Jen wanted me to post some poems she has been working on. She wasn't sure they were finished, but she feels writing poetry at this point would probably be too difficult for her so she has decided they are as finished as they will ever be.
The first one is a re-post of an earlier one followed by three more nature poems. The last two are poems that Jen was working on about her brain cancer.
Phases
The moon is New.
Impossible to see; shrouded in her inky cloak.
She allows this night alone for the stars to take center stage.
Shimmering, glittering against a backdrop of pure blackness.
The stars put on an impressive show – a celestial kaleidoscope of constellations –
Ursa Major, Cassiopeia, Perseus, the Pleiades…
Venus, Jupiter, Saturn and even Mars make their appearances as well,
tracking across the sky in their predictable orbits.
The entire Milky Way herself –
her graceful arms sweeping ever outward, twirling, whirling,
in this dance that has no end.
But the moon is a jealous lover.
And so, night by night, she will shed this dusky cloak,
like an astronomical strip tease.
It begins with a little slip of the cloak off of one shoulder.
Then, night by night, gradually revealing more of her
glowing, Gibbous beauty.
Night by night, until she becomes Full.
All fat and round and bright,
letting loose her siren song over the tides.
How boldly she shines in unashamed nakedness!
Then, night by night, she coyly pulls the cloak
back over her shoulder, ever so slowly.
And, night by night, she turns away, until we can see her no more.
She is New again.
Night by night, in this dance that has no end.
Desert Nocturne – midsummer, California
As the sun slowly melts
behind the mountains
dusk begins in the canyon.
A few insects begin tuning
for tonight’s performance.
By the time we can see the first stars
dot the sky above, the symphony is well underway.
Cricket wings play the strings;
while coyotes sing soprano.
The whole amphitheater of the canyon
is singing in perfect harmony
guided only by their circadian rhythms.
A barn owl, comes screeching by, joining the chorus.
Motherly great horned owls sing their lullaby-
gently who-whooing us to sleep.
And we humans sleep, to the music of the night
with smiles on our gratified faces.
Virginia Nocturne
October 3rd, and the fireflies have all gone home.
I am not seeing their light show on this damp night.
But hush, listen-
for the Virginia nights have such cricketry!
The background of the crickets is heard in three different tones.
First, the baritone saxy sound that grounds the orchestra
with the bassy back beat.
The second layer, is like a telephone ringing and ringing
picking up the midtones.
The third layer is an uplifting chirp, a cheery “hello.”
Like a piccolo, used for punctuation.
The leaves on the trees haven’t started to change color or fall.
The forest around us is dense—so lush!
Breezes that come through
tickle every leaf on every tree
and every drop of water adds another layer
to the music of the night.
I hear a lonely loon on the pond
calling out for a mate. But there is no reply.
His finale, as I drift off to sleep.
Ravens
As the stormcloud rises, so do the ravens.
From the valley floor they come;
They surf the air, like great waves,
swinging wing to tail, making crazy 8s in the sky.
They are black chaos.
Their cacophony fills the gloaming
With some impending magic.
The first fat splats of rain hit the ground.
The ravens settle on rooftops, in treetops,
on fence posts, on lampposts
and they are silent.
Then suddenly, and without a sound,
they scatter and are gone.
But here, in the mystical minds of men
our superstitions are stirring,
And we are silent.
We hold our bated breaths
and are waiting. . .
waiting …
waiting …
Tumbled
Into the rapids I fell.
I am tumbled against the boulders
with every turn of the river.
I try to breathe in the short moments
my head is out of the raging water,
but all I can do is cough.
I try to grasp onto a branch
that would pull me back to my “used to be,”
but there is no hope
my arms are broken on the stones
floppy, useless.
I can feel the current tugging on me,
forcing me downstream.
Another tumble through the racing, cold water.
I am spinning out of control in the deep, and dark.
The rapids mellow into a deep pool.
And I float on my back with my broken limbs hanging down,
voiceless, from the water
waiting for a rescue that may never come.
Beautifully Broken
I am beautiful.
And I am broken.
Today I am a kaleidoscope turning—
bits of fractured glass and light.
So beautiful; yet so broken.
What will I be tomorrow?
I can see myself
as a lightning struck tree
all alone on a rocky outcropping.
Still beautiful; with branches blackened and broken.
As a beautifully destructive ice storm --
encasing everything with a crystalline glaze.
Throwing prisms into the dawning sun.
I am in the complete safety of the chrysalis I build around myself,
trying to shed this cancer like an old skin
twisting and turning around, ready to be reborn
into something totally new.
I am reviving.
I am evolving.
I am living.
I am joy.
And I am beautiful.
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