Falling

I'm falling down.
Back into the arms of a past that I've long forgotten.
Despite spiraling out of control
I cannot help but feel
Safe in the arms of gods
Who hold me close
Despite the imperfections that I cannot help
Spilling out of my very soul.

Monday Mutterings: Personal Poetry

I wrote this this past winter about the man I thought I was going to marry.  I ended up with a wonderful husband who is worth my worship and praise.

“Worshiping the Boy”

Holding onto
                       frivolous
promises made
                                               love
       underneath the
       gaze of the
                                         m o o n l i g h t
                drawn
                to her
                                        mind less banter
       for the child
       who is
                                       name less worry
                 for the girl
                 who lost her
                                                         self
worth less in the
              
eyes of the
                boy who
                              raped her
senses with
flippant oaths
                written
                      on
                          the
                              m o o n s t o n e.

I Feel it Coming

I woke up this morning and I could feel the change.  It's been lurking around me for the past week or so but now I felt the movement and the winds changing direction.  The humidity has left Long Island and the coolness of fall is finally here.  I went looking into my old notebooks after I woke up and found another Keats poem that I'd long forgotten about.  I thought it would be fitting to go with the seasonal changes I felt this morning. 

So, my readers, have you felt the changes yet?  Have you felt the slowing movements of our mother under your feet?  I feel her getting sleepy and ready for her winter's rest.  I feel the God growing inside of her.  I feel the final harvest coming.  I smell the beauty of fall surrounding me and I'm coming back to life.  I am a child of autumn.  I can't wait.

"Ode to Autumn" by John Keats

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cell.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,---
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir, the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Sunday Nature Musings

 From hiking in the Catskills

"Faery Songs" by John Keats

I.
Shed no tear! oh, shed no tear!
The flower will bloom another year.
Weep no more! oh, weep no more!
Young buds sleep in the root's white core.
Dry your eyes! oh, dry your eyes!
For I was taught in Paradise
To ease my breast of melodies,--
Shed no tear.

Overhead! look overhead!
'Mong the blossoms white and red--
Look up, look up! I flutter now
On this fresh pomegranate bough.
See me! 'tis this silvery bill
Ever cures the good man's ill.
Shed no tear! oh, shed no tear!
The flower will bloom another year.
Adieu, adieu -- I fly -- adieu!
I vanish in the heaven’s blue,--
Adieu, adieu!

II.
Ah! woe is me! poor silver-wing!
That I must chant thy lady's dirge,
And death to this fair haunt of spring,
Of melody, and streams of flowery verge,--
Poor silver-wing! ah! woe is me!
That I must see
These blossoms snow upon thy lady's pall!
Go, pretty page! and in her ear
Whisper that the hour is near!
Softly tell her not to fear
Such calm favonian burial!
Go, pretty page! and soothly tell,--
The blossoms hang by a melting spell,
And fall they must, ere a star wink thrice
Upon her closed eyes,
That now in vain are weeping their last tears,
At sweet life leaving, and these arbours green,--
Rich dowry from the Spirit of the Spheres,
Alas! poor Queen!

Some Poetry

I was out of town for the day for a bridal shower, so I won't be able to post anything substantial.  However I don't want to become a blogging slacker again.  So, I thought I might post one of my favorite poems.  I'm a huge fan of William Blake and this is by far my favorite piece of his.

"Mad Song"

The wild winds weep, And the night is a-cold; Come hither, Sleep, And my griefs enfold! . . . But lo! the morning peeps Over the eastern steeps, And the rustling beds of dawn The earth do scorn. Lo! to the vault Of pavèd heaven, With sorrow fraught, My notes are driven: They strike the ear of Night, Make weak the eyes of Day; They make mad the roaring winds, And with the tempests play, Like a fiend in a cloud, With howling woe After night I do crowd And with night will go; I turn my back to the east From whence comforts have increased; For light doth seize my brain With frantic pain.