Poetry Anyone?

Pop Quiz: What famous poet appears in the image above?


I stole an idea from Delia and created a spinoff blog for my poetry. I've been meaning to open up a new place for that purpose alone, since some people aren't poetry buffs. If you're interested, you can mosie on over. If not, I'm content to sit and visit with you here where you're more comfortable. I might warn you first though, I sometimes tend to be brooding and dark over there.

Also, and I know I don't need to mention this to some of you, but all material is copyrighted, and therefore permission is required from me before reposting. You are welcome to link to those pages, though, if you like. Critiques are also welcome. Read with an open mind and remember that a lot of the things posted originally may have been written at a different time in my life and do not necessarily represent my thoughts, feelings, or actions at the time you are reading. It is a literary blog. And as with a lot of my writing, the elements of fiction are present at times. Unlike this real time, real life stuff you are reading now. But as we all know, our creative works are a reflection of us and our experiences in totality. So whatever you find, good or bad, it's all me.

Also, some of the poems have been posted here already. If you are a frequent reader of this blog, it may be a few days before you come across anything new. And for those regular readings who don't give a flip about literary and poetic waxings and wanings, I totally understand. I will not be offended in the slightest if you don't go by. As long as you keep coming to see me here, I'll be content. Smiles. I love my bloggy friends.

P. S. Sista Cala has posted a pic on her blog, Timeless Text Messages, but I rather prefer this one:

Grace

"If the novel has a theme it is that of survival. What makes some people able to come through catastrophes and others, apparently just as able, strong and brave, go under? It happens in every upheaval. Some people survive; others don't. What qualities are in those who fight their way through triumphantly that are lacking in those who go under...? I only know that the survivors used to call that quality 'gumption.' So I wrote about the people who had gumption and the people who didn't." Margaret Mitchell @ Macmillan 1936

This old Southern belle has traveled this week to the city of Margaret Mitchell's lore--Atlanta, Georgia. And although I didn't have time to do much except take in a Braves game and take in a couple of nice meals, I was able to confirm that the South has not lost its reputation for hospitality and quiet gentility. People are friendly, genuine, and accommodating. And yes, Virginia, there are still gentlemen who open doors for ladies.

Yet even under the beautiful skylight of Atlanta, there is a sad truth. There are people struggling to survive in her streets. Beggars lined the walkway into Turner Field. Homeless men spread their blankets out in droves in the doorway and on the steps of churches downtown. And somewhere in the darker alleyways I'm sure there were those who sold their bodies in order to survive. It makes one pause to wonder, what on earth happened to these unfortunate souls to cause them to lose, in Mitchell's words, their "gumption?"

It was hard not to throw money at each of the beggars lining the street. I averted my eyes and walked a little faster, clutching my purse to my side. I could not help them all. And in the world in which we live today, I suppose I was a bit too frightened to get within arm's reach. My dear Southern husband pulled me closer to his side and a couple steps farther from them. I think he even tossed some money into one elderly man's plate who was playing the harmonica for his supper. It was a wake up call to me. I live a sheltered life. And there for the grace of God, go I. And it made me appreciate some of the things I am blessed to have.

Like family and good friends. Like the ability to feed and clothe my child and send him to a good school. Like being able to sleep in a bed under a roof of a very nice home. Like having not one, but three nice vehicles and not having to walk everywhere I go. We take these luxuries for granted. And yet, life has no guarantees. One tragedy, and it could all disappear.

Maybe it is what Margaret Mitchell deemed to be "gumption," but I'm not so naive to realize that what I have in life is not because of anything really that I have done. There is a bigger force that comes into play. I don't deserve all I have. I am not better than anyone else. I am blessed beyond measure with unmerited favor. All Americans are afforded some measure of this--here in the land and lap of luxury. And although some might like to call it gumption or even fate, I know deep down it's neither. It's called "grace."

Nightsongs

Somewhere in the distance an old hoot owl is standing guard, his pale yellow eyes searching the darkness, his voice punctuating the soft summer night. Crickets are chirping in the undergrowth, and the bullfrogs are chiming in from across the pond. As if to answer, the trees rattle in the evening wind, and I shiver as I feel the night settling in. Another day has passed. Another sun has set.

I feel the cool dirt beneath my bare feet as I help the cedar swing along, it’s rusty chains creak out a rhythm to the symphony that surrounds me--that sweet soothing serenade of the night. The stars all sit and wink from above a few scattered clouds as the moon makes jewels of the crystal dewdrops on the grass.

My spaniel Maggie lies at my feet and licks her paws and pants. She smells something--a squirrel or rabbit and runs full speed across the drive, her nails clicking on the concrete. Her bark is quick and sharp and not at all afraid. A neighbor’s Labrador joins her in the pursuit, and the opera turns to a wild cacophony of yaps, growls, and snarls. The object of their disgruntlement harbored safely in a nearby tree looks down with beady eyes. Disinterested now, Maggie runs to me and licks my hand.

“Good girl,” I whisper. “Now settle down. Stay with Mama for awhile.”
A flash of light startles me as a brief flicker of lighting begins in a purple cloud above. The wind is picking up speed. A low rumble in the distance. Another streak of startling light, and then a fierce deafening clap of thunder causes me to jerk and Maggie to whimper. A drop of rain hits the awning over the swing, and then another, bouncing off the awning with muffled splats. A brief pause of silence ensues, and then a torrential downpour begins--drenching the dirt beneath my feet, soaking my pants legs, blowing the awning up and away. This is God meeting the needs of the thirsty soil. This is God watering his garden in the cool of the evening, blessing his handiwork--causing it to grow and flourish.

Eventually the brief storm abates, and the cadence slows to a steady , almost reverent rain. The earth soaks up the life-giving water. Maggie drinks from a nearby puddle as she shakes the droplets from her coat. I shake my soggy head in reply and laugh the laugh of a naughty child who has been dancing barefoot in the rain. These are the sounds of God. All of creation is His orchestra, and I am the awed and honored guest of this, His ever-changing, ever-beautiful, ever-so-holy masterpiece called life. Another day has passed. Another sun has set. And I am forever grateful to be one of the instruments of His will.