The Lesson Mary Taught

When of the mysteries of life, I ask a cause,
As will a seeker reasoning for truth,
I find those born of love,
Invoke a pause in reverence of faith,
More strong, perhaps,
Than any purely conscious act of will.

And I see Mary, she who bore our Lord,
And who, when errand from our Lord
By Angel came,
Reached deep within her heart
To find the words
Which spoke with sainthood’s grace,
Her soul’s refrain.



 
“Behold the handmaid of the Lord,”
She humbly said.
“Be it to me according to the word,”
And from those words,
Which spoke of selfless will,
The Song of God received
A mortal birth.
Which thing He would be called upon to still,
As through the pain which racked Gethsemane,
He said as she, “Behold I do thy will.”

No mystery of life speaks more to me,
Than that which suffered God
To give His only Son in willing sacrifice
That I might live,
And I see Mary, Watching as He hung,
And doubt not, that she taught Him how to give.

The Monster and the Potato Heads

Mr. and Mrs. Potato head set out upon a lake.
They took a ham, a jar of jam and lots of wedding cake,
and oars, of course, for shoving off, and keeping them awake.

Mr. Potato Head, the groom, addressed his brand new wife,
“My Dear Charisse, let’s live in peace,  without an ounce of strife.”
He said no more for just off shore he saw to his surprise,
a giant monster’s head  arise, a head with yellow flaming eyes.
The monster’s nose was blowing smoke.  It seemed he was on fire.

Mrs. Potato head leaned out and sweetly did inquire, “Kind sir, I wonder if you can,
please use your nose to smoke our ham?” The monster grinned a frightful grin, then said,
“Good morning, Ma’am.”A slice of ham all smoked with jam would do us all some good.”
He swam up close beside the boat and there that monster stood.

His yellow eyes began to shift, but no one seemed to catch the drift.
They tucked a napkin in his chin,  gave him a fork and knife,
He smoked the ham, then gulped the man. He also ate his wife.
He ate the ham, the wedding cake, the candles and the wedding plate.

The plate did not go down so well.  His tummy started to rebel.
Something was going on inside, something that could not be denied.
The monster then became aware his lunch was coming up the stairs,
was coming up, not going down. The monster’s grin turned to a frown.
Yes! he was frightfully aware that lunch was coming up for air.
He felt it rising up and up.  He tried to gulp, but had no luck.

He did not care for things that spew that keep on gushing out of you
and so he did what he must do. He did not scream.  He did not shout.
Instead he sneezed.  Then from his snout, his luckless lunch came gushing out.
It came in one great huge,  “KERCHOO!”
The man, the cake, the ham, the plate the wife and yes, the candles too
came flying out in one great sneeze.

The monster then said, “If you please,
I offer my apologies. I’d like to start this scene anew.  What I just did I would undo.
Let’s start again. Let’s see if I, can be a little nicer guy. I’ll start out with a wedding song.
While you two eat, I’ll right my wrong. I’ll make a breeze, blow you along.”

And so he sang and then he blew until their home came into view.
He kissed those two Potato Heads, upon their lumpy, bumpy heads
and tucked them snugly in their beds
Then to his lair that monster went to dream about this strange event.

We make mistakes, we make amends and that is how this story ends.

There Is a Queen Inside of Me

There is a queen inside of me.

She’s longing to come out.

There is one too inside of you.

That’s what life’s all about.

To be a queen you have to be aglow

With love that’s true.

A light that starts deep in your heart

And from your eyes shines through.

Yes!  There’s a queen in you and me

As bright as any star,

And that’s the reason we are here;

To prove we really are

The daughters of a holy king,

Heirs to His crown and throne.

So every day walk tall and straight

And as a queen be known.

Moltings

 

Do groveling caterpillars mourn that they

must quit the nibbled leaf to soar aloft?

When they exchange  earth’s pleasures and displays

for airy ones, are silken wings with soft

translucent hues lamented?  Is the shell   

of chrysalis yet hungered for?  The sweet

Perfumes and honeyed nectars of the bells

from which they sip, do they these dainties greet

with proud disdain?  Do they call “fond” the hours

where they on muddy sticks did daily plod

ingesting dust?  Unthinkable! The flowers,

on whose sweet, fragrant petals they have trod

unfolded brave new worlds to butterflies,

and honored them as monarchs of the skies.

 

The little child, who lives in worlds of toys

and merry games, imagines not a far,

far better world than that on which his joys

and pleasures rest. His worn and rusting car,

the wooly bear that comforts him in rest,

are all in all; and though he crawls beside

them on his knees, they seem to him the best

Of earthly fare.  His dimpled smiles grow wide

for these dear friends, yet time will come when he

will rise from them and stand erect, explore

expanding scenes, nor turn aside to be

a child again. Instead, with hope for more

and better things, he’ll rise and walk.  The dead,

I think, faint not for moltings they have shed.  

On Friends

On Friends

They are our friends whose presence comforts us,

whose expectations are not limited

by narrowness of heart, nor by disgust.

With them, no anguish is prohibited

from being shared, nor do they care to bring

to bear by force of will their views on life.

Their words shed light without intrusive means.

All their conclusions come without a knife,

for they are kind.  In patience they defer

to time, well knowing that with passing days

and abstinence of light, we shall prefer

pure conscience, and the wisdom of true ways.

They are a rod, which does not bend, but guides.

A stay of constancy through ebbing tides.

Who are the Poets?

Who Are the Poets?

Having addressed the question of Why Poetry?  I would like to explore the equally compelling question of Who are the poets?   To me, poets are society’s truth seekers.  They have parabolic minds which explore questions like the meaning of existence, the relationship between God and man,  the language of nature, and the essence of wisdom intuited. The poets, having explored these questions, have reached out to share their insights with the rest of us.
The following are some of my favorite poets and their definitions of poetry:
1- Poetry is shared experience. Walt Whitman
2- Poetry is an outpouring of emotion recollected in a moment of tranquility. William Wordsworth
3- Poetry is something that begins in delight and ends in wisdom. Robert Frost
4- Poetry is a simple explanation for a complicated emotion.  Mark Strand
5- Poetry is the art of uniting pleasure with truth, by calling imagination to the help of reason.” Samuel  Johnson.
6- The poet’s eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;
And as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen
Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name.  William Shakespeare
7- Poetry is comprised of three things: Intellect, taste and moral sense.  Intellect deals with Truth. Taste deals with Beauty.  Moral sense deals with Duty.  The end of poetry is music since the comprehension of sweet sound is our most indefinite conception.  Music, when combined with a pleasurable idea, is poetry. Edgar Allen Poe
8- A poet is one who has penetrated to the sacred mystery of the universe, a prophet who will communicate God’s truth to men.  Thomas Carlyle

As a footnote to Carlyle’s definition, I would like to suggest that it is not enough to “penetrate the mystery of the universe and communicate God’s will to man.” Living God’s
will is equally necessary.  There are persons whose lives have embodied the virtues of the written word. Through them the word has been made flesh and dwelt among us.  Christ is the only person who has done this perfectly, but there are others who have done well. In expanding the parameters of poets to include those whose lives have been poetic, I hope to make it clear that this  Poetry for the Soul blog is not just about written poetry, it is also about life.  Only when the truths of poetic insight are personified by the person who intuited them and wrote them, can they be fully understood.  The virtues of Integrity, Reverence, Excellence, Action, Charity, Hope, Order, Unity, and Truth are delineated in the following poem:

I Reach Out

With integrity of heart I reach out as did Ghandi
with a pure and fervent fast to gain liberty
and the statement I shall make is that one man’s effort
to be brave and strong and free can affect the course of men and history.

I’ll show reverence for mankind as did Mother Teresa,
with her ears that heard and her heart that understood,
as she helped the poor, her loving words appeased them,
and affirmed her motherhood, for she saw in them the things that made them good.

For true excellence of mind, I recall Helen Keller,
reaching out of darkness to embrace the light,
and the knowledge I shall gain, I shall give to others;
to the deaf, the mute, the blind, and to seekers after truth through all mankind.

To gain action in my life, I recall Mr. Franklin,
with his list of virtues that became his creed;
and the virtues that he sought for I shall seek for,
and from grace, to grace proceed, till the gifts I hunger for are guaranteed.

For true charity of soul, I recall Mr. Lincoln
with his iron will and his velvet covered glove,
and the legacy I’ll leave shall be one of honor,
and of wisdom from above, for the binding of the whole with cords of love.

To achieve the gift of hope I shall stand as a beacon
with my torch held high as does Lady Liberty
and the standard I shall raise shall not fade, nor weaken,
but burn on through storms and blight, till the rising of the sun dispels the night.

To gain order in my life I recall Noah Webster
with his dictionary’s sequenced alphabet
as he thoughtfully, methodically proceeded
to pursue his daunting quest, he observed Persistent’s path moves step-by-step.

To unite discordant parts, I recall young Mandella
who beheld apartheid sundered black from white.
As he gathered valors that would heal his nation,
he became what unifies, for he claimed the power valor magnifies.

For a knowledge of the truth, I shall do as did Shakespeare
I shall pen my questions asking, “what ‘s to be?”
When the answer comes, l shall write it in a language
which bestirs epiphanies,  for I’d loose the  truth’s empowered  majesty.

Thus the mission of my life shall be one of mercy,
filled with words of hope and deeds of charity,
and the offerings I shall make I shall make with meekness,
and with sweet civility, for I’d wear the robes of true humility.

For the virtues of the pure, for the wisdom of the just,
for the compass of compassion, I reach out.

               

Why Poetry?

Poetry for the Soul, is a poetry blog  devoted to the power of poetry.  Poetry’s roots have through the centuries reached deep into the soil of the soul. Today its branches are spanning the continents, reaching out with nourishing fruit on which souls in near and distant lands may sup with equanimity.
In the days before mass communication, the wandering minstrel and the story-teller were in high demand.  They kept alive the glorious deeds of heroes as they sang for their suppers while entertaining castle audiences and tavern crowds with their lyrical ballads, and parabolic insights.
As you read this blog, you will note not only a variety of poetic styles, but also of lyrical stories: allegories, parables, myths, love stories, and patriotic tales. The need for engaging narratives is greater now  than ever before for they produce that cathartic experience which cleanses and clarifies as it entertains.
A drum roll or a clarinet break in a blues’ song often makes a deeper and more lasting impression than the combined instruments of a entire combo. Likewise, a single poem offers a more meaningful and moving experience than an entire book of poems. If, in this collection of sonnets, odes, and lyrical narratives, you  find a poem or selection of poems that are so compelling as to be held in remembrance, the author’s hope of creating a literary fountain to which souls, hungering for power of the word can go for refreshment, will have been fulfilled.
Before introducing the first poem in the collection, let me express through the medium of an incomplete Shakespearean sonnet,  my purpose in writing poetry.

“I write to know that I am not alone;
that when I hunger for a word or phrase,
some source beyond my own will make it known.
My constant quest is this; to raise,
by strength of faith, my soul’s capacities;
to stretch, to reach, and by degrees to gain,
through mercy’s grace, increased sagacities.
Unlike the runner, who would run till pain
has grappled him, my mind will run until
the race is done.  No quitting till epiphany has come.”  

Epiphanies, to me are the objective of any poetic exercise.  I have left unfinished many poetic journeys which failed to achieve that crowning summit of enlightenment. The objective of this blog is to take you with me only on those journeys which rewarded me with an increased understanding.  The others, and there are many, have been relegated to the waste basket.
I invite you now to explore with me the definition of a friend for I have found in the poetic muses to whom I have petitioned for epiphanies, a more than casual fellowship.  I do not regard them as the Dead Poets, but as trusted confidantes worthy of the following tribute:

They are our friends, whose presence comforts us,
whose expectations are not limited
by narrowness of heart, nor by disgust.
With them, no anguish is prohibited
from being shared, nor do they care to bring
to bear by force of will, their views on life.
Their words shed light without intrusive means.
  All their conclusions come without a knife,
for they are kind. In patience they defer
to time, well knowing, that with passing days
and abstinence of light we shall prefer
pure conscience and the wisdom of true ways.
They are a rod, which does not bend, but guides;
a stay of constancy through ebbing tides.

I hasten to add that this tribute to the muses of poetry also applies to my parents, my husband, and my children, my teachers and leaders, and friends and neighbors.  They, like the muses, have recognized in my blots and edits and revisions,  the foot-steps of a  pilgrim whose awkward and halting quest for truth,  is best addressed with patience and long suffering.