my vision dims
first a film of misunderstood conversation
then it blinked out
like a light house flashing
warnings out to sea
I am wasting time
when there is so little left to waste
and there is a rustling in the pantry
where three blind mice live
and those oft told fairy tales
spring to life
but life does not hold many more springs
and it’s summer
and I am blinded by the light
warning me away from the rocks
and dangers on the shore
A Field Guide to Angels now available from Everdale Publishing
I am pleased to announce my latest chapbook, A Field Guide to Angels, is here!
These poems are close to my heart – just so proud of this slim volume of 21 poems, some new, some old, some re-worked but all about those angels around us.
And I am so happy to share them with you.
The Field Guide to Angels is available at lulu.com where you can also find my other chapbooks, Penelope to Her Husband and Festival of Lessons and Carols http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/kge
I hope you will enjoy my new book and I hope you know how much I appreciate your continued support of my work.
May angels surround you always,
Kathleen Gresham Everett
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
Dull morning light bereft of warmth
fills in the corners
between spring
and blackberry winter.
The blooms, white against cold green leaves,
bramble along the rocky path,
armored with thorns
and protected by poison ivy
just finding its vigor.
Shivering anticipations of hot summer days
purpled with jeweled fruit
left by the chortling robins
and cobblers fresh from the oven.
Its a warm day in early May and
the small dog and I are sitting in the garden
occasionally pulling a weed or two.
I will get to the violets, whom
I love,
and the vinca, which I do not.
And pull them both out with a vengeance
They each have a calling for world domination,
violets sweetly, and I will tolerate,
But vinca, aggressive and vining,
too willing to smother and cover
everything in its path,
I will not.
I have decided to live in the garden
to stay in the green and growing world
with her loamy soil and deep shadow
under the redbud and maple trees.
The maples have formed their winged
seed helicopters, those we loved as children
tossing them as high as my brothers and I
could throw. Do you remember?
There is nothing here to nourish your body
just your spirit
and soul,
But we have springs and wells
of sweet water, soil sufficient for crops,
if asked nicely,
and the ridge is quiet with stars.
I don’t know why I am telling you this.
Except to say
if the final trumpet sounds
and you can find your way,
there will be room for you here.
Just bring some matches,
your grandmother’s quilt
and a favorite book.
It will be enough.
blessed be the hours of early morning
when the light seeps slowly across the water
blessed be that light
that fills the windows full open to the morning
breeze and the scent of resurrected green
blessed be that breeze
which scatters the blown petals
of dogwood and redbud trees
carpeting the garden path with bright confetti
blessed be those feet
whose boots track spent pink petals
across the just swept kitchen floor
blessed be that love
that fills this kitchen with heavens color
and sacred morning light
blessed be
is it just the way things are
that anything
transcendent
requires something
dark before
dawn opens over the night’s ridge, golden, glorious,
as birdsong swells with color and light
lilting across dancing water
her death required my small death
a burying of things held
oh so tightly
it was hard to peel my fingers back
to release them
I lean against the dark stone
and wait for the angel
to strike a match
Photo by 祝 鹤槐 on Pexels.com
the ambiguity of stain
a scarlet thread finds its way
onto a bleached white linen
marring its perfection
maunday, a mandate, a command
over dinner
eat this, drink this
I remember the little saltless pillows of cracker
and the fascination of tiny cups of grape juice
take this and remember
Do This in Remembrance of Me
carved in the wooden altar
where the men in somber suits
brought the bright silver trays
to rest
red wine
on white linen
I reach for your glass
