Category Archives: Poetry

Dusk: Doi Sutthep

Below is a poem set to the same style as Sara Teasdale’s  Sunset: St. Louis  

 

Hushed in the still gray fog of July rains

When humanity teems below in wild chatter

How many times have I seen my eastern mountain

Dream by her city.

 

High and still, shrouded in fathomless mist

That feints and flickers in a fickle ballet

Beneath muted sky she stands silent and strong

In lengthening shadows.

 

And when the light from the western sun breaks through

In soldered bars of gold and bronzed creation

Striking the clouds, my mountain still stands shining

In green and gold glory.

 

But I love my mountain most in rainy haze

When the gray rains come furtive and silent at dusk

And the lights blink on, gleaming through mist as my mountain strong

Dreams by her city.

-July 2017

 

Child That Never Really Was Mine 2

It’s now close to two years that I saw him last. Be was my first student at Wisdom Tree Home, and the one that left the most lasting imprint on my heart. I stumbled across a picture of him yesterday and floods of memories came back. Here is a poem I posted two years ago of him. I felt it would be appropriate to post it again.

*************

I miss you, I miss you, child of my heart

(Child that never really was mine)

Eyes so deep you’d think you’d drown

Drown in those tears of salty brine.

But child, child, I miss those hands

Brown and small that clung to my own

Clung to my hands and held to my heart

But now I hold alone.

************

The last time I saw you, child of mine

You looked so fragile and skinny and small

And I don’t know if I’ll ever again

Walk this way and hear you call

But child, child, I’ll never, forget

The way you hugged me that one last time

Child, I love you, no words can say

(Child that never really was mine).

-June 2015

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Respite

When the silence falls around me

At the ending of a day

Come read to me a simple thing

In a simple way

 

Please do not speak to me

Of promises to keep

Or of the many, many miles

To go before I sleep

 

Tell me not, my friend,

Of battles yet to fight

Of hands to lift, hearts to seek

And torches yet to light

 

Tomorrow I will rise again

In morning’s blood-red glow

Take my weapons in my hand

And go to  meet the foe

 

But oh, I am tired tonight

And the silence to me sings

Let me only rest and listen

To the words it brings.

 

For I am just a little speck

Beneath a raging sky

A sky that covers a billion souls

And comes to crush me where I lie

 

I know, I know of swords to bear

Lands to claim and forts to keep

But, I beg, let me stay a while

In these woods so lovely,

So lovely,

So lovely, dark and deep

-written on Doi Pui, February 2017

Lonely

 

Lonely in the nighttime when upon my bed

Still and prone I lie, and buried dreams

Come rushing to my mind like waves

Washing my resolve into a thousand streams

That flow a thousand different ways

Lonely for the comfort of another fellow dreamer

 

Lonely when the rainclouds slip beyond the mountain

I crest the hill and glimpse the glory

Of a thousand colors dancing wild

My spirit claims the beauty; the promise of the story

Flung and hung in rainwashed sky

Lonely for the spirit of another rainbow chaser

 

Lonely when the mountain vistas roll away

To touch the edge where land and sky are sewn

A thousand roads lie yet untraveled

A million hearts lie yet alone

In the endless valleys that sprawl below

Lonely for the heart of another mountain roamer

 

Awe

IMG_8570
Doi Pui, Chiang Mai, Thailand. Photo credit Lori Hershberger

Dreams come

Spinning on the fingers of shafted light,

Caught on the echoes of a far off song,

Whispering in the stillness of a midnight watch,

Bursting in the glory of a rising sun,

Or….

Calling on the expanse of a thousand

mountain ridges rolling, rolling, rolling

rolling, until mist, horizon, and sky

meet as one.

 

Lord, here am I.

Send me.

Soul Cry

I cannot.

Sometimes there are no words

To plumb the aching depths

Of this well

To hurl these cries to the heights

Where You are; and carry my call

To where You dwell.

 

I give up.

All fails me now to put to words

All this, this, inside of me and bridge

These miles apart

Between You and I, God; I cannot.

Tongue-tied, I sit. Oh, God, come down!

And listen to my heart!

 

A Insurrection of Words

My trusted words betray me

They’ve turned fickle and finicky,

Slippery to my grasp;

I reach for them to stand them in their proper place

But they slide from my hands like elusive lizards,

Leaving me stupidly holding the tail in my hands.

They refuse to stand still, climbing all over the page

Jumping like those quintuplet monkeys on the bed

Mocking me, laughing at my efforts to pin them into thoughts

Climbing out the window, taking any scrap of created thought with them.

I fight with them, wrestle with them,

Cajole, whisper, and shout.

 

But it all ends in a mess, and I find myself standing confused and distracted, words in chaotic heaps all over the room, furniture overturned in the madcap chase for the right verb, while the proper nouns huddle crying and hurt in the corner, the adverbs swing by their tails from the chandelier, and the adjectives string themselves out across the floor like spaghetti on steroids. And it is right, for how can words say what you want to say when your heart does not even understand what it wants to say?

Hurry

Hurry has no poetry.

It only rushes, muttering, grumbling.

Dashing here. Dashing there.

Nibbling. Never tasting.

Dabbling. Never diving.

Skittering on the surface.

No, hurry has no poetry.

 

For poetry lives in the soul of the rain,

That slowly comes, murmuring,

Mysteriously through the night;

Whispering, never shouting,

Trickling, never pounding,

Soaking to the heart of the earth.

For poetry lives in the heart of the rain.

August 19, 2016

Wretched Hope

I thought I quite strangled that hope

Twisted its neck with my own bare hands

Took a shovel and with a will

Buried it beneath time’s sands

 

But it’s come back now, I think

Creeping and rooting into my heart

Wrapping its hardy tentacles tight

Refusing to be torn apart

 

Many ways now, I’ve tried to starve it

And wrestled to keep it under control

But it reaches down its desperate roots

And drinks from the underflow of my soul

 

There was a time I tried stabbing it

With reality’s cruel knife

But the knife plunged through, into my heart

So I nursed it back to life

 

What to do with unwanted hope?

This hope that refuses to die?

Such a poor confused, wretched thing

That makes my heart cry.

 

August 6, 2012