Tribulations Of A Playful Poet
The alligator owns all rights
to the lily pads,
gliding by, right when I'm writing
about beauty,
about serenity.
If I were to wade into the waters
around a dry bouquet
of cattails,
the head of the alligator
would bloom beside me.
Where can I hide
from this presence?
How can my poems evade
the hidden claws,
the baffling jaw
eager to emerge?
Pause in a Hard Week, Working
Even the early oranges were not in, nor
ripe blackberries in their thorny vines.
The loquat had dropped its oval fruit,
and, already, the wild plums' white
blooms had gone.
The tomatoes green, the squash
in yellow blossoms, and beans
still the dream of green leaves
as the small black bear wandered in
and up an oak without one drop
of water nearby or one brown acorn....
To the hope of wild plums, he clung.
On the other side from where I stood
succumbing to his charming presence,
our neighbors animated their alarms,
and dogs barked,
and a helicopter
from television news
circled and circled
a noise of war
as I ducked beneath a shelter of still
leaves and whispered,
wait,
please wait until the dark.
Incensed
For days, drawn draperies of fire, pinned close
by dry pines, needled us with smells of smoke
so thick it stung our eyes and burned our nose
and made us run to see if flames arose
from lightning flashes on the street lined oak.
Undoused by rain, unsoaked by garden hose,
a heavy daze hung on us like a cloak
of burlap, and even birdsong could not choke
the silence down. Nothing stirred, but those
ashen flakes forever falling, like gray snows
adrift in Florida, where everyone's kinfolk
hopes to lounge, poolside, in cool repose.
Drenched in fire, we wondered what evoked
this verdict heaven loves not, only knows.
Bearing Branches
The kids are out playing today,
taking turns on the swing of a branch.
I hope they won't fly away
before I've been given a chance
to watch them awhile
through the binoculars
on my windowsill.
Will they grow up and stay
around the neighborhood?
I've done all I can to entice them:
a feeder filled with sunflower seeds,
a fresh crop of poison-free weeds and insects,
a fluted pie crust-shaped pool
beneath the branches
on which they like to cling
or spring toward flight.
I'll do nothing to hold them back,
and yet they lack nothing
as far as I can see what's good
and needed.
Gladly, I await new families, rising.
I anticipate the surprises
of more winged guests
who stop to rest
in this quiet corner of my yard,
cupped in my hands, an
empty nest.
© Copyright Mary Harwell Sayler. All Rights Reserved.
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