The Essence of Tommy

Blessed are the souls that sing;

A smile their song, laughter their words,

Whose hearts, though burdened, still take wing

Like radiant Sunbirds.

Though Life could sink them with its weight,

Or pinion them with care,

And rein them Earthbound, chained by Fate,

They much prefer the air.

In their bright, empyrean flight,

They carry us along,

And we, like tagtails, hang on tight –

Enchanted by their song.


Happy Easter,
Happy Holidays,
especially to all the "Blessed Souls". <3


 

LOSS

 

A tree came down in my front yard,

I’d never noticed it ‘til now,

Its rugged trunk, its ragged bough

Had kept the sun from shining hard.

It was this tree diffused the light,

Its limbs selecting out which beams

Should enter, in bright-ribbon streams,

Our fronted rooms, to light them right.

It served its purpose quietly –

Living, I never gave it aught

Except indifference, never thought,

But dying, made its mark on me.

 

 

This is a sketch of my son, Chip, age about 6.



 The Waterbed Sea

 

Melinda went to sleep in her waterbed,

(Not on it, but in it, is what I said,)

Took not a mask, not a snorkel nor fin,

Just a deep breath and she jumped right in.

 

//Swim, sweet Melinda,

Swim peacefully,

Down to the bottom

Of the Waterbed Sea. //

 

Down swam Melinda in the Waterbed Sea,

Past tiny Guppies and the Abalone,

Past pirate ships sunken long ago,

With pirate crews singing “Yo ho ho!”

 

Down where the Mollies and the Mullets play,

Down where the Minnows dart, and grasses sway,

Where Starfish twinkle in the Waterbed Sky,

With Mermaids singing her a lullaby.

 

And little Seahorses pulling little sea carts,

Filled with pretty flowers from the flower marts,

Showered her with petals, filling all the Sea

With Irises and Roses and Anemone.

 

Down past the bottom of the Wishing Wells,

Where all wishes go that one never tells,

There swam Melinda so contentedly,

Down to the bottom of the Waterbed Sea!

 

The Sea Lions roared, the Salmon spawned,

The Skate skated by, and the Oysters yawned,

The Porgies and Bass sang songs of The Deep,

And soon sweet Melinda would be fast asleep.

 

Down, down she floated to her Oyster bed,

With soft pink Sponges pillowing her head,

A seaweed blanket kept her nice and warm,

And all the Angel Fishes guarded her from harm.

 

//Sleep, sweet Melinda,

Sleep peacefully,

There at the bottom

Of the Waterbed Sea. //

 

This is actually a song, but you should count your lucky stars you can’t hear me singing it. ;)


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                 




Primavera

 

Streets paved with gold and angel-song

Seem right to me

When Earth goes wrong -

Elysium’s unspoiled delights

Can leaven sober-sided nights,

But when lace-whisperings of Spring

Publish their green-silk flowering

Then Heaven can wait -

Just let me be!

Earth gone right

Is Heaven enough for me.

 

The sketch is of my daughter, Chrissy, when she was about 5 years old.


 

DAVID

David ith my dentith,

He thaved my every tooth.

Too bad he drilled my gumth tho low,

Too bad my jawbone had to go,

Too bad my tongue got in the way

When he drilled on me yetherday -

But, David ith my dentith,

He thaved my every tooth,

And what a laugh we got when he

Gave me (quite acthidentally)

A total tonthilectomy –

(And billed me for it, too … tee hee)!

Yeth, David ith my dentith,
He thaved my every tooth!

He took off every bit of tar

And made them whiter white by far -

Hey! Wanna thee how great they are?

He thaved them

Over in that jar!

 

(I once wrote this about my dentist, David, and I gave him a copy.

Next time I saw him, this was hanging up on his wall.;)

 

The Night Garden

She comes at night in shadowplay

And bends to blooms along the way;

Gentian, Michaelmas and Rose

Strew her pathway,

Indigoes

Raise dark fingers to her light,

As does Alyssum, moonkissed, white.

A vesper sparrow softly sings

Its green-earth news of wildering things

That dwell in distant arbored rooms

Where Maidenmist and Plantain blooms

Then, just before Apollo wakes,

She spreads her mantle, and she makes

A bower of Dianthus sweeps

Where Proserpine, my lady, sleeps.

 

Bugged

Bee's in

Season

And the

Fleas 'n

Hornets

That bite -

Nit, gnat,

Midge, mite!

Lord what's

Happ'ning?

Oh, drats!

It's

Spring!

Little Teen, Who Clothes Thee?

                               (With apologies to William Blake)

 

  Little teen, who clothes thee?

                                                  Dost thou know who clothes  thee?

Pays the bills that let thee buy

Everything that meets thine eye,

Pre-washed denims, miles too tight,

Bean boots, tee shirts of delight,

Which all end up on the floor

Whilst thou goes collecting more?

                                                
                                                Little teen, who clothes thee?
                                                Dost thou know who clothes  thee?

                                                Little teen, I’ll tell thee –

Quit texting, I’ll tell thee -

He is called by thy name,

Not thy first, thy surname,

He is meek and he is mild,

But his name is not Rothschild;

When he sees thy latest bill,

Thee’ll know what’s meant by “Dressed to kill!”

Little teen, God help thee

To get a job to clothe thee!





 

Tattle Tale Snow

I see by the imprints;
The small weave and thrum,
That the gray squirrel
And sleek cat have come,
And I mean to follow -
Wherever they go -
In the feint silence
Of tattle tale snow.

 

Spring - won't be long now :)

The Blue Iris

They grew, those iris,
in our ragged little backyard in the city
when I was a young girl —
their gracefully cupped petals
and trailing falls
rising above most other growth nearby.
We called that yard "our garden",
but it was a wild affair:
moonseed tangling with tea roses for supremacy
along the derelict fence;
basil, marjoram and mint
in fragrant bandy
by our kitchen door;
varicolored morning glories
and scarlet four 0'clocks
riotously dividing up the day.
But it was the blue iris —
smelling so incredibly blue,
(or so it seemed to my young mind),
that have always lit my memory.
We never tended them,
fed or divided them,
as knowledgeable gardeners would —
we never knew we should,
yet, they grew for us
year after year.