malaise
discontent
birds unfed
feasting table
unladen
flowing on the lawn
that grows up through our grief
that spills
and trickles down
feeding roots
and thoughts as yet
unseen
flowers of spring
petals plucked clean again to float
off on the wind
of desire and need
–by Elisabeth Connelley
59.
Like a cloud on the brow of a mountain
When the sun in his glory doth rise;
Like the spray of the far-falling fountain
That ascendeth so swift toward the skies
Like the infant’s gay laugh–like the blush
On the virgin’s soft cheek–like the flush
Of the floweret that withers anon
Is the year; Yea! the year that is gone
For the cloud it hath vanished away
Dispersed by the power of the sun
And dissolved in the air is the spray
E’re the blue heights of heaven it had won;
And now transient the laugh of the child
And the blush on the virgin’s soft cheek
And the flower is the beauty despoiled
E’re another bright morning can break.
Like such is the year; it has wings
That bore it with swiftness away
And though round it our memory clings
Ah! we cannot ritard it one day!
It is gone O my soul! It is gone
Its months, weeks and days every one.
Now I turn to the fresh coming year.
Shall wild Hope mount her chariot again?
And rush onward with reckless career?
And shall Fancy’s bright pictures so vain
Me deceive as may have done before?
Strange delusions! I fear ye and strive
You to cast from my soul evermore;
To escape earth’s enchantments and live
In the bondage of truth; for the true
Is the pathway, though weary and sad
And so darksome and dreary to view
That leads up to the world of the glad.
O loved Hope that hath recreant been.
Through the year and the years that are past
Let my chariot wheels turn where is seen
The bright gate of glory at last.
January 1, 1841
Thomas Cole’s Poetry
True Lies
Be careful following
Where others have gone before.
In the forest once
I took a track;
It looked well beaten
As if often used.
But it became difficult,
Branches crossed it low
And I slowly realised
It was made by creatures
In whose veins
No human blood flowed.
But I held to it
Becoming more fearful
With each step I took,
Unable to return.
The path held me
Until edging a precipice
It ended in thorns.
I stood there on the edge
Gazing at a fallen tree below,
Long-dead, moss covered,
Splayed out like a corpse fallen
And thought a wrong step now
And I will join it.
Only by an effort of will
Could I climb the slope
To safety and a true path.
Beware truths apparent,
They may be lies in disguise…
© Angela Grant (Kestrel) 28/12/2003
Finding the Key
It is bright day but here I sit
with darkness in my soul.
I seek freedom but always tie myself
to some place, some person,
some self-imprisonment.
Does this make sense? I think not.
What sense can nonsense make?
What hope can hopelessness provide?
I am split as a chestnut husk
splits falling from the tree
revealing nothing but strange confusion.
Enlightenment I seek
yet feel I comfort from the dark.
For what is hidden can reveal
a wealth of mystery beyond itself.
Layer beyond onion layer, lost in the seeking
of a centre impossibly deep.
What meaning can mystery reveal?
What cipher can disclose plain truth
without a key?
Shall the white mare pass
without me following?
She will stop if I ask her.
She has done so before.
Or shall I hawklike
simply hover and watch
and let another chance slip by
gone in an instant.
No, not this time.
When she passes I will call
and let her carry me
where she will.
Now is the time to take a chance,
grasp life to the full
and run with the wind
wherever it may blow.
At summer’s end let only harvest fall,
let me run on and seek that centre
that I have not yet found
or lose myself in never-ending spirals
knowing that a time will come
outside time itself
where all mysteries will be resolved,
all conjunctions joined,
all solutions found
and the end only disclose
another new beginning…
Elisa's Spot 