
I know of and I rest in awe of the magnificence of Giza Necropolis, the Great Wall of China, the Taj Mahal, the Grand Canyon, Machu Picchu, the Galapagos Islands, and Serengeti.
I know of and I rest in awe, as an awe-inspiring tears run down my face at the strength and the greatness I envision with daylight reverie. The reverence of your sepia beauty, your hair; the effulgence of a raven's plume. The grace and unworldly wisdom of you, my grand-girl, my little Nhandi,
copyright 2007
Copyright © Mary E.W. Stephenson | Year Posted 2016
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Mary E.W. Stephenson Poem
My heart sings on this lazy summer night at the amazing beauty of the
moonlight illuminating the Chesapeake Bay,
making a solemn pronouncement of it to be magical and mystical.
From the comfort of my screened porch, I am at ease in my padded chase
watching this magnificent adoration between the moon and
the Chesapeake Bay.
But I am not alone in my empirical study of the admiration between
the moon and the bay.
For the beauty of the two fathers moods.
The fireflies move swiftly through the night winking their approval.
So encourage by the magic, a Loon calls out to his mate to come sit
beside him to share in this spellbinding view.
The frogs croak out a sonata to help define the moment.
Happy for the moonlight the populace of fishes nibbles at the bugs
that surf the surface.
The age old owl sits on a limb to mesmerize to realize that he missed
the meal of a small country mouse who scurried by.
My skin is a glittering onyx under the moonglow, and my hair, thick as
the Congo jungle is dampened by the misty and salty breeze that is sent
my way from the bay.
There is nothing so exquisite and provocative as the moonlight and the Chesapeake Bay.
In the envelopment of sweet tranquility, I fell into a daydream.
copyright 2017 Looking At The Light From The Bottom Of The Lake
Copyright © Mary E.W. Stephenson | Year Posted 2017
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Mary E.W. Stephenson Poem
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Just pass the flourishing sycamore and maple trees.
Just pass the vast meadow where crickets play and butterflies probe for nectar.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Just a few kilometers from me is a blue water pond that is a seasonal home for
a family of trumpeter swans.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Where I'm surrounded by a rustic gothic fence.
And at my feet are glorious variegated annuals and perennials.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Come see me in my brilliance where the sun is pouring its heavenly beams upon my ivory body.
Come and see how many seasons has embraced me.
Let your eyes be gifted with the sight of my golden thatched crown, where larks and wren gently nestle.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Come inside me.
Enjoy my warmth.
Explore me and all my charm.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Come rest your weight on the antique rocker in front of the Rumford fireplace.
Enjoy the port that is half filled inside a lead crystal decanter.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
You will, with great contentment bury yourself in the serenity, and pity many in the world who isn't you.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Come and listen to the enchanting sounds of my memories.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Come and hold in perfection the moments you share with me.
copyright Looking At The Light From The Bottom Of The Lake.
Inspired by a picture. 2017
Copyright © Mary E.W. Stephenson | Year Posted 2018
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Mary E.W. Stephenson Poem
Thanksgiving 1930
Mama was running around the house trying to make space for everyone to lay their heads when the night draped the day.
The house was jovial and laughter bang against the four walls like a rushing tide against an embankment, and it filled the cracks with vibrating music.
The aroma of baked turkey, ham, and yams live freely in the air with tobacco smoke. It was one of the most happiest and memorable day of my life.
My cousins and I made thunderous cacophony while running through the house.
The men in the family sat in the parlor in front of the fireplace sipping on papa's dandelion wine, and verbalizing their views on politics and agriculture.
The women gathered in the kitchen to prepare the meal and exchange recipes.
They knew everything significant about the world, according to them.
They knew every poultice and herb to fix for just about any type of ailment.
They knew and philosophized on the affairs of the heart.
They knew the words of the Lord and quote them in their solicitous conversations.
They were icons
Excerpt from short story Pinstripe Suit
copyright Labyrinth of Life 2007. Labyrinth of Life is a compilation of short stories and poetry.
Copyright © Mary E.W. Stephenson | Year Posted 2016
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Mary E.W. Stephenson Poem
Outrageous and tumultuous forces of sorrow and deceit suffused her world.
It was her fortitude in its pureness and positive conceptualization of herself
that unfurled.
Whilst rivers and roads brought ravenous, heartless and virulent humans at
her feet.
A staunch and brave heart let not bounty fall into retreat.
Whilst the wind blew spells of misfortune that beat at her mien.
She stood strongly swollen with a fervid will against its encroaching scheme.
Tho' on occasion tears wet her cheek.
It is where dignity runs wild in her soul that keeps her from being weak.
She is upright in her own integrity and standeth in an even place before God.
She is dressed for battle with an impervious armor of faith and a gospel
reeling rod.
Tenacity, boldness, and ethics were artfully painted across her visage.
For these things promised were her rite of passage.
For she is omnipotent as can be.
Forever strong is she.
For it is said of her; she is that of a mighty S h i t t a h tree.
copyright Looking At The Light From The Bottom Of The Lake
Originally written as s h i t t a h tree biblical tree in the book of Psalm, Deuteronomy, Micah, Joel, Numbers, and Joshua. Moses carved Ten Commandments on the wood from the s h i t t a h tree from City S h i t t i m valley of Jordan.
Copyright © Mary E.W. Stephenson | Year Posted 2018
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Mary E.W. Stephenson Poem
I am being held hostage by a pressing force of incognizant, and I am impregnated in a world of spiraling storms of confusion.
Fragments of memories prods my mind. Sudden and swift memories of my failings and sins are but a measured minute of my life.
Why can't I remember slipping into this fog of incertitude, this doom pressing force of incognizant.
My heart grows numb against the days and nights that I spend in despondency.
Familiar faces shifts to peculiar and ill-boding images.
Solitude is a conundrum of emptiness. A bittersweet embrace.
My tongue is locked in an aphasia space.
My brain has forgotten its ability to command, and so my legs and arms have no will of its own.
I want to run away, run to a place that will strike a familiar note in my brain.
I hate being handled by strangers who pull at me and torture me with applications of abuse.
In a regular diurnal, my dignity is decomposing.
Despair is the song of my wretched soul.
I can not stop crying.
copyright Labyrinth of Life
Copyright © Mary E.W. Stephenson | Year Posted 2016
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Mary E.W. Stephenson Poem
I know this man of God that roars from the bottom of the city, below the red blood line.
Knowing that his words never fail, every Sunday I make my way down to the bottom of the city to hear this man of God.
I rest my weight on the hard wooden bench with worn out cushion just to let this man of God spew out the words of God like rain upon my soul.
Many Sundays his pounding and prolific oratory would shake my unconscious, this man of God.
His words of God are righteous and they filled the sanctuary like a balloon, and this man of God is always in harmony.
This man of God energy is that of the sun because the glory of God's love is upon him.
This man of God method of delivering the holy word is conventional, yet he catapults his sermons in the most phenomenal fashion.
This man of God spontaneously in the spirit of the moment kindles the heart of the captive congregation with vociferous and powerful narrations. With resourceful minds, they are aboard a spiritual ship riding the waves of his glorious orations.
I know this man of God, that roars from the bottom of the city, below the red blood line.
Although it is said that he is an academic man with degrees from prestigious institutions, I know this man of God as a most humble and gifted man.
As he roars, and sing, and teach, and spring, I am glad that God led me to this servant of God, that roars from the bottom of the city below the red blood line.
Created by Mary E.W. Stephenson and submitted to Daily Press in the community section online.
Copyright © Mary E.W. Stephenson | Year Posted 2016
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Mary E.W. Stephenson Poem
I feel him there all day and night.
In my dreams, he speaks to me and makes my burden light.
His voice is like a soft and beautiful cymbal.
His turn of phrase makes my heart quick and my mind nimble.
His righteous utterance of confidence during the day,(sigh) shows me the way.
In retrospect, he was always there during my jejunity.
My father left me and my mother was not caring enough to love me.
He laid his finger on my heart and I felt his love.
His sweet and indomitable breath guided me to rise above.
I was abused by many antagonists and callous people over the years.
He fed me the fruit of his righteousness and chased away my fears.
He has made my life bountiful.
He has rectified my inefficient life so that I can become skillful.
In my winter solstice, I feel that time is nearing the fall of my withering and fermenting flesh to the earth.
My prayer is that my soul will bloom into immortal mirth.
Marchl 12, 2023
For the faithful be encouraged by John chapter 14 verse 18
Copyright © Mary E.W. Stephenson | Year Posted 2023
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Mary E.W. Stephenson Poem
Today, there are no busy little feet running through the house
with high pitched voices that threaten to pierce my solitude.
I made it clear to my lover and others with pending issues, this
is my day of interlude.
Today with a full glass of chardonnay I am breaking free.
Today I am chillin' with Debussy.
I inserted the piece to my earphone into my ear.
I turned up the volume loud enough to transport me to another
atmosphere.
The prelude moves me with the mastery of the free flowing rhythmic
patterns of Debussy Reverie.
My soul surrenders to the intoxicating arranged movements of
Arabesque
and Suite Bergamasque.
In my blissful state of mind, I conjured up an image of dark silhouette
doing pirouettes on the wall.
Nothing is so sweet and groovy as the affair I am having with
Debussy.
As a faithful mistress,I let the smooth composition of Clair de Lune
carry me to a white sandy beach, where I am mesmerized with the view
of the tide stealing the shore.
I am completely contented to linger there, but there is an intrusion of
another score.
I was soon lost to the beautiful and alluring rhythm of Trois
Nocturnes..
A consummated poetry.
I am of the same mind to the interpretation of a descending sun into
the sea somewhere in a South Eastern country.
Oh honey, please!
There is nothing so calming as Estampes
Memories of rain cascading down my window pane brings on a show.
Oh, how splendid is the flow.
I am attentive to the jubilant and stimulating pace of La Petit Negre,
and I am enlightened of the flavoring of the era of Ragtime.
A rendition of an era so sublime.
There is a tear in the time and the day has been devoured by the
evening.
Yet every minute of the day has been peachy,
chillin' with Debussy
copyright Labyrinth of life a compilation of poems and short stories
Copyright © Mary E.W. Stephenson | Year Posted 2016
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Mary E.W. Stephenson Poem
It was a good spot.
A spot near the bus stop.
A spot where on many days the air was filled with aroma
of fruits and vegetables from tables set up in front of markets.
A spot where a poignant odor from the fish market stretched the nostrils.
There on that corner, that favorable spot of hers where she spread
her blanket
And on that blanket, her well-crafted beads and basket do
heavily employed.
There on that corner, that favorable spot where one would have
no need to have the nose of a bloodhound to pick up the different
smells of people.
There on that corner, that favorable spot she smelled mineral odors
from shipyard workers, whose boots and uniforms were stain by oil.
There on that corner, that favorable spot there were strong musty,
and repugnant smells from dislocated drifters.
There on that corner, that favorable spot, were dusty smells of
the sawdust and paper mill.
It was a good spot, a most favorable spot where her body and soul
ravished the distinctive odors, and the many loud and
indistinguishable voices that were subaqueous to the object of
the sounds of the street.
It was that spot on that corner that whispering winds spoke to her
about in her dream.
It was a dream that was sent to her by Hashtali-
Achafa.
On that corner, that most favorable spot she offered up her praise to
Hashtali-Achafa and hawk out notice of her goods.
And Hashtali-Achafa blessed her with prosperity.
Copyright 2017 Looking At The Light From The Bottom Of The Lake
Inspired by a character from the book Halona, copyrighted 2004
Copyright © Mary E.W. Stephenson | Year Posted 2017
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