DEPARTURE
The long grey ships, those mist grey ships,
They leave us here on shore
And all we have to keep us sane
Is what went on before
*
The night I spent in “Lizzie’s Room”
Will often come to mind.
The love we shared helps heal the pain
Of being left behind.
*
The fire was warm, the mattress firm,
The wine was fine and red
And flowers bloomed out in the rain
As we played in our bed.
*
The sun will rise, the moon will set,
Each day the tides will turn
I’ll watch the opening of the bay
And the grey ships will return.
6/9/88
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DRIFTWOOD VOICE
Centuries
I stood
rooted in mountain fastness,
bathed in river rapid spume
listened to the winds whisper the world’s wisdom
habitat for grouse, lynx, moss.
*
Days
I felt
the tools of man
cut, shape, lash, bolt.
I became less a tree, more a pier
moorage for weary mariners.
*
Decades
the tides rose
and fell around me.
Grateful steps returned less often.
I listened as the winds spoke of change, smelt of diesel
habitat for worm, rot, lichen.
*
Moons
I floated
free after my escape,
following whim of wind and current.
Seals frolicked under me,
Gulls rested on me.
*
One day
storm’s fury
pounded me high upon a spit of land.
I bleach in sun and wind,
listen to the winds whisper the world’s wisdom
habitat for ant, snake, poet.
8/19/90
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Dance naked
Embrace the sacred wind.
Your kiss drinks in my soul.
2/12/2002
Candles flicker,
Music rains languid mist
drenched with spring passion
2/13/2002
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Morning sun drenches the lingering mist
With flames of pink and mauve
Wind blows heady perfume through the languid summer day
Into the cool moonlit evening.
6/2004
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SAND BEACH LAKE
Trudge up to explore beautiful paradise of rock and pine
The flooded ocean rose,
Shaking mother goddess.
Forest dreams of power
Clouds kiss magnificent uplift
Windy sky shadows water.
Vast vision whispers
Cherish me. . .
9/2004
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She doesn’t make love to pleading eyes.
Only strong men need apply.
She wants eyes full of joy,
Eyes that meet hers in respect,
Eyes that are strong, and brave;
selfish enough to fulfill her by taking.
*
And they wonder
How can she wait underloved?
*
They don’t see that her
Taste for reality
Maker her fidelity
Necessity.
4/16/82
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SCHOOL WALL
Young ivy
Espaliers itself on
Ancient brick.
6/14/84
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FOR GREGOR
In spite of myself, I love.
Because I love, I live
Because I live, I believe.
Because I believe, I pray.
And I pray for you, because I love you. 1973
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PASS
Where skiers flew on wooden feathers,
Cows now browse among the heather.
__________________________________________
Streamlets rush down,
where, in glorious white winter,
An avalanche trod.
Grossglockner Pass, Austria 1970
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NOVEMBER REFLECTIONS
The sky is blue. What a measure of beauty is contained in these words. It rivals lapis lazuli and turquoise in its essence of blueness. Today the sky is the epitome of blue. Somewhere a little blue must have escaped form Plato’s ideal world and found its way into the sky here. There is not one cloud present to mar the perfection of the arc.
Fifteen inches of new snow have transformed the campus into a world of muffled hummocks and creaking footsteps. Every birch tree has wrapped itself in an ermine cloak of hoarfrost. They stretch their silvered arms upward in a never-ending supplication to the sun. The sun, awakening in incomparable splendor every morning, paints his worshippers in delicate shades of pink and gold. And tiny crystals of ice; young, short-lived members of the congregation, fall glittering to land undistinguished amidst a myriad of snowflakes.
The snowflakes are mysterious visitors from nowhere. But they are not unsubstantial. They cast a shadow in the streetlights that disappears suddenly, just as it comes into focus. The sound of snow falling is loud compared to the sound of a snowflake shadow disappearing.
The glory of the streetlight nights is nothings compared to the starlight nights. Then a million billion stars prick through the frigid air, twinkling friendlily. After the frigidity of their journey through the vacuum of the universe, the rays of light dance gratefully and merrily in the -30 degree air.
Their partners are the aurora, the undescribable aurora. Perhaps it is a million butterfly wings, tossed up to fall glittering through the moonlight. How merciful it is to have long winter nights. Beauty so abounds in the Arctic night it would be cruel to cut it short.
Fairbanks, Alaska 1974
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The mountains moved last night,
They got up and snuck in close.
At dawn, I saw them in my lap,
Painted gold and rose.
Today in physics we studied the refraction of light.
3/10/75
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ON THE MORNING OF APR. 20 —
The words have been spoken,
The distances are closed.
I am complete.
Those six little words
Ring through my mind;
Like a great Strauss waltz
or a Mozart minuet.
You are my Nimrod, my Bolero,
My second movement of the Eroica.
Your hand on my head
Brings peace, and I drink
of the Wine of Astonishment.
You said, “I’ll never shut you out again.”
And I felt that I had reached home at last.
1975
**************************************************
What’s that in your hair?
It’s a golden crown. . .for I feel queenly.
What’s that in your hair?
It’s a wreath of yellow roses. . .for I feel beautiful.
What’s that in your hair?
It’s a . . . piece of yarn.
What’s that in your eye?
It’s a tear for the prosaic.
4/28/75
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PUSSYWILLOWS
Furry grey things, soft
Against my lips and cheek,
You are the harbingers of spring —
Spreading your tokens about,
Irregardless of the ice and snow.
You bring hope to my being,
And unrest to my feet.
4/29/75
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What a perfect end to a day,
To stand and watch the clouds at play —
They are dressing up in the sun’s colors.
I feel my mind at peace.
5/30/75
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While he is here
It seems there is never enough time
To garner the contact I crave.
Somehow, talking doesn’t seem of paramount importance.
But when he is not here,
It seems that half the things
I wanted to say didn’t get said;
The thoughts I had stored up didn’t get communicated.
And I remember them all too late.
I content myself with enclosing them in letters.
And I still want —
The feel of his body next to mine,
The warmth that radiates from him,
That unique man-smell of him filling my air,
The sound of his heartbeat in my ear.
The I ask myself:
Will I ever stop wanting these things?
Will I ever be satisfied?
Will there ever be enough time to satisfy your mind?
Will I ever stop thinking?
11/8/75
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In life’s equation,
one plus one often
equals 3 or more.
6/20/80
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MT. ROBERTS
Life is like a string of beads. Just as you don’t build a precious necklace on rotten string, you don’t build a life on anything other than strong values.
I like to think my life is strung on a beautiful gold chain.
Some of the beads on my chain ar every ordinary glass and clay. There are some exotics, like odd African trade beads and lovely bits of shell. And there are days of pure gold.
But this day was a translucent gold-pink pearl of great price. As I look back at this day, it shimmers with a lustre that cannot ever dim. When I go back over the rosary of my life, my thoughts will pause over the loveliness of this day. And never with regret.
6/7/80
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She exults in the arms of her mate,
As he exquisitely strums the lute of her,
And focuses in.
*
She floats in an after-passion haze,
Feels joy, interest, excitement, alarm,
As she realizes:
*
That as one part of her lies sated,
Another face of her soul has turned
And desires anew.
*
Frustration
Follows after passion’s heady return,
Since her mind can always manage to project a face.
7/3/80
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I try to give expression
To the feelings this possession
Elicited from me.
*
I thought I was no stranger
To the watersheds and ranges
Of my passion.
*
Guided by a merciless
Attention to my sex,
I voyaged on discovery.
*
I’m home — I had my taste.
And now I find I crave
Another ration
7/31/81
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PYTHAGOREAN THEOREM
Musicians are like plants
Plants reach out towards the light,
Yearning for it like a lover.
Musicians reach out towards perfection,
To let the music through.
*
Plants create oxygen
For other living creatures.
Musicians create expression
Of all emotions.
*
We are necessary to life.
But we die without it.
Light and music —
11/14/81
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MORNINGS
9 a.m. All my chores are finished. The sun is beginning to come up.
The sky is greyblue, except for a rim of redgold, glowing in the south. Mountains silhouette themselves against the glowing wall of the sky.
Sometimes it seems the sun is not real; only the greyblue cold is real. Actually the rim of red and gold is a cut out pasted on the wall of cold.
As I walk to the mailbox, the air catches at the back of my throat. Frost forms on the hair that escapes from my hat, and on my eyelashes.
I know if I touch the metal with naked fingers I will pull them away burned. My gloves are warm, my breath falls in crystals to the ground.
The chickadees know the sun is real. As the rim brightens and broadens, they sing a paean to the day. They perch fluffed on my feeder, and eat busily.
Birches bend under the weight of snow. No winds stir them to relief. They are white lace against the icy wall of sky; when the sun touches them they blush pink and gold.
It is all silent, this earth. All peace, except for the birds reminding me that the sun, and life, is real and good.
It is 9 a.m. and 35 degrees below zero. Solstice has passed and each day increases by two minutes. Three hours plus two minutes of light.
12/28/81
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SEA SONG
Waiting. . . .waiting. . .
waves crash on the beach
a bird flies by
I hear you calling me to come
and see where my wandering feet will take me
take me to the heights
the sun rise colors. . . blowing wind . . .
moving grasses. . . blooming flowers take my eye as I wander
fog wraiths wind about my feet
I see a person in the distance; who could it be?
It must be my lover
excitement rises within me
I breathe the scented air
I feel your arms around me
and I wash away in the tides of love and rapture
as the sea moves around us and the sun kisses us we kiss each other and the wind blows away all sadness
no negativity allowed not in this beautiful essential place
time has no meaning
we walk forever hand in hand
7/30/2010
I just told someone awhile ago that his poetry was like a mystical puzzle where vision and sound, thought and feeling had somehow captivated a moment in the beholders eye. To be able to share and offer that same captivation,to be able to see, hear and feel the beholders moment is truly a blessing.
I say the same to you…
Not the exact words but close enough.
Quite lovely, Ellie.
ahh Ellie, How beautiful, inspiring and passionate, like you! thanks KJ
Sometimes I see a sight
Which fills my eyes
Sometimes I hear a song
Which fills my ears
Sometimes I read words
Which fill my mind
Sometimes I feel with another
And my soul is filled.
With your words I have seen and heard and read and felt. Thank you for sharing your soul with me.
Ærchie – off to create his own blog poetry page.
Dear Healing Hands:
I like your poetry and your blog. Your photos are spectacular!
I also write, am published online throughout the world, in a magazine called: Women On Top, (powersof2productions).
I report on all the non-visual and multi-media arts, from various perspectives. This magazine is for women 50+, and covers many fields of discipline.
I found your site through Dr. Elaine Medline, who is also a Mc.Gill Graduate.
I, and my publisher, Bonni Evans, are looking for input on reports on the writing of mature women all over the world. My next article will be the first of a two -part exploration on icons within the musical compositions of 50+ women composers.
I look forward to reading more of your work, and seeing more wonderful photos!
Thank you.
Diane Stevenson Schmolka
http://www.officiant-music.ca