Dad's Window
Dad always leaned to watch for us, no more shall the petals weep the dew, anxious if we were late, or standing in the summer fields so full of secrets he would not yield. In winter by the window sill, leaning against the sink watching the swallows soar or breezes in summer flying past the gate; And though we mocked him tenderly, no more will the moonbeams dance with his waves of such foolish care, The long way home would seem more safe because he waited there, his thoughts were all so full of us, he never could forget. And so I think that where he is must be a place of sheer delight shining upon his graven stone illuminating rays with his light, and he must be watching yet, waiting till we come home to him, anxious if we are late, Watching from Heaven’s window, Leaning upon the fountain at Heaven’s gate. Copyright © 1998 Sarah |
Holiday Spirits
Corn and privacy at Christmas time decked halls about granny’s clapboard shack of no shame enterprising should have been her middle name frisky ways brought on time-honored whiskey corn crops crossing valleys on top of moonshine hill where her legend became queen of the still nights sneaked by with limestone production tainting rocks purifying natural springwater life distinctive strife between the rivers flavor fetching mason jars of so much imagination to savor imbibed in this old timer’s recipe of timely holiday tradition amusing though granny always recalled vapors rover hangover hill out where the hickory trees arch over listening for nightfall you could smell the breeze laughing with jolly sorts and passing out could freeze balls snagged by Santa’s coat as the twinkle in his eye the twitch of his nose smelled the grin of his mouth’s sigh sipping on granny’s homemade brew disguised by eggnog aquainted with him for so many years only the best mind you for such a gracious man full of happiness granny knew while sleeping deeply by edges of clear water streams cooking up corn for medicinal purposes relaxant dreams many searched for but never found knew granny grew young at the ripe old age of 82 and could still shoot straight between invisible eyes that laughed at visions of Santa’s weight scoffing off a jolly gait this rotund fellow’s first stop, a chance to plop decked the halls of granny’s shack one so generous who afforded to pay hundreds to stay each Christmas season for poor vision and hard hearing steering revenuers clear from the need of home-brew over store-bought cheer glistening tears falling down granny’s cheek hoping to see him again next year knowing the gift she gave eased stairwell creaks as he would fly reindeer over Moonshine Creek. Copyright © 1998 Princess |
Never Asking, Never Receiving
His gaze lifts fizz days drifts over heads clover beds and looks past land crooks massed around green-shrouded town scene-crowded primordial mountains bathed polynomial fountains unscathed afternoon’s fading typhoons shading sunlight present midnight lament forever confined endeavor flies blind by the past why be surpassed head fell back dread swells black against the tree sensed plea Cree and says, “Grand as, spanned blais, life’s tough, strife’s rough, in a million ways," then a civilian daze turns away burns gray face hollow of expression glace calo love question ironically said sardonically pled. Copyright © 1998 Sarah Picklesimer Wilson |
Harlequin Hill
She was the mountain with heart aflame. A forest green that cradled momentary lives with majestical peaks and short-lived looks, feckless souls tried to claim her, a feral land. Coral skies tamed fire opal stepstones as transitory sickles cut her passion away. A mountain in all her grace let mortal man have his way. Human spirits laughed without prominence as hills resounded; rising they called her bluff. Transients that knew nothing of the fire inside, but before long, this peak would open eyes. Ephemeral esprits tried to rename her after them, and built domiciles on her headstones. And when they dubbed themselves masters she made them bow to her. Drumbeats inside turned to a rumbling roar, and bloodstone quakes gyrated powerful. The masters stood pale and quiet, a setback this harlequin opal dogstoned with tombstones. Brilliant the plasma in her veins ruled kunzite sparks and masters she referred to as dripstones pled a bargain with her, but she was the mountain, relentless, And conquered mere mortals with marks the breeze had blown. Stalactite secret in her bed whispered as lodestones marbled they were not the first and certainly would'nt be the last to build domiciles and try to claim and rename her for mounds forest green kept veils to blast cat eye’s to the unknown. Only, elevated were their thoughts mere mortals were masters. She was the mountain with heart aflame. A mountain in all her grace would never again let mortal man have his way. Copyright © 1998 Sarah Picklesimer Wilson |
Amazing Woman
When she was born she walked like a piece computer integrated by bird songs video turned on one you could stare at for more than a minute an hour later you are still left wondering five kids later her life’s intercourse revealed three divorce decrees papering the bottom side of birdie’s cage deserted by three smucks who worked her through depression years to support their habit killing them to reveal her purpose a balance of jilted life glowed from this lady reflected by images of her home, children, flower beds, (oh what flower beds she had) seeping out walls she painted for herself spread out still life pictures, lessons, grief, growing pains, finally joy, courage, discovery, that she was the better half. Copyright © 1998 Sarah Picklesimer Wilson |
Fading Star
Many say the world is a sea, mountain’s glory awaits me In my boat laying upon oceans of green a will to float Dreams touching the earth, scented air, foreplay to despair Smelling fresh overturned dirt is a simple joy so sweet Visions seeing the cost birth has prevailed entailing Questions of the worth; a price to steep to pay Brave you must be to climb the hill barefooted Dawn views across the valleys deep, wonderment of earth Not lacking strength to reach out and burn your hand Touching a fading star just so you may view afar Morning glories open dripping the vines and wine of mirth A strange quest in my boat digging toenail deep grasping Many-colored coat of dreams, splashing rock-pebbled streams Loveliness reflected by a dawn’s new day warm to sun reflection Truth’s deep abyss denuding me a mortal for what was and is Naked under my coat of dreams content with each new-born day Dancing in the dew of thought, my boat secure with worms of truth Tired I reach my destiny and spent my strength passion worn No first mate to part the seas of mountain’s glory, just sight’s story Swimming between the sea of earth, valleys of Heaven and Hell Mountains majesty magnified by skyline clearly purged and deified A burning hand outreached for the fading star weeping daylight afar Dirt filled toenails thrust upright writhing on my back crying life Burning eyes beheld a field, hostile hills, hemlock clamored strife My heart now deep in prayer, boat rocking out of sea, moaning Push on, no backward glance, I spoke, echoes forcing life Just a climbing prayer, no sea for me, a mountain sprouting Sin-sweet life overturned by the boat of flesh, burning hand Outstretched stars of tears crying as I fell into a fisherman’s Mesh between Heaven and Hell. Copyright © 1997 Princess White Haired |
Railed Life
Construction daughter born seemingly, Macedonia comfort bound until her will torn moved in seas of nun direction traveled to Dublin town. A reverent young woman sat, waited, prayed, humble in her style knowing all the while no man can draw boundaries, nor foretell the measure. Sand trickles through the hourglass passing through a sea of warm approval Sisters of Loreto helped her find studies leading a Darjeeling convent trying to sing hymns of tradition donned tribute St. Teresa of Avila a sixteenth-century Spanish nun in 1931. Visions without affairs so well wrapped sounding like the whistle locomotive etched night’s cross ties of darkness layed sky-eyed open to beggars, lepers, homeless dying children abandoned train thoughts traveling tracks of her mind brought cession duties of St. Mary’s halted birthing care for the slums of needy sea's of warm approval toil began in Calcutta. Missionaries of Charity began with permission from hierarchy that same year an Indian citizen granted nun independent life chosen habit plain white sari with blue border and simple cross pinned to her left shoulder focused efforts tossed selecting poor children of the street recruiting first a young Bengal girl and more required devotion of simple life to serving the poor. Without accepting material rewards in return abandoned temple to the goddess Kali Hindu goddess of death and destruction reincarnated life for the dying bringing a home fulfilled loving care train track thoughts rolled a lone leper colony brought lingering merit for her selfless work acclaim far and wide awards on behalf of the poor. A face bowed forward no longer young left thin hollow-cheeked lined with memories Unfolded life of drudgery, poverty, labors deep devotion born from children tugs at creases held threadbare clothes playful souls not distracted - the prayer of thankfulness and intent gratuity prays on her face shows the world how rich her place in this life seems a place for everything clean and well ordered a habit out of so much experience sand trickles through the hourglass. History of the church unfolds God's presence sustains a life for which He provided from the origin rolling through the ages quiet and genuine devotion listening with rapt attention reverent appreciation a reverent woman old sat, waited, prayed, humble in her style knowing all the while no man can draw boundaries nor foretell the measure, sand trickles through the hourglass-Mother Teresa. (Footnote: Mother Teresa made the majority of all her most worthy decision while riding the train.) Copyright © 1998 Sarah Picklesimer Wilson |
One Life's Golden Years
Astonishment exuberantly stares in the dawn of a new day, As the midnight posse moon state leaves narrow skies doorway. Below a sight of a princess that sits atop Appalachian land, Thoughts deep scurrying thousand years of peace on mountain sand. Whispering trees speak seeking a touch of her lovely face, No wrinkles left from life, love free from barriers, transcending space. Where are the Golden Days questions a lone futuristic mind set, Eyes searching light trailing evening dew left making morning grass wet. Eluding open door thoughts consciousness guards the key, Reminisce of years before golden ages scattered with laughter and tears. Mystery doors a life’s longtime race between her and me. Victories not so sweet traveled a crippling dirt winding road, Pausing on a mountain top trying to rest her weary soul’s load. Firmament’s joy written on her brow so bold with an eternal gaze, Fading stars of the morning glowing like dim candles at night, Shatters the darkness allowing sunshine to spread the light. Newfound contentment warming taste buds of new life’s feast, At least nature offers sweet perfume capturing a graceful tilted nose. Time standing still smelling a single bloom of a wild grown rose, Offered by a purple cloaked stranger with effulgent sad eyes, Offering love to be savored she thinks he’s an angel in mortal disguise. Suspended the midnight posse moon state in the moment rare, A lone cry laugh on a mountain tall accepting her willowy call, Lighting a torch for the so-called golden years in anointed air. Hues of a new day flaming brightly on benevolent cries that await, Imprisoned views of a torched life gone out brightly on unselfish ways. Fate presented a time life-line that fell short of fortune leaving a daze, Lingering a wilderness soul that trailed a midnight posse moon state, Comfort strengthened a princess love found here life flowing without fear. The Golden Years leaving her spirit refreshed like gentle rains, Yielding an Autumn’s harvest tinting firmaments with gold grain. Complexions shimmer drying evening dew filling her life with nectar still, Perfuming horizons yet to come with one wild grown rose skirting the hill. Copyright © 1998 Princess White Haired Child |
Cosmic Space
Golden fires moan out tonight while lonely fireflies flit in fearful spheres and pint-size lights seem to pierce and prick feelings alive waxing in irritation left me tipsy to an earth two-stepping age-old silence which binded me into fandango-flings under a chinaberry tree. Queen of the meadow lay gentle mysticism sculpted by a mackerel sky as cyanine blue eyes crooned the tainted lullaby and sleep won over and settled in a way the precarious music stabbed a secpar of my glassy sea. Copyright © 1998 Sarah Picklesimer Wilson |
Birthed From
Women who never walk their soles flat, high flying women who dance on stars, leaving high hopes lit up across the sky pot belly breast women with bold strides, pelvic thrust talking women, fleshy hips, noisy grinning women that let their hair down at dusk who sow gifts that will always be reaped women, yes those strong armed women, men would rather lapse into death than lose, women who never cry. Women who never walk their soles flat, hand clapping old crow's feet women, women with toothless smiles eyeing potatoes peeling to sound holy roller music bean snapping, collard green cooking women who wave wands over magic gravy, flowing from the springs of rocky hills flowered women who hold men's hearts wrapped around a pinky women who never walk their soles flat, mountain legends, women who never cry. Copyright © 1998 Princess White Haired Child |
Rattle Charmer
My mother’s head swayed flower braids white as larkspur whose drawn-out looks threatened to slide off her face until she smiled, heavenly, lifting them back into place. In her protection I came to know myself, and her memories of me became my own. I recall being set out to play on a widespread blanket, drowsy heat turned my nods slipping over into sleep. My mother visits with friends a slight reach away, her hands busy with quiltwork. People talked, the way they talk, flapping tongues as thick as silken cocoons while nature married me as a baby the Indian way. Our courtship being a snake dance stars spinning and the sun turned into a moon that whirled flat as a dime as the snakes crawled toward my shadow allowing my legend to walk forever. Two rattle snakes gliding into my infant’s shadow, where they coiled together, joining me in a nap. Senses remember their chalky smell graceful with manners, the feel of their cool glazed skin. As I slept, I held each serpent by the tail shaking them like a baby’s toy. The rattler never struck, being calm with me. My mother and her friends hovered, horrified, above their twisting heat whispers were made not to move breathe watched at how they claimed me. Tiny clenched fingers released the rattlesnakes, and he and his companion left the widespread blanket. I think I cried for them to return, but my mother pressed me into her arms and I held her braids, thinking they were silky snakes. Legends left me with the name Rattle Charmer, People talked, the way they talk, flapping tongues as thick as silken cocoons; but they have it wrong. The snakes charmed me. Copyright © 1998 Princess White Haired Child |
A Rose
Crisp air with slanted light sought flight where birds were still and birth brought leaves on a stem a smile and laugh to charm and dazzle the birds and bees and butterflies and humanity for beauty multi-hued but alas came thorns with roots deep soiled enough to tolerate a wild-rabbit gardener who poses in such a way The winds rejoice dances of the rainbow sun’s prismatic color palette petal-filled and laughter-spun leaves branches Short-lived expressions help humanity show their emotions love, sorrow, or joy without words, without statements that pose in such a way a play acts out love-felt devotions. Copyright © 1998 Princess White Haired Child |
Fall's Night
Rainbows without rain surrounded golden hues apricot skies burst forth leaving perpetual summers sprinkled blue on a lonely fall night’s birdsong. Mirth-filled sprouts rye-grass amidst barren soil, spraying rays cornflower blue, and suddenly, sunbeams become pearled teardrops stream linked to foggy morning clouds. Unbridled a goldenrod world changes overnight to leave patchwork freckles against fields of Egyptian green forests where you lie so serenely and seemingly in wait approaching winter’s guise as angel breast clouds wisp by. Outstretched free spirit that grows strong and flys high waiting adornment of golden rings rainbow-thoughts promise. Flesh, flesh color fall night’s appear paler while your eyes focus Mars orange with insight that promises do not shine anymore with sunlight and moonlight sadness sets in and you no longer dance in morning breezes. An unfettered fate sloe-colored in sudden aftermath of a dying heart seeking bliss of winter’s guise blossoming only to kill dreamclouds that roosted high in evergreens rooted in the sky. Face to face facts are mute and your ears are no longer deaf. No words reveal love just fire flies fighting night lights in a garden opening secret to doors that passed you by. Albaster rabbits sprint away as grass beaten with paths bend and nod heads in agreement life is temporary and grief forever. Copyright © 1998 Sarah Picklesimer Wilson |
The Fury
Dreaming, falling descending fast, knowing this time you have crashed, from unimagined heights, darkness spinning; a rippled gash. You would think the fury of the fall would awaken all; laying your wake. Rousing God to relent, the infinite world in which you minutely dream. Storming silence grabs pulling you back from shock near to death, facing reality unknown sight what your troubled subconcious meant. Feeling after so many lifetimes you had wandered through you'd repent. Knowing man was not made stupid; so that he might fight indifference. Time whispers rock on murmurs improbable while nightfall dreams, flying in on plunging angel wings, your hopes fall without torched light. Thoughts tormented prompt blind wishes to curse the night. Petty cares wretch haunting emotions to the dawn of morn, falling no more for a guardian angel caught you, and brought you back. Relent you must to save your life, and on your shock filled heart so torn, Upon the floor of time, you will place your feet rested released; defeat of Satan's sleep. Fury that troubled you is no more; the depth filled darkness whispered away. Swaying deams are now replaced; one guardian angel spraying thoughts to save nameless you from fury. Held within, swaying streams of passion rippling still; foundation of your life. Copyright © 1998 Sarah Picklesimer Wilson |