OH CALEDONIA!
Beautiful hills of green
rise beyond the tranquil lake.
Unruffled nature spreading out
’til from our dream we awake.
Old loves lost, but found
again upon that shore.
A rose passes between lover’s hands
as in the days of yore.
Peace and harmony abound,
songs of morning doves around.
Oh Caledonia, will my heart
ever find that peaceful part?
==========================================================================
A Closet Artist
He told me I was bad. My adopted father said
no one would ever love me.
But I remember. I was very young
when he and I squished toes together
in the black goo of the minnow pond
Co-conspirators against mother’s disapproval.
No matter she was right. Polio still swam
in muddy waters then.
We wiggled our toes anyway.
——-
He didn’t like my music. Kicked the TV playing
Don Giovanni as if Mozart were a mortal offense.
But sneaked in to my recitals. Sat in the back.
And why read so many books? My favorite joy.
A waste of time, he said. But in later years I found
a journal, poetry he wrote for mother, and writings about me
and drawings. Horses running. Lightning in the mountains.
Electricity and equine snorting nostrils. Emotions
from a closet artist in a country boy’s skin.
——-
Now when I recall disapproving voices
in my ear, bad memories, I try to sense
the creative soul who may have lived
underneath that veneer. Disdain for artistic life
just an armor plate. Why hide away and not live
it out? He was Irish after all. Could have followed
Yeats and Joyce and what’s more dear to the heart
of an Irishman than his horse?
He should have been singing out loud.
Not stifling the songs of his heart and mine.
==========================================================================
WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH ME
by Carolyn Donnell (Illustration by Betty Auchard)
Stop dragging your shirt-sleeves on the ground
and stand up straight and don’t slump.
You just stand there like a frump
swinging your arms, not raising them high,
like you’re supposed to do.
What’s the matter with you?
——-
Why aren’t you wearing yellow and red?
This time of the year our colors are bold.
Your brothers and sisters do what they’re told,
Why can’t you act like the rest of us,
like you’re supposed to do?
What’s the matter with you?
——-
We shortened you sleeves, but you put them back.
We even tried painting you red and brown
but you’re still green, making rustling sounds.
You have to be different from everyone else,
not like you’re supposed to do.
What’s the matter with you?
——-
Why won’t you try to be like us?
Why do you always say you can’t?
No one will ever want you like that.
You will never have any friends,
like you’re supposed to do.
What’s the matter with you?
——-
A woodsman walking the forest one day
spotted the strange looking crop.
Why, he asked, would someone chop
and hack a willow tree like this?
That’s not what they’re supposed to do.
I’d ask them, what’s the matter with you?
——-
A willow? The little tree thought on the words.
Is that what I am? Not an oak?
It’s no wonder that I feel choked.
Why didn’t anyone tell me before?
That’s what they’re supposed to do.
Not say, what’s the matter with you.
——-
I don’t know what a willow tree is.
There are no others like me around.
Where I came from might never be found.
But I can stop trying to be an oak.
That’s not what I’m supposed to be.
There is nothing the matter with me.
==========================================================================
Holy Ground
This is Holy Ground,
You have desecrated
our Holy shrines.
Words said throughout the ages
to excuse Mankind’s warring
and destructive ways.
But what is Holy Ground?
Where battles were fought,
or won or lost?
What is a holy shrine?
Where a person was born,
or lived, or died?
Is Holy Ground a man made thing?
Or is it forests, mountains
and teeming seas?
Look at the universe far and wide.
Where else can mankind live?
Nowhere we have found.
Our precious blue planet,
humanity’s only Holy Ground,
is all we have.
How much more death, war,
and destruction has to come
before we learn?
Will we reach out to one another,
to rescue, to preserve this,
our solitary refuge?
Or will we persist in slaughtering
people, animals, plants,
and lose the true Holy Ground?
We can preserve this rare and shining orb.
Or piece by piece destroy,
our blue and living Earth.
Time grows shorter every hour.
Leaving us with less and less.
What will you do?
Today
==================================================================
SLAVIC EYES
Figure 1 Drawing by Betty Auchard
Her hair is blonde.
Her skin is fair.
Her sparkling eyes,
a sky blue pair.
——-
Yes, she’s a Swede
you say. For sure,
or at the least
an English girl.
——-
You think you’re right.
And most would be.
A closer look, though
and you’ll see.
——-
Those eyes of hers,
they may be blue.
But that long shape,
West never knew.
——-
It’s seen on faces
farther East,
Where broad and darker
are most cheeks.
——-
So somewhere back
in this girl’s past,
there was a one
unlike her caste.
——-
Her great, great gran,
or hers before,
had Slavic eyes come
through the door.
=====================================================================
TIMELESS TEAR
I sat upon a grassy hill, beneath a spreading oak
and watched as autumn sunlight turned green leaves to burnished gold.
——-
A bubbling stream ran at my feet, its soothing sounds did flow.
The cool clean air did fill my lungs, refreshing flesh and soul.
——-
A crackling in the brush did cause the reverie to end.
My eyes sought out the noise’s source and spied the russet skin.
——-
The Lord of forest dark and deep did pause to view his realm.
He turned and contemplated me with head, imperial.
——-
I gazed into his sable eyes and saw there first, myself.
He showed me hunters with their guns, defaming rock and rill.
——-
I shed one tear, and as I stared into that regal orb,
I swear to you, I saw there too, a drop in his eye form.
——-
And for one timeless moment two united in that wood.
Our minds, our hearts, our souls did blend. At last, I understood.
——-
I heard a shot ring from the west. “Go, run the other way.”
I shouted, pointing to the east to try to aid escape.
——-
But sportsmen had their way today. Mere contest was the goal.
Those antlers, just a prize to place for viewing on a wall.
——-
I went to see that royal head, to pay my last respects.
For one brief instant, I did wish the hunter’s there instead.
========================================================================================
Arms of the Angel
by Carolyn Donnell
Listen to Sarah McLachlan’s Angel
In the arms of the angel
a line from a song
The hum of the music
rises to my tongue
whenever I see
gray-haired
bent ladies, wobbly
walkers crossing
at lights
insufficient time to catch the train
closed doors don’t wait, schedules to keep.
Guy in the wheelchair. Unwashed,feeble, maneuvering down
Main Street. To where?
Veteran of wars
sent to kill
returned home
to die untended.
Mothers with children
no home to keep.
Bankers’ golden balloon.
Others, no place to sleep.
Where are the families,
sons, daughters or friends?
Church and charity they say
but too often they pray,
“Thank you God, I’m not like them.”
Where is the angel for all of these?
Are angels that selective and few?
In the arms of the Angel
Do you have one?
Lucky you.
~
written 2009 after watching the homeless on North First in San Jose
================================================================================================
IF ONLY
If only
we could find
the wished for Balm of Gilead
the source of healing
flowing from the heart
of giving love.
Some say it’s church
the pope or cross
or fluttering white dove.
Others say go deep within
just breathe away
regrets of yesterday
or fears to come.
But looking at the world today
it seems that Gilead has fled
to some far flung stellar shore
and left us all alone.
If only.
==============================================================================================
SILENCED
It seems
this arm
has lost
its strength
to lift the
heavy
wood,
where
hand
can reach the
proper place, where
strings meet with ebony to
form melodic lines of grace.
Bow no longer strokes
the strings to flow
vibrations
to my ears
and back into my
heart. My viola’s silenced
now, no more to merge, to
coalesce with others’ notes and
beats and breaths. They create
the music now and I cannot
participate in making
sweet symphonic
sound
♪
========================================================================================
Ode to Lost Songs
My heart
aches,
even
more
than arm
smashed
when feet
betrayed
One minute whole
then next that fall
A loss not to be borne.
My longest love is gone
My never failing lover who sang
sonorous melodies in springtime
and too in winter’s gloom
I dream of you.
To hold you
once again
To have your wooden curves
Reverberate in resonance of bow
upon the strings. A melody that flowed
Like waves out upon the seas
Now ebbs away from me
Must I live on in pain
Without viola’s songs
to soothe my soul
again?
========================================================================================
TANGO
(From listening to a Yo Yo Ma CD)
Long first beat
Short two and three
Cello singing
Longingly
Starry night
Swaying trees
Clinging
Moving together
Pathos and joy
Passion and pain
Rhythms
Blending
Leading
Worlds away
Before It’s Too Late
to join in joy bodies
that should have come
together years ago
cues missed
desires not admitted
much less committed
dare we risk rejection now
worse to bare to lovers eyes
bodies that may not even work
blind to sight if need be then
come together, touch
before it really is too late
=================================================================================================
I Am Blue
I am blue.
I am the indigo ocean,
buoying majestic whales
in my salty hands,
swaying kelp into
schools of silver fins.
–
I am blue.
I am the clear azure sky,
carrying eagle’s wings
where others dare not go.
Rainbows arch above
after the storm.
–
I am blue.
I am the turquoise lagoon.
White foam on my waves.
Here the dolphins play.
Bare feet leave imprints
on white sands
–
I am blue.
I am the sparkling bright shine
of a grandchild’s smiling eyes
looking into mine.
Wonder and love reside.
All things are new.
================================================================================================
The Shostakovich 5th
Long winded
extended
blasts of brass
crescendo
to a climax
of thundering
tympani
continued swells
while frantic strings
scramble to ride
the waves
crashing
ebbing
gathering force
full blown typhoon
a Russian heart
forced to comply
to dictator’s wish
on the surface
but undertow
secret flow
rises to wash
away the pain
telling tales
to the ear
one that knows
how to hear
I rise to cheer
and beg to heal
my broken arm
so I can sit again
and play viola
in the Shostakovich 5th.
.
Дмитрий Дмитриевич Шостакович
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ogJFXqYEYd8 Bernstein NYPO, 1979
.
=================================================================================================
MOSAICS
by Carolyn Donnell
My grandmother was a MacBride.
The son of Bride. See Bride. Gaelic. From Brighid, a hostage, pledge, or security. The son of Bridget. Cormac – Archbishop of Cashel – in his glossary, defines Brighid as “fiery dart”, and says that it was the name of the Muse who was believed to preside over poetry, in pagan times, in Ireland.
This is dedicated to all of us. Some day I am going to paint the poem.
MOSAICS
by Carolyn Donnell
I hear your sweet tales of family life
and think of ours with all its strife.
Does everyone else have a rosy past?
Or is it seen through a cloud or behind a mask?
.
Well, I’m sorry if my stories are sad.
If good guys don’t win or some outcomes are bad.
But that’s the truth, so what should I do
with our broken lives, the pieces askew?
.
I could sweep them all under a rug,
pretend they don’t exist or take a drug.
Or grovel on them ’til I’m black and blue.
I know a lot of people who do.
.
Or, I can gather the bits of glass
and make a mosaic of our pasts.
Find beauty somewhere in each cracked old vase.
And value. I think that choice is the best.
.
Ruby reds for those valiant hearts,
deflecting harm with fiery darts.
Rich emerald green for all of those
whose souls held on throughout nights of woes.
.
Brown, like the earth for all who stayed true.
Add shimmering shards of topaz blue.
The color of sky over our head
gives hope for life we won’t have to dread.
.
Please don’t forget yellow, not by half.
That light-hearted color reminds us to laugh.
To bind it together we use even black,
dark side, the color of tar or thatch.
.
With these pieces both broken and torn
we come together and cause to form
a stained glass window so that all might find
beauty in even the least of light.
.
©April 2004 Revised Sept. 2005
.
===============================================================================================
I like to play Loreena McKinnett Mists of Avalon-The Mystic’s Dream when I read this.
Boudicca’s Daughters
I lay among the dead and dying.
Slaughter fell upon us all.
Extinction was the Roman’s hope.
Our tribe was to be ever gone
-.
Our high priest stood on treeless hill.
There upon his shaven head
were magic tattoos swirling round,
seen in early morning mist.
–
He called to me with high pitched wail.
A sound that only I could hear.
The lightning flashed and I arose.
Alone, I stood and walked to him.
–
Soldiers stalked the bodies near,
stabbing those who still drew breath.
I walked unseen by steel and sword
and lived again to carry on.
–
Two thousand years have passed away.
The soldiers’ slaughter was for naught.
For still upon that moonlit moor,
to this day my daughters walk.
.
==========================================================================================
Just Enough of a Reminder
The road ends just behind
long rows of upper yuppie houses
cattle graze on hills so verdant green you’d swear
you were in Erin’s land instead of south San Jose
where still some fields grow ruby red fruit shocking
pink flowered cherries can be picked from the trees
mist like dragon’s breath from long lost Avalon
coats the mountainside sliding to valleys below
apricots then follow
popcorn blossoms
a few acres left
here and there
just enough
reminder of
what the valley
must have been
when it was full
orchards instead of
sprawling shoeboxes
=================================================================================================
Stolen Soul
I went up into the hills
for only half a day.
I watched mist rise
behind green mountains,
winding down
to rocky creeks below.
–
I listened to quiet breezes
waft through trees and grass.
I felt the swell of dreams,
ideas, desires.
New understanding
of the world was rising.
–
I came back down to my old house,
I can’t call it home.
Noise, pollution,
cacophony in the valley
stole the peace in less time
than it took to gain.
–
A hundred cars if there was one
and curs-ed motorcycles
spew their noise and fumes
through my open window,
Both asphyxiating body
and stealing soul.
–
The neighbors screaming all the time,
add to all the stress.
They can’t ever seem to find
a moment’s peace.
But I don’t really wonder why.
I already know.
–
When can I go back uphill,
to that sweet green retreat?
Could I live there,
pitch a tent among the trees,
or just go for a walk?
I know it won’t be for me
a day too soon.
=================================================================================================
WHERE IS THE GREEN?
My heart is lonely for a tree,
a lawn that flows down green and gray
to a stony brook,
a meadow of grass and flowers
with deepening woods behind.
–
A place to walk
in solitary contemplation
the sights and sounds
obliterated here by urban noise
and polluted crowding.
–
Free from the roaring whoosh
of cars racing by,
motorcycles,
rock music cacophony,
loud voices,
outside after midnight.
–
Where is the cooing of the doves,
the chatter of the squirrels,
the lark’s song floating
on a clean river breeze,
the rustle of fresh green leaves?
–
Oh to live outside of sardine cans,
these cardboard shoeboxes
we have to call home.
Even the howl of a mountain lion
in a backyard tree
would be better than this.
=================================================================================================
[…] } More Loreena McKinnett. I like to read my poem, Boudicca’s Daughters, to the beginning refrains of this. (See my poetry […]
The two together are magical!
Thanks!
Now how much do you think it would cost to get rights to that theme- tidbit if I wanted to put it on a CD of my own? 😦
These are really good poems Carolyn.
I love the line ‘upper yuppie houses’.
I didn’t even come in 30th in a Santa Clara Poets contest with it though.
It’s about Blossom Valley here in San Jose.
[…] https://carolyndonnell.wordpress.com/writing/poetry/ […]