my husband brought me a bucket of moonbeam coreopsis

This poem is a bucket.
This poem is a moonbeam.
This poem is my husband.

A container of vague reference and history,
its origins unknown but its utility humbly significant.
Whether wooden or metallic in form, it chooses
to be the holder or keeper of all possibilities,
whether rain or mop water or tender young things safely carried.
This poem is a bucket.

Petals of pale yellow dancing in the spring breeze,
moving with the changing weather and seasons.
Sturdy and perennial, its heart moves with the tides
of earth, rain and sun. It is hardworking and dependable,
though its many faces show its charm and golden light.
This poem is a moonbeam coreopsis.

Bringer of gifts, deeply rooted and bound
to the rich soil of our earth,
a partner in a garden of different minds,
growing in systematic wildness, each portrayed
in the best possible light
or shade depending on its habits.
He is the keeper of spades and implements,
ancient rituals of furrows and seed.
He is the blue eyed boy smiling with his weed filled bouquet.
This poem is my husband.

This poem is a moonbeam coreopsis brought home in a bucket by my husband.

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*** A Boomerang Metaphor poem -a form created by Hannah Gosselin
whose instructions can be found on Hannah’s site, Metaphors and Smiles,
https://wordrustling.wordpress.com/
Copyright © Hannah Gosselin and Metaphors and Smiles, 2011-14

The Year of Clover Honey

The Last Really Good Shack - porch

It was the second spring in the old farmhouse,
you seeded the open meadow with red clover.
A common cover crop,
it did just that,
covering the slope
in luxurious rich deep green leaves,
topped by scarlet globes
of soft feathered blossoms.
Honeybees, intoxicated with
sweet perfume, staggered in the warm spring breeze,
humming their drunken songs
in sweet unison.

The bees song bewitched us-
a sirens song.
Mesmerized,
we walked across the meadow,
thigh high in clover,
waist deep in bees.
The hillside undulating,
shimmering with invisible wings.
The sound of a million bees
singing.
Their voices so deep,
it echoed in our bodies.
We held our hands out to feel the vortices of their wings.
We were carried in a wind
of wing song.

We were golden with pollen.

The honey was rich that year-
deep amber
and filled with the song of a million bees.

(revised 2020)

Metaphor

love birds#5 (3)

Is it too trite
to write
that the river
is a
metaphor
for our love?
And to use the old saying that
‘You never step into the same river twice’?
Because it is
Just
Like
That.

Driving through the dark Ozarks night,
following the hollows along the river,
a young couple in our headlights-
wet, walking hand in hand,
coming up from a midnight swim.
Suddenly, I am transported.
I am that girl-
shy, bold, holding your hand,
feeling your wet skin for the first time,
the rush of the river,
the rush of the newness.

Then, I laugh and see myself
reflected in your laughing eyes
illuminated by the dashboard lights.
We drive towards home,
splashing in the river.

(revised 2020)

seven times seven

Winter Field

They wish to take some time,
if the room is still available,
for words and thoughts
to congeal-
the way left fallow.

Fields undone as last night’s argument.

Each shall return to the place of their beginning.
Manumission of the indentured souls
shall be relieved of their suffering.
Sewing not the ruptured,
sowing not the fields, emptied.

Fields undone as last night’s wrath.

The decisions to be made
will make each aware
of the secrets and courage which
brings justice to the birds
on the verge of the turned earth.

Fields undone as last night’s tears.

Shout jubilee!
All debts are forgiven,
all fields left fallow,
in the year of seven times seven.

The New Day

morning cove Jul 2015

As the old year slinks away into the night,
I throw my shoes at its shadow.
Shaking the dusty months from my clothes,
I wear my cap and shirt inside out
So the old minutes and seconds can’t cling
Like a bad smell.
I salt the earth where the previous days
Stretched on and on,
Assuring they will not
Follow me into the new year.
When the New Years Eve bonfire is burning,
I gather the bitter herbs
And walk counter clock wise into the previous moments,
Casting the hated bouquet into the flame
Leaving its acrid taste behind
With the smell of its grief and sorrow.

Only then will I wreath my head with four leaf clovers,
Fill my pockets with new pennies
And my trunks with rabbit’s feet and horseshoes
And walk bravely into the coming year.
Head held high and with cheerful optimism,
I greet the new day.

** an old poem but always a good reminder to leave the past in the past and move into the new year with hope and positive expectations.
I will if you will!
Happy New Year, my friend. May it be filled with wonder and delight.

Advent 2019 – Our Lady of the Hyacinths

hyacinths 2 2014

The scent rises from the damp cool earth,
sweet as my grandmothers perfume.

That smell that still permeates the drawer
of the old vanity
with its foxed mirror.
When I open it,
she appears,
Our Lady of the Hyacinths,
in her pale lilac cloak suffused with perfume
and held high by fat cheeked cherubs,
like the little chalkware angels
that perched on her vanity top
with chipped wings
and bashful eyes.

I gently hold the heady blossoms
as I rake away the last of autumn’s leaves.
Sweetness lingers in my hands,
hands that are shaped like my grandmothers,
square palms with short fingers,
blessed by Our Lady of the Hyacinths.