Sunday, March 27, 2011

As I Stare At My Refection

Prelude  to a Prose

I have emptied my soul and allowed myself to
return to the dark pit of grief , temporarily...
I want you to know I am fine, after some tears of course.
The words below just poured out....
This prompt allowed me to
explain the raw numbing pain of loss....
This is how I felt in the first
months after my daughters funeral... perhaps years after.
Lacy, I will forever feel your Love.


Dear Mirror
As I stare at my reflection
I see a stranger.
Sorrow has eaten me away, revealing a wraith-like shadow me, 
with coal-stained eyes deprived of sleep, a distressed washed-out,
tear- stained complexion, a withered sickly grossness that has
wrenched me through the looking glass of raw pain,
where I have vanished inside my own grief.
Feeling alone and fighting to stay present against the
bottomless black pit of despair, has used up all of my resolve.
My strength of will has no reserves.
I am a mere imitation of my former self, an impostor,
almost certainly unrecognizable by my friends and family.
Will this torment ever end?

♥  © ஆεlεɳa
Challenge: Write a letter to the person you see in your mirror
      Poetry Prompt...Finish this line...For

Thursday, March 24, 2011

A Love Letter

October 2, 2011

Dear Chantelle

Eighteen years today, Chantelle.  
The span of time seems impossible to comprehend. 

Words of love through poetry continue to find my pen.  
Lunch away at a quaint town, nearby. 
On the way there, the song on the radio as
if right on cue plays for me only.

The song “Don’t forget me when I’m gone”
evoke tears of gratitude for the much needed sign. 
A knowing glance from Bob as he also recognizes
the significance this special song has for me. 

Today welcomes autumns Indian summer.
We walk the town and visit the many charming shops,
looking for nothing in particular, but hoping to
find the perfect treasure to mark this day.

Ice tea and fish and chips satisfy our comfort
food craving.  
Restaurant radio crackles, before another song starts. 
Your presence is felt as “Knights In White Satin”
plays quietly in the background.  
We sit in silence, listening to every word, welcoming another
amazing glimpse into the unnameable realm.

Lacy, our connection never falters. 
This day always amplifies your energy,
moving your essence even closer.
Although I still feel the pain of loss,
today it is filtered though all the love you continue to send.

Love is felt throughout my whole being. 
You will always be loved and never forgotten.

This is for my first visit to Write A Letter Wednesday

Saturday, March 19, 2011

Merrow Churchyard By Moonlight

This is a Poem by 
my Great, Great Grandfather & Poet

FRANK JOHNSON, English born poet
September 2. 1810 - February 17, 1892
The Village Of Merrow

Scene, England,
-- a county bordering on the mouth of the River Thames.
Time, --towards the end of the first half of the present century.

Merrow Churchyard by Moonlight
Now  Dian’s  orb was hung on high,
And all so sunk in rest,
A stranger to the world had deemed
Its habitants were blest.
Who, with the sorcery around
Of a night so calm, so clear,
Could have borne to think that its least content
Could have ever known a tear?
A night indeed! -- so hushed, serene,
Scarce a dead leaflet stirr’d;
If, in the far, a cry, a chime,
Who would not such have heard.
The snowy moon that lives aloft
Seemed all alone to bide,
As if the only thing awake,
And watching all beside.
I could but think of day’s bight orb
Were made alone for light,
Man might have done without the sun,
For the sake of such a night.
Imagine my surprise while researching my
Family Tree a few short years ago to learn that my
Great, Great Grandfather was a published
writer and poet!  Frank Johnson…
author of Lashed to the Mizzen,Giles and Janey, or
The Kindly Gentleman, and The Village Of Merrow,
It’s Past and Present.  I was thrilled the day I received
a 1st edition copy of,The Village of  Merrow printed
by Lovell Printing and Publishing Company. 1876.

FRANK JOHNSON, English born poet, emigrated to LennoxVille, Quebec
The Magazine of Poetry and Literary Review - Page 421
edited by Charles Wells Moulton - American poetry - 1892

FRANK JOHNSON was born September 2nd, 1810, in London, Eng. He had barely entered upon his third year when he was sent to a preparatory school at Hampstead. From thence having completed his eighth year, he was transferred to a classical school in London, where after a seven years' training in Greek, Latin, French, Italian and mathematics, he was sent to Edinburgh University. Here, however, his ambition to be an actor, brought his studies in Edinburgh to a close. It was now that his naturally good constitution began somewhat to fail him, through too close an application to his self-directed studies, and with a view to recruit him, he was sent by his father, a medical practitioner, into Hertfordshire. It was here that he betook himself to the study of the flora of the fields, and it was during his rambles in the lanes and wastes of Hertfordshire, that he familiarized himself with the poverty and struggles of the underpaid labourers on the soil, a familiarity which, some years afterwards, he turned to good account in his "Village of Merrow. "

It was in his twenty- fifth year that, again with a view to thoroughly establish his health, and to wean him from his still lingering ambition to be an actor, his father proposed to him an extended course of travel, a proposition which was embraced with enthusiasm. In less than a month he embarked in a small South seaman, bound for a lengthened cruise in the Indian and Pacific oceans. It was thence that he acquired the terrible experience that enabled him to write his "Lashed to the Mizzen." After a cruise of upwards of two years, unbroken by a single night on shore, Mr. Johnson, on the vessel touching at New Zealand, abandoned her and resided along with the cannibals, thirty miles up the Hokiawga river, on the lookout for a chance passage to Australia, whence after a further detention, he embarked in a brig for Valparaiso, eventually reaching Buenos Ayres, by crossing with a guide the Andes and the Pampas. This was followed by extensive travel in the leading countries of Europe. Thus far his life appears to liave been one that few would have quarrelled with, but now the picture was about to change.

He invested quite a little fortune, bequeathed him during his travels by his grandfather, in the New Zealand Land Company's unfortunate Cook Straits Settlements. It would be a long story, but one by no means dishonouring to Mr. Johnson to show how, for upwards of eight years, the principal share in upholding the Port Nicholson Settlement, fell to him. It must suffice to say, that after almost incredible trials and disappointments, he had finally to retire with the loss of two-thirds of his capital and fearfully worn, into the bargain.

After his return to England, he farmed for a few years in Pembrokeshire, whence at the suggestion of his then still surviving mother, he removed with his four boys to Lower Canada, now the Province of Quebec. He is still living on the farm near Lennox Ville, acquired by him some thirty years since, with his eldest son who looks after the cultivation of the land. He still continues to be a welcome contributor to the local press, and his writings are regarded with favour. As a citizen and colonist Mr. Johnson holds a high rank.
For World Poetry Day  at One Stop Poetry.

Friday, March 4, 2011

Ah Spring!

Awaken early to greet the warmth of the morning sun
Birds singing, busy with their nests
Cleansing rains offer nourishment for the parched canopy
The energy of the sun envelops the newness
A new life emerges from each branch 
A gentle breeze blows softly, rustling each new birth
In the quiet of the stillness
As each leaf opens gently
Bursting forth into nature,
It becomes a welcome witness
To an engaging Spring. 

Ah Spring!

As we say farewell to the long, ragged winter, anticipation of spring is felt deep within our spirit. This renewed spark is the essence of our connection to the Earth. After our deep hibernation under the cloak of winter's abundance, spring is a most welcoming season.

During winter's embrace we shield ourselves 
from the cold landscape.
We quietly hunker down to rejuvenate ourselves in 
anticipation of future blossoms. 
This deep freeze partially hides us from one and other.

Spring’s arrival beckons us to awaken!
As the days become brighter, our souls yearn to reconnect.
As the days grow longer, 
so do our walks and chats with neighbours.
At Spring's first blush, we eagerly emerge from winter's hold,
realizing our good fortune of living in such a diverse and
miraculous world, which we have the honor of call home.

♥  © Hεlεɳa ωђίԵε

Lets help celebrate Spring over at One Stop Poetry with Brian Miller