I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.
Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains,—but the best is lost.
IN MEMORY OF EVA GORE-BOOTH AND CON MARKIEWICZ
THE light of evening, Lissadell,
Great windows open to the south,
Two girls in silk kimonos, both
Beautiful, one a gazelle.
But a raving autumn shears
Blossom from the summer's wreath;
The older is condemned to death,
Pardoned, drags out lonely years
I prefer red chile over my eggs
and potatoes for breakfast.
Red chile ristras decorate my door,
dry on my roof, and hang from eaves.
They lend open-air vegetable stands
historical grandeur, and gently swing
with an air of festive welcome.
I can hear them talking in the wind,
haggard, yellowing, crisp, rasping
tongues of old men, licking the breeze.
Mother of all the high-strung poets and singers departed,
Mother of all the grass that weaves over their graves the glory of the field,
Mother of all the manifold forms of life, deep-bosomed, patient, impassive,
Silent brooder and nurse of lyrical joys and sorrows!
Out of thee, yea, surely out of the fertile depth below thy breast,
Issued in some strange way, thou lying motionless, voiceless,
All these songs of nature, rhythmical, passionate, yearning,
Coming in music from earth, but not unto earth returning.
Dust are the blood-red hearts that beat in time to these measures,
I come from a musical place
Where they shoot me for my song
And my brother has been tortured
By my brother in my land.
I come from a beautiful place
Where they hate my shade of skin
They don't like the way I pray
And they ban free poetry.
I was a prolific and enthusiastic artist, like a sparkling jewel rife with colors,
Taking joy from nature themes and others, as in childhood joys of summers.
I painted active people and wilder places, houses, sunsets and exotic birds,
And I was enamored of the old saying, 'A picture is worth a thousand words.'
But, ofttimes I wondered, 'What if pictures could truly tell their own story?'
Would they captivate the hearts of many, like the sun going down in glory?
Still, to fill a violet, crowded canvas, with a flock of redbirds frozen in flight,
On dawn skies, peaches
drifting by sable shadows
at coastal sand dunes
Precious gold between my toes
Blue roses on the wild sea
Fading stars, jewels
Turquoise at the horizon
Citrine golden hour
of the fresh breath of the wind
moving clouds, puffy
gold rose dawn fills waking skies
summer's honeyed days
as heat gains its peak
gilt clouds, noon butterscotch sky
lemon meringue pie
cocoa with soft marshmallows
Parallel colors go on forever, others swirling and merging,
Hued rainbows and smoky sunsets, from a chaos surging!
Hanging from the Christmas tree, ruby peppermint candy,
And circus clowns entertain us, attired so gaily and badly.
Often seen on animals, birds, leaves and even mountains,
Coloring all the days of our lives, from mystical fountains!
Arrayed all in purple stripes, the mischievous joker is wild,
Sharing this streaked world where very nature has smiled.
a milky way rise
in maroon alien skies
starry, starry night