Cemeteries have always been a curious, comforting place to me. Even as a teenager, I remember slipping away to the peace of an ancient graveyard on a hill. Some years ago, we lived close to a large cemetery, and I regularly exercised by walking the streets between the graves. It was a quiet safe place, and I was fascinated to find a special section where only infants were buried.

“Oxymoron to a Still-Born Child” is my August gift in memory of our son.

Happy Birthday, Clay.

Oxymoron to a Still-Born Child

Teddy bears and Hot Wheel cars

sit beside grave markers,

sharing unmade memories.

Miniature pink roses and Babies-breath

rise from brass green vases,

an oxymoron to a still-born child.

A glass angel sparkles on a stick,

fragile wings of hope eternal.

As promised, my summer schedule is to gift one original poem to my readers per month, and I hope you will share my website with a friend. “No Handle” is a humorous poke at what we all fear – fear itself.

I hope you are enjoying slow porch swings, electric thunder showers, the magic of fireworks and the blessing of children laughing. I’m giving myself some leisure to write, but I promise to share more next month. Happy July!

No Handle

The wolf, he’s a knockin’,
knockin’ on my door.
“Go away – get!
Not buyin’ anymore.”

The wolf, he’s a knockin’,
thumpin’ on the door.
“Let me come in.”
Fear’s clawin’ at my spine.

He’s there a thumpin’,
thumpin’ on my heart.
“Go away – get!
There’s no handle anymore.”

He’s there a knockin’,
“Open-up fool,
Tis your soul’s Savior
knockin’ at your door.”

Dear Readers and Friends,

I will be cutting back this summer on my posts to make time to write, but – Worry Not! I promise to gift something at the beginning of each month and hope you will visit and share my web address with a friend.

My original poem below, Worry Not, is a reminder of God’s goodness. Have a great Summer.

Chris

Worry Not                                              

Worry not, for I am with you,
Playing hide and seek behind the rock.

In the cleft, nestled down
I hide from my anxieties.

Worry not, for I am with you,
beckons me from darkness.

Behind your shield, smiles abound
laughter through the shadows.

Worry not, come play with Me,
up on the rock for all to see.

I’m closing out April and National Poetry Month with two original poems. “Time” a subject that’s fluidity seems surreal to me, yet our days are marked by numbers stamped on the dial. Also, “Hymn of Praise,” an old poem written when children ran my roost.

I hope you enjoy. Next week I’ll share more original fiction.

Time

Time illusive
like morning fog
lays hazy, still –
a dense white lie.

Time flies
wings like eagles,
baby burbs
tomorrow’s photo.

Time immortal
Elysian corn
crop circles
knee high by July.

Time stamped
wrinkled faces
through the mirror
darkly, seen.

Time marches
minutes to hours
dated headstones
genetic sunsets.

Hymn of Praise

Sun ripened days
Bloom with thunderheads

Ozonous breezes
Spill over the top

Niagara falls
From the roof drops

Under the eves
my sanctuary.

A porch swing
Sways to the beat

A melody creaking
for the percussion

Flowers and grasses
Stand in offertory

Drinking the gift
After the toast

Children’s laughter
Mud toes oozing

Squeal and splash
A hymn of praise

For National Poetry Month, The Academy of American Poets www.poets.org celebrates with a National Poem in Your Pocket Day. This year it’s Thursday, April 21^st. The idea is to clip a poem, put it in your purse or pocket and share it with others at the grocery, library, or coffee shop!

My friend and artist, Howard Hardt, sent me the poem I shared last week, “Thorns In My Roses” attached to one of his original photos. It was so lovely, I’m reposting it, along with a couple other original poems.

Hope your taking advantage of your inner bard and jotting down a few of your own.

Poetic Injustice

On My Way

Brown spots step along the veins,
blue streaks on withered hands.

Daffodils fall from my grasp
float in the muddy river.

Brown spots step along the veins,
Once long fingers, knarred and bent.

Yellow dots bobbing, wave bye
on their way to the sea.

It’s National Poetry Month. I’m celebrating the occasion this week by posting several original poems. Hope these simple offerings inspire you to pick up your pen.

For more encouragement sign up for a prompt everyday from Robert Lee Brewer – Poetics Aside Blog – http://www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/poetic-asides

This first poem, I had to reach back to my old laptop and 1997…

Thorns in My Roses

God waits for no mom
And neither do children.

Evolving sleepless bundles
Scream reality,

While smiling dreamers
Lullaby serenity.

A Tigger bounce
From suckers to sex.

Winds change like clothes
Scattered on the bathroom floor.

Time lapse photography
Grows the budding rose.

Fast forward metamorphose
Unfurls God’s creation.

Cold Front 

May winds whip the Sycamore.
“No,” the tree shakes back and forth.
Large hand-sized leaves slap the North wind.
Twisting and hissing,
“It’s too late for a cold front.”

Gray dawn illuminates my page.
Chill spinning round bare ankles
despondency drips from my pen.
The normal arid Austin sun
obscured by Mother Nature’s joke.

“Not funny.” The cactus lay broken,
prickly pear spilled crying on the ground.
Knock-out roses bleed sympathy,
peddles rain red across the lawn.
Spring tears unsprung blur the glass.

Tomorrow 

knotted green shoots

burst yellow dessert smiles and

birds call morning – another day.

April is National Poetry Month!

To honor the event I’m posting a poem a week for the month of April.

Check out www.poets.org and have some fun.

The Laugh

Something was said.

Something funny.

I heard her laugh,

so clear the sound.

Mom? I turned to look,

that laugh—its ME.

That was funny.

I still recall

that laugh I heard.

A memory sweet

I turned to look, but

she’s been gone ten years.

This is a poem written when Leo Luke Marcello first introduced me to ekphrastic poetry. (A dramatic description of a work of art.)

This is for you, Dr. Marcello.

 The Bath

One hundred years
much has changed, but little
daughter’s foot, mother’s hand
washing the hard-spent play.

Towel-draped cherub
rests, nestled in her lap.
Pearl skin and raven hair,
reflections of genes well spent.

Delicate flowers
the pattern recurs,
wallpaper, pitcher, and carpet
blooms of life and growth.

Satin striped robe
same violet echoes
rim around the washbowl.
Repeats the circle.

Love without end,
grace freely given,
whispers the lullaby
washes eternal.

Recently, freezing rain shocked our south Louisiana sensibilities. As I sat warm in my living room, I watched some brown finches duck under a leafy green bush near the porch to escape the icy drizzle. While I pondered the small birds plight, white accumulated on the wood planks of our wharf. Mist rose from the chilled river in buffs that scurried across the ripples from the North Wind’s breath.
Twice in sunny weather, I’ve spotted a bald eagle taking flight from the trees on the far bank. It prompted me to write this poem:Continue Reading