Lady Little's Lunch

Noontime beamed
sunny plans by the bunch

as Lady Little declared: 

"I'll make their lunch!" 

Bursting watermelon sliced thin,

broccoli sprouts tucked in,

nip of rose in the water --

courtesy of Lady daughter. 

So, the men ate their rolled Swiss

'neath daisy-strewn bread

(with enough streams of mustard

to turn the head),

voicing heartfelt regard for Lady sweet,

eager preparer and bestower of treat.

Of Moment

Falls the hush . . .

for some mysteries won't be pierced: 

a rose

before the petals,

bud-in-waiting,

legacy in a

dewdrop --

words too nascent

to be uttered,

lest they drown.

"First, Do No Harm" (follow-up to "Beyond All Measure")

Supplementary links:

1)  "Has Anyone Asked the Fish?" ("Daisies and Vinegar" post, Thursday, 6/21/12)

2)  "Water (General Info and River Shannon)" - information tab of research links, continually updated*


Original:  "Beyond All Measure" (6/8/12)

Snapped

The same eyes, yet different. 

Had he always looked at her that way? 

Yes, and no,

but now

a jest, a nerve

beyond. 

And with that little extra

something,

he renounced her.

The Awaiting

The house was lit black --
not dim at all. 
He flung the door open
and clung to the wall,
flicking the light switch,
not daring to breathe --
feet glancing stairs
in key places to leave
the silence in place
and not rouse the awaiting
who, catlike, took pleasure
in furtive mouse-baiting. 
So he tiptoed, a feather
brushing stair upon stair,
inching downward to reach
his small room locked with care
to keep away trespassers
known and unknown
in this dark, brooding shell
which, tonight, would be "home."

Floral Fantasy

Rose water, pure,

scent cool and clear,

a dab of pink petal

behind the ear . . .

crimson rose on the hair

spritzed fine as dew --

lilac essence wafts in

for a bouquet anew.

Alive

Healing that heals

simply cannot be

assigned to a chair

on the periphery. 

No, no -- front and center

it must be free

to assume upon

necessity

when thoughts must be spoken

or actions taken,

when others exclaim,

"That's not you!"  (They're mistaken.) 

Healing that heals

will insert itself

into life's open spaces --

it won't hide on a shelf. 

For healing that heals

is a live thing, not dead;

no more huddles and tunnels --

shine the light, instead!

Always

Love there is and will be --
breezy voice of the sea
sings songs that thou
mayst peaceful be;
that rocks may hold fast
through breaking waves,
outlasting cool hearts
and scheming knaves;
water's arms reaching out
not to crush thee, but to buoy
and transport thee
to fields of joy.

Gypsy's Prayer

Let the wind whip my face

so the tears won't show --

let the sea shower droplets

as thick as snow --

as I tear past the craggy crests

wrapped in torn cape,

love's tapestry shredded

in hasty escape.   

Beyond All Measure*

*Dedicated to all who are trying to save the River Shannon.

Threads dangling,

God's river hanging

on the words of a committee --

flimsy plans, such a pity! 

If they'd only listen to the 

men of the river -- 

algal blooms to make one shiver

will spread with Nature's cry suppressed

as city men of means, well-dressed,

seize water from the country folk,

around their necks place Dublin's yoke,

and watch the Shannon bleed her treasure

beyond all man-made, reckless measure.

Links:
1)  River Shannon Protection Alliance: "Why we say the Dublin Region Water Supply Project is a bad scheme" (October 26, 2011) 
2)  The Midland Tribune - News (June 7, 2012) - "Councillors Opposed To Pumping Water To Dublin"

Sojourn

In sleepy sojourn

through midday heat,

carpet of grass

cooling my feet,

I wade through

sun's splash

of brilliant white --

impossible sight --

blinding blanket of light . . .

and rest myself there

in the branch-thatched glade,

savoring the romance

between sun and shade.

Old Shoes

I need to step back,
for I cannot breathe
or hear the wind
rustle through the trees. 
Memory's caught
on a branch somewhere,
and I lost my sleeve
miles and miles back there. 
My shoes are worn,
my head is hot
with all of those feelings
I lived and forgot. 
Nothing's familiar,
yet nothing's new;
no one has lied,
yet little rings true. 
I'm alive,
I can tell,
but I'm no longer certain
at what point memory
drew the curtain. 
So what did I leave
and what did I lose --
How long have I worn
these ratty old shoes?

The Magnificent Hair of D. Hooley

Orange, auburn, burnt sienna,

amber, golden, burnished henna,

parallel strains of lustrous flair --

those shimmering strands of D. Hooley's hair! 

Five or six I was, when I noticed the shine,

stripes swinging in tandem, uniformity divine;

for nary a hair ever swung out of place,

all swishing together above D. Hooley's face. 

No wallflower was he, but an agile sprite

with freckles galore sprinkled brown and bright;

and that hair, it flicked this way and that like a flame

as he cruised 'cross the playground to sprinting fame,

while the girls blushed in awe of the mischievous Hooley --

myself for his hair which was never unruly.

Deciphered

Her tests were long

and her riddles were cruel. 

He smiled and he bore it

like a carefree fool. 

But alone, he wept,

heart's river set free,

bursting out of its bounds --

mind tossed at sea.

She marked his work "F"

when it deserved a "B." 

She bestowed an "A"

when it called for a "C." 

She made no sense,

and he gave no sign

of love's fire burning

past reason or rhyme . . . 

while she gamely walked

a very fine line,

love twisting 'round

her heart like a vine. 

Into his eyes

she refused to look;

a declaration of love

his fear would not brook. 

'Round and 'round each spun

the other, insane

with love incognito,

consuming flame. 

Then, one fine day,

the spinning stopped: 

Into his arms,

mad schoolmistress dropped. 

He embraced her and asked,

"What 'grade' will this be?" 

She replied, looking stern,

"An 'F' or a 'D.'" 

With that, he knew

love had won the day --

and never again

did she give him an "A."