Carolyn’s Online Magazine
POETRY IN APRIL #4
Marcus, Carolyn’s 8-year-old grandson
Then comes merry May.
Jack likes June.
Jump in July
It’s Octopus’s October
November is neat
December not a dummy
A deep pan fryer
Left on the stove it caught fire
Oh, my goose is cooked.
The next poem will likely be in my novel. One character, Mary Googins des Isles Swett, is a 1790 to early 1800s Maine frontier resident who liked to write poetry. Thus the section of the book on her will include short poems.
The Mt. Desert peaks
Stretch beautifully skyward
Chain of protection.
MY SIDE OF THE VIGIL
Jane R. Lipsius, Carolyn’s sister
Keep this vigil with me love.
You understand I can’t last long
and all I want to say is
I love you
Can you feel me in your arms?
You’re holding my final breath tight inside me.
Protecting the breath that holds us together.
And I’m not afraid can you hear me?
I know you hear me
I can taste your tears
My whispers now a thought
Can you hear me?
The journey starts
you say sleep tight
don’t be afraid.
I hear you calling me
as you slowly disappear…
Walter J. Matesic, Beanery Writers Group
You bother me, in a strange way.
Not damaging, but the tears seem to flow.
And I recall all the tears
that were shed for you,
fell softly to the earth,
and were soaked up by the dry sand.
Julia Torockio, Beanery Writers Group
Life is what you make it. That’s what some people say.
Life is what you make it. Or is it?
Life has its ups and downs.
Life can be good or bad; sometimes happy, sometimes sad.
Sometimes we can choose what happens next in our lives, sometimes we can’t.
When we were younger, we didn’t always have choices on what happened in our lives, or to us;
yet sometimes we do have choices;
in fact, we usually do have choices.
When we are older and wiser we are supposed to choose to do the correct thing.
At least we are supposed to be wiser as we grow older.
Yet, still we don’t always choose so wisely.
Life is full of mistakes that we make:
although we usually pay the consequences for the mistakes that we make.
That is what life is all about!
Diana Reh Hunt, Beanery Writers Group
the butterfly sings
as wanderlust calls from afar.
She gathers herself,
as if dust from a shelf
and sets sail
cast upon currents from Ishtar.
WATCHING CORN GROW
Joan Patterson, Beanery Writers Group
The field so bare shows nothing now.
What wonders might the earth conceal?
What magic touch could soon reveal
The growth of seed with sun and rain
And skill of man with careful plow?
The days go by and seed will know
The reasons why the sprouting grows
With rain of gentle flow
The gentle rain is best, you know—
Just enough and seeds will sprout
But not too much to wash away the row.
My watching mind asks day by day,
Will tiny root now grasp its way
Down through the earth and find such food
As leaf will need to pierce the ground,
And feel the light and air around?
It happens now, my waiting ends
Some tiny leaves, in even rows
Are seen to send,
A pattern flowing,
Out across the field.
Falling raindrops, shining light,
So fast the reaching, greening sight—
It seems the night must also share
The right to claim a credit there.
No wonder I must stop and stare.
The stalks now stand so straight and high
And spears of green point to the sky
While leaves wave at the passers by.
Closely marching lines of green
In close formation can be seen
Up the hill and through the hollow
’Til my eye no longer follows
This unending sight, it seems.
Green spears have turned to fronds somehow
And now a mist of russet glows
Above the patch of green below.
As I watch to see what’s forming,
Small ears against the stems are clinging,
Sink in golden sprouts cascading
From the topmost ends.
Harvest time is almost here
And now I can inspect an ear
Of what has filled my days somehow
With wonder at the forces now
Presenting what can only be
A miracle for me to see.
The ear still green
The silk now brown,
I slowly pull leaf layers down
And star to see the golden pearls,
Like glowing treasures of my world.
Colors now are white and gray and chill,
Green growing time is past, up on the hill,
But corn crib full, soon I see
Warming up the sky for me
Through the cold and blowing air,
A vault of corn now gleaming there.