Quest

ABC Wednesday Round 9

In Search of Eldorado

Our faith in gold, and pearl, and fountains
where youth and manhood are renewed
Was lost in challenging these mountains
of pathless chasms, boulders strewed
to crush our spirits, slow our way,
ice by night and fire by day.

We thought we would have been, by now,
stretched languidly in fragrant grass.
Who could foresee this brooding brow
of overhanging cliff? We pass
against the precipice; the blood
of clinging fingers marks our way
precarious, day after day
threatened by avalanche and flood.

Nor have we found the streets of gold,
but dust, and thorn, and flies that bite,
and eyes that circle us at night,
and we are growing old.

Bruised, we scientists retreat.
The stones of paradise have torn our feet.

Not Here Yet - I Hope

Requiem for Earth (A Sonnet)

Down the slanting pathway of all the years
No memory now of battles lost or won
There were soft rains that fell, or maybe tears
That burned away beneath the blazing sun.

There was a view of earthrise on the moon,
That tender living ball of shining blue
That stirred the hearts of they who all too soon
Would act from need or greed, their poisons spew.

Now down the slanting pathway of the years,
Degreee by small degree, all hope has flown
From rare rich planet, bright among the stars
No longer in the thrall of greed or fears.
Now, here where once a bright blue planet shone
is torrid Venus or an airless Mars.

Phyllis Sterling (Granny) Smith

M is for Memories

M is for Memories

Requiem for Earth
(a sonnet)

Down the slanting pathway of all the years
No memory now of battles lost or won
There were soft rains that fell, or maybe tears
That burned away beneath the blazing sun.

There was a view of earthrise on the moon,
That tender living ball of shining blue
That stirred the hearts of they who all too soon
Would act from need or greed, their poisons spew.

Now down the slanting pathway of the years,
Degree by small degree, all hope has flown
From rare rich planet, bright among the stars
No longer in the thrall of greed or fears.
Now, here where once a bright blue planet shone
is torrid Venus or an airless Mars.

Phyllis (Granny Smith) Sterling Smith October 2011

Plan B re Pets

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OF MYTHIC BEASTS

I’ve never tried to trap a unicorn.
It’s not more graceful, say, than a gazelle,
an earthly beast I’m sure would do as well;
and what’s so great about a single horn?
Nor have I tried to snare a horse with wings.
I’ve flown across the sky, but in a jet.
I see no earthly use for such a pet;
I’ll save my sugar cubes to sweeten things.

But dragons! Ah, now that’s a different story:
great flailing tails that slither, thrash, and crash,
tough armored scales to hide the wicked core,
the iridescent wings a blue-black glory,
the knobbly claws whose talons rake and slash!
My favored mythic beasts breathe fire, and roar!

Spring Is

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SPRING IS

Spring is not allegory. It is weighed
in density of sound from drunken bees,
intensity of sky, contrast of shade
and glinting leaf, the whisper brush of breeze

against my sleeveless skin; and it is seen
in swooping jay’s blue stitchery that sews
pure cherry blossom white to tender green.
Spring is the sun-baked boards beneath bare toes,

strawberries tart on tongue, the first warm night
that lilac scent, as thick as honey pours
through opened windows, moths around the light
and filmy dust of pollen on the floors.

Don’t try to find a meaning or define,
For spring is real
and here
and now
and mine!

Gifts Are For Giving

The Sunday Scribblings prompt is GIFT.
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see how other bloggers meet this challenge.

This is an old poem of mine that seemed appropriate to the prompt. You may have seen it before, for which I apologize.

THE GIFT OF WORDS

You say I have the gift of words.

Someday my words may fail me,
lost in a maze of neurons, wells of words
with no bucket to retrieve them;
or they may tangle on my tongue
like Hannah's yarn after her stroke
when she worried helplessly
among her skeins and needles.

Gifts are for giving.

Thus I would bequeath to you
a shimmer of words when I no longer
can order them into their patterns.
They will glint like breeze-tossed aspen leaves
or glimmer like showers in sunshine
where each drop holds a rainbow.
They will be as numerous
as stars
as facets of waves
as moments of our love
and fragrant like water touching parched earth.

They will hold bird song and wind song
but, alas, no Mozart, no sonnets, no meaning -
just their fragments.

I will scatter them at random on a fragile web
spangled with words and syllables like sequins
and toss it scarf-like over you.

This is my gift.

Phyllis Sterling Smith