|About the poem: So I took my knowledge, written notes, and walked down to the pond. There, beneath the shade of a friendly oak tree, I took my refuge in his shadow. I rested in crook of roots grown gnarly---in caress of a timeless oak, and brought my pen to read again, in hopes that I could understand a thing that should be read twice.
The Hanging Oak
by Karen A. Hood (aka serenity)
|It was nice beneath the Oak-
all of my ducks came out to play.
Upon the pond, in paddled wild-
I read my notes and all they said.
As I grasped my highlight pen
to underscore, scored words again.
I heard a whispering from Oak
" spoke he, in breezes fluid.
"Tell me, are you,
are you, a Druid?"
"Excuse me?" was startled response.
"Are you Druid-or are you not?"
" I KNOW you do not speak to me."
I spoke aloud unto the tree.
The leaves then rattled in response.
"I know , I know that you are not."
"How can ye know what I do not?
Who tells my answer in response?"
"I am answers-evertold
yellow sun within-
I am the speckles
that make gold
Reflections of the sun made bold."
I am shining deep--chagrin,
The sparkled bold of gold tooth grin
I asked him then, "within roots time?
How long to sour in sweet wine?
Of all of your unpleasantries-
Tell me, what's the worst you've seen?"
The oak then shook and rattled leaves
And told me hatred unrelieved,
About a mankind hanging fruit
And bodies hanging, taking root
and eerie shadows on the ground
They leave an echo without sound
The legs that weave a dangling web,
In rock of sway of ever-ebb
Persistence in the rock of sway
Persistence in the ground of gray
"Why do you stand?
Why you not play?"
"I'm grounded." Spoke
the Oak, dismayed
A silhouette, in dawn of me-
And drawn? Forsake my blasphemy.
Never will I take my leave
The day an oak tree spoke to me.
|About the poem: Linda Bramblett is among my favorite poets at Passions. I have followed her postings from the first reading of her work. Read on, as it is quite evident why this is so. Her grace and artistry with the written word is an accomplishment that I can only aspire to. Here is what Linda had to say about her work and the following selection:
"These sonnets were inspired by the same rush of emotions that inspires any of my poetry ... in this case, it was a reawakening of hope and life after a long period of solitude and (though I had not before realized it) loneliness. It was a turbulent time in my life; a time of great change, and not all of it good.
I suppose it was a stubborn exercise of will to tame this proverbial whirlwind into the strictures of 'sonnet-hood'. Perhaps it helped me to put my feelings into a less frantic perspective. Perhaps it was simply my way of convincing myself that SOME portion of my runaway existence made sense, at least in the sense that it could be made into something beautiful and, thankfully, predictable.
It was once suggested that I "think in iambic pentameter..." I would like to state, for the record, that such is not the case. I do, however, have a great respect for structured poetry, and I have found that there is a great deal of satisfaction to be had in achieving, in form at least, what the "poetic greats" of the past that we so admire made possible with their wit and skill. It is but my privilege to aspire."
by Linda Bramblett
|A barren waste, a stretch of sterile soil,
A blemish on the spirit's solemn face:
So waxed my heart in wake of treason's toil,
For I had labeled it forbidden place.
No more would I entreat the luscious green
Which only served the serpent's form to hide;
No longer would provide pastoral scene
Where thorns of harsh betrayal might abide.
And yet, your winsome smile hath placed its seed
Without intent, upon that vacant earth,
And fed with quiet hopes and secret need,
A bud of rarest splendor found its birth.
Such tender grace doth blooming Love impart
When nurtured in the gardens of the heart!
If aught is truth in reaping what you sow,
Then I should find my soul an endless field
With seas of swaying blossoms all aglow,
For such a fertile hope hast thou revealed
In me, with but a brush of gracious hand,
That I suspect my cup shall overflow,
And spill my joy upon the thirsty land
To further urge my passion's seed to grow.
I shall in wonder stand, my soft regard
So rapt upon this wondrous verdancy,
And there remain, until my spirit's yard
Hath overgrown with you, and swallowed me.
A monument I'll stand, with blissful face,
Entwined in evergreen of Love's embrace.
|About the poem: My next selection is by Maree Russo. Her style of free verse, while sometimes "dark" is poignantly sad and graciously beautiful. She also has my full admiration, as free verse is a style that escapes me. Here is what Maree had to say about her poem:
"Well the poem basically says it all, that a person would live the rush of love, or that particular love, that is why the use of that metaphor, "the River". When you love someone you will put up with the high tides and low tides upstream or down. That a person will reside there like a water bird."
You, A River
by Maree Russo
fields and woodland
here I reside
Like a swan
the rise and fall
of you, I struggle to feed
and survive from
the banks of
I'll travel your waters
like a water-bird
I will live
A Certain Perfect Disarray
by Karen A. Hood (aka serenity)
|Apple-mint sprigs, tiny leaves
unfold to sun in ancient prayer--
Ever strives to meet perfection...
Lemon tree in bloom this year.
How perfectly ironic.
Blossoms fall--lemon drops--
Heady scent--seductive tonic--
a certain perfect disarray...
think I'll let it stay that way...
(Some things should be
just what they are.)
Broad-leaf fern, pine-apple sage,
rose-in-bud, "Society's Page,"
(she used to be all the rage.)
spears of iris by the pond
and just the slightest curve of palm
behind the waterfall--
White ginger standing tall
and pots of basil
hunger for planting
bringing out an ache in me--
ever wistful--ever wanting--
a shovel full of upturned earth
droplets of rain, quenching thirst.
"Gentle hands are needed here,"
said the breeze into my ear.
"Ssshhh..." It whispered me aware.