Gaia’s Memoirs No.23

Gaia’s Memoirs No.23

Yellow flowers bloom,
On flower in yellow blooms.
Passion blooms yellow.

FaithBaby in Sunflower Yellow

FaithBaby in Sunflower Yellow

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Willow Me (A Sonnet)

Willow Me

Interred within the soil of youthful prime
A willow seed lies sown in dormancy,
That with the daily watering of time
Grows old and dies, a withered, weeping tree.
And years are petals on the bud of life
That when she blossoms unfold to display
A sapless flower; her petals, passed and rife,
Hang virtueless, bereft of sweet bouquet.
Yet what possesses virtue, worth or reason
Save framed within this frail mortality?
Or whence derives one’s passion for the season
If not from this temporal symmetry?
And if in life I find a love to cherish,
Then I shall gladly live and love, and perish.

Weeping Willow by Claude Monet Click Image to visit WikiPaintings.org

Weeping Willow by Claude Monet
Click Image to visit WikiPaintings.org

The Virtue of the Rose

'She, this rustic rose, now drenched in dew?' Image: DLady, pixabay.com

‘She, this rustic rose, now drenched in dew?’
Image: DLady, pixabay.com

The Virtue of the Rose

The rose does not esteem her generations
Nor marvel in the beauty of her fashion,
She can not prize her fragrant emanations,
In her, vermilion’s hues incite no passion;
When on the bush her virtue counts as pleasure,
Though thorny brambles make no plush brocade,
Yet she transforms exquisite beyond measure
When picked to fade adorning my love’s braid;
From where ensues this virtue she defines?
She, this rustic rose, now drenched in dew,
If not that though she fade a thousand times
Those many times shall she travail anew.
Immortalized when kissed by mortal breath,
The rose’s virtue lies in mocking death.

I Do Not Pray

I do not Pray

Gorse blossoming in snow Image: healingherbs.co.uk

Gorse blossoming in snow
Image: healingherbs.co.uk

I do not pray to increment my days
Nor plead to ease my modest situation,
I care not for a life of lavish ways
Nor seek the power to rule over a nation.
Though least among the blooms the gorse revive
To flower midst the winter snow; yet I,
Who bear no bloom and in my seed must thrive,
But struggle forth and in one season die.
To what then might this mortal weed aspire?
Made less than gorse—ambition is but vain,
But ah, mortality, my passion’s fire!
You are my joy, though you shall be my bane;
For gorse is neither virtuous nor trite,
Save framed by mortal eyes in passion’s light.

Spring Eternal

Eternal Love by Jahar Dasgupta

Eternal Love by Jahar Dasgupta

Spring Eternal

Upon the touch of Erin’s clement breeze
‘Cross beryl seas where vernal currents flow,
Through feldspar rime of winter’s icy freeze
Blooms verdant spring where lay the barren snow;
What bent pervades within those wisps a-fleet
Whose touch can pass so subtle and unfelt,
That with one kiss from Gaia’s lips so sweet
A season’s empire falls and glaciers melt;
But nature wrought in you her work’s increase
When I, in Uller’s bondage you did kiss,
And from the frosts of Holda’s field release
My love to blossom in your season’s bliss.
Now every day at dawn the swallows sing,
To cant the birth of yet another spring.

 

Porcelain Story

Porcelain Story

Written for my daughter Miriam and inspired by her first alarm-clock–a little porcelain girl below a clock in an apple-tree, and her piggy bank (which was always empty!).

 

Beside a big old Apple tree
Within a pleasant dell,
There was a tiny house wherein
A piggy-bank did dwell;

And when that piggy-bank walked out
One fine bright sunny morn,
He saw a little porcelain girl
Pick flowers on the lawn;

In hat and blouse and shoes of pink
And pants of pastel blue,
She strolled amidst the clover trailing
Footprints in the dew;

With skin of polished ivory
As white as falling snow,
Her braided golden-ivy locks
O’er slender shoulders flowed;

And ocean-pools of deepest blue
That paled the morning sky,
Where dreams beyond the rainbow’s end
Behind those eyes did lie;

And as the piggy-bank approached
That China figurine,
He stopped and stared to see her lips
Of ripest cherry sheen;

For on those lips a simple smile
Of greeting there did glow,
While in her tiny china hand
A daisy did she hold;

“Do you have dreams?” her voice intoned
A kiss upon his ear,
Like stardust falling through the mist
Yet ringing true and clear;

Forlorn the piggy-bank did pause
And turn toward the sky,
“I do,” He whispered with a sigh
And yearning in his eye;

“I dream of hidden treasures lying
Buried in my hull,
I dream of being satisfied
I dream of being full”;

“I dream of being opened-up
To shouts of joy and glee,
Of happy children running to
The candy store with me”;

“Of spending all my hoarded jewels
On Mothers Day’s surprise,
And seeing well-loved mother with
A teardrop in her eye”;

“But I am just a piggy-bank,
An empty vault of clay,
And I can only dream upon
That happy rainy day”;

“For many are the rainy days
That I’ve seen come and go,
But ne’er a silver shilling for
To line those clouds with gold”;

“And vainly does the needy soul
Seek charity in me,
For empty do I e’er remain
A dry and lifeless sea”.

And through a sudden mistiness
That in his eyes did gleam,
He saw a porcelain teardrop fall
That from blue eyes did stream;

“Oh dearest little china girl
I beg you not to mourn,
For I will gladly empty be
To see your sorrows shorn!”

“O’ piggy-bank you’re wise and good
My sorrow’s for we two,
For I am lost and all alone
My life is empty too”;

“For I was made by loving hands
To love the march of time,
And care for my beloved clock
That in this apple chimed”;

“And as the roots of this old tree
Grow deep in to the ground,
So was the love by which my dearest
Clock to me was bound”;

“But then one gray and fateful day
A dreadful thunder cloud,
Did see me from the sky above
And in love’s spell was bound”;

“Impassioned he did beckon me
But I refused to go,
And in his rage a lighting bolt
Of fury he did throw”;

“And struck my dear beloved clock
A mortal sundering blow!
So now I have no time to love
And I must love lone;”

And as her heart at last became
Unburdened from her pain,
She turned her tear-swept eyes upon
The piggy-bank again;

“Oh piggy-bank why do we bide
Where torments never stop,
You with your sad emptiness
And I with none to love?”

“For I was made to give my love
And you were made to take,
Let’s put the past to rest and seek
For happiness in fate”;

“Stay with me now and I will fill
Your emptiness with love,
And both of us shall be fulfilled
Our purpose from above”;

And so forever they remained
A happy porcelain pair,
A piggy-bank filled to the brim,
A doll with love to spare;

And in that tiny house that stands
Beside the tree so old,
There’s ne’er a rainy day who’s cloud’s
Aren’t lined with streaks of gold.

Garden Memories

Retinal cell axons! Image: www.rpbusa.org

Retinal cell axons!
Image: http://www.rpbusa.org

Garden Memories

Carib sun, pastel sky
spectra felt with inner-eye
neurons fly, axons sigh
nerve-stems cry to visions high
Tactile breath, words of touch
hearts that melt as fingers clutch
hands that brush, faces flush
hormones rush as bodies crush
Flower bed, a body’s scent
psychedelic redolence
stigma rent to pollen vent
aroma sent in passion spent
Mists that form on memory’s fission
shrouds of time, intermission
trite incision, mind’s perdition
time’s derision, of my vision