Questions

London sky drama

Questions

    “Where did the time go?” we asked. 

The north wind answered, “It rushed by while you were busy doing other things.” 

        “And how did we not notice it was passing?” we puzzled. 

The south wind replied, “Perhaps the sun blinded you so you could no longer see.” 

         “Did any of us notice the days grew long and the nights shorter?” we wondered. 

The east wind smirked, “You focused so much on clouds that you missed the stars.”

         “Why must it come to an end so soon?” we questioned. 

The west wind whispered, “You’ve done what you must. Now it’s time to go.”

Photograph (c) 2015 by Harald Illsinger

Photograph (c) 2015 by Harald Illsinger

With kind thanks to photographer Harald Illsinger for allowing me to use this beautiful photograph of the gull in the morning sky. The top photograph was taken by me in London, 2015.
 

In Luxembourg Gardens, Paris

Chairs in Luxembourg Gardens, Paris by Mary Kendall

Chairs in Luxembourg Gardens, Paris by Mary Kendall

In Luxembourg Gardens, Paris     

A stairwell of shadows invites us to sit.
Empty chairs bask in the late spring sun,

Waiting for readers who choose to sit,
slipping into the borrowed lives of books.

Waiting for lovers to pull two chairs aside,
stealing time away from the world.

Waiting for an old man with a limping dog,
passing time away from his silent rooms.

Waiting for the widow who longs for the sun,
savoring the warmth like a delicate embrace.

Waiting for the disheveled girl who waits,
sipping a café crème with a guarded look.

Waiting for a businessman to eat his lunch,
savoring silence, no rumble of demands.

Waiting for the grandpère missing his children,
wondering what it is they do continents away.

Waiting for weary tourists who sit and rest,
whispering in languages you don’t speak.

Waiting for a tumble of clouds to sweep the sky
just as this sweet day slips into the waiting night.

Time passes.
People pass.
Memories pass.

Another day will come.

Frozen Moments

Frozen Moments (c) 2015 Harald Illsinger

                                             Frozen Moments (c) 2015 Harald Illsinger

FROZEN MOMENTS

It doesn’t matter that your words were shouted
In a peal of sparking anger, anger spewed
In moon-white flames tinged with flicks—
Sapphire blue and poppy red and yellow.

Burning so hot and fast, those thoughts
Consumed themselves and all
Nearby, including what remained
Of hope
For change…
Your change,
Your transformation.

And when the fire burned down,
All that was left were the ashes of your anger.

Small chars of memories…
Frozen moments of who you were…
Once—
Long Ago.

Unable to forgive—even yourself,
You are locked in the ice of stagnation,
The ice of inner struggle.

Frozen fire—
No thaw,
No shift,
No change.
No redemption.

Frozen
Moments
Forever.

old_pocket_watch_buried_1774093

Note: Many thanks as always to Harald Illsinger for the use of his exquisite photograph, Frozen Moments (c) 2015. His work always serves as such wonderful and unexpected inspiration.

Due North: A Winter Poem

Due North © 2014 by Isotell

Due North © 2014 by Iosatel

There are nights in the winter
once the leaves have fallen away,
when sometimes I wake in the dark,
hearing the distant, plaintive sound

of a single train a few miles away
as it crosses over a country road
or maybe it’s to warn off deer
that pause too long on the track.

The train travels due north,
and in the blackness of the night
the train’s dark sounding
brings back fragmented images
of my childhood life up north.

North, where winter’s silver skies
are layered in clouds most
of the year, and where snow
begins to fall early and deep.

North, where my family lived
in the rust belt of Lake Erie,
where strong winds raced across
the lake with bone-chilling cold.

The lake effect meant snowstorms
that went on for hours, even days
on end. Times when all of us gathered
together happily, knowing school
would be cancelled the next day.
Night was peaceful back then.

In the morning, we’d make our
way through the thigh high snow
and help shovel the walk, leaving
tall tunnels of snow on either side.

Our boots would crunch on frozen
snow, fingers painfully cold, but
that never stopped us from a snowball
fight or playing king of the mountain,
or sledding, tumbling, rolling in snow,

or making lovely snow angels
all over the yard. Those were the
carefree days of childhood, when
we didn’t worry about time or the
future or much of anything.

And for a while the thick snow
continued to fall, covering the tracks
of cars, birds and anything else
that dared to wander outside
on those interminable winter days.

Now, no longer in the north,
I lie in bed remembering such
simple times, times of being together
as we coasted down the snow hills,
all six of us tucked in tightly together

until halfway down when the toboggan
shifted and just after the pull to the left,
we capsized, all of us scattered down the hill,
laughter ringing out so loud as we fell,
each of us ready to give it a go again.

Tobagganing in the Snow

Tobagganing in the Snow

My thanks to the photographer, Iosatel, for use of the photograph, Due North, which appeared on his blog, The Obvious and the Hidden, 03/11/2014

Back to Edinburgh

Back to Edinburgh
 Here is my reading of the poem, Back to Edinburgh:
 

 

 Back to Edinburgh

We walk through the hidden streets of this city,
The second day of spring and the wind gusts hard.
People stop and wince, cupping their ears for warmth.
The news said blustery winds up to 25 mph,
And
it feels as if we might tumble down the street.

Looking for simple woolen hats to pull down
Over our frigid heads, we stop at a Royal Mile shop. 

I select gray, and you opt for black. I am grateful
That your good felt hat is safe back at the hotel.

The street is so rich in history that it feels as if
It could reach out and grab us by the arms,
Pulling us down a small wynd or narrow close
That has
 a story to share,

And in the late afternoon gloaming,
We might be wind swept and turned around
Into some other time.

It could happen you know.