A bright pansy peace

For my mother,
going home was always a chore:
she was embarrassed by her mother,
and the roots from which she sprung.
But for me, it was a time of wonder:
Bright pansies in the garden,
beneath a perfectly climbable magnolia tree;
the scent of gardenias,
the hum of insects' wings
chirring in the background,
the breeze lifting
white lace curtains in the window
to reveal the fat blue hydrangeas
slumbering just beyond
my rose-covered wallpaper --
a feast of color, scent, and sound
that sang through hot summer nights
punctured every quarter hour
by the reassuring toll
of my grandfather's wooden clock.
Peace.


* * *

This hallowed gate

Some days
I cannot see
the liveliness,
the greenery;
the sturdy brick,
the graceful lines,
the circular effect, the curves,
the spokes of my own internal wheel;
cannot imagine
the blacksmith's hammer,
pounding all those stiff metal rods
into gentle curls --
so reminiscent
of my daughter's golden locks --
But sink instead
into the darkness,
the great black hole that appears
when the inner light is not yet lit
to show the garden
that lies beyond
this hallowed gate.


* * *

Blessings of an active mind

When busy thoughts
like cherubs fly
across my brain
and stop to dip
their fingers
in a fount of blessings
and then tip and pour
the promise out;
a rush of hope and joy begins,
of possibilities and dreams,
and new imaginations:
a fount of inspiration forms
deep in my soul and overflows,
filling me with next, and then
and light and now
and wow!


* * *

The cutting edge of art

What do you see,
and how do you see it?
What childhood memories
color your perceptions;
what artistic sensibilities
make this pleasing
-- or hopelessly busy --
to your eyes?
Do you see weeds
needing to be mown down,
or waving fields
beneath a blue and cloudless sky,
or food for cows and sheep,
or feathers to tickle a sleeping friend,
or just the sharp edges,
the scrape of a million tiny blades
dividing us into you and me
wrong and right
then and now
togetherness,
and... gone. Just... gone.


* * *

The truth about beauty?

I used to think,
when I was just a child,
that anywhere I stood
there would be Art;
something beautiful
to see,
to touch,
to draw or paint
or merely to describe.
And now that I am grown
-- since it still seems to be true
that I see beauty everywhere I look --
I have to wonder
if I choose where I am
so that the truth may continue,
or if I see what I see
-- wherever I am --
because that childhood speculation
is,
in fact,
true.


* * *

Simple pleasures

So simple,
it was then;
to hop aboard;
to ride a plastic horse
and dream
of sailing across the prairies:
a happy suspension of disbelief,
a lift,
a quarter or two,
and we were off
to visit other lands
and other worlds;
to gallop across a feathered universe
of sky and sea, mountain and valley,
breathing unimagined air
and with each breath, a prayer
of joy, and hope, and wonder
until the music stops
and fantasy returns to a standstill.
Quiet descends -- and then the wails begin.
More, mama, more! More illusions, please!


* * *

Slowly Going Flat

What,
in the day's last light,
will you remember,
take with you?
Will it be the people you have known,
the faces you have touched,
the hearts you have broken
-- or mended...

Or will it be
the adventures of your youth,
the risks you took
and the brushes with greatness,
the crushes and the dreams
that now sit tucked up in your attic
or curled in your driveway
slowly
going
flat?

This poem was written for Carry on Tuesday, whose prompt this week is the opening words from Salman Rushdie's novel, The Enchantress of Florence: "In the day's last light..."

* * *