Sunday, 19 January 2014

The View from Behind by Sr Anne Higgins

Tapestries look
like battlefields
from the back.
Threads like soldiers
in hand to hand combat -
who is most resilient?
Arms locked,elbows out,
clenched fists of knot
like small skirmishes
across the expanse.
Who is most flexible?
Stitches quarrel
in overbearing voice,
rush to trenches,
maintain positions.
Colors invade
each others' territory,
singing violent
of light.
All clamor, all struggle,
it faces the wall of faith
while the weaver
and the watcher
work from the front.

Sr Anne Higgins, Maryland, USA

Sunday, 12 January 2014

Reflected Light by Penny Smith

Remember how this winter day gave light
to country fields where frost and snowflakes lay?
It held at bay the terrors of the night.

When phantoms lurk and prowl our inner sight
and blackest thoughts intrude and bar our way,
remember how this winter day gave light.

Its hoarfrost beauty kept the landscape bright,
intending evening darkness to delay...
It held at bay the terrors of the night.

To those who'd choose to flee to calm their fright
there's scant advice to give, except to say
"Remember how this winter day gave light."

Then their unease must give way to delight;
although the sun had seemed to hide away,              
it held at bay the terrors of the night.

And should your future self meet such a plight,
in each reflective moment, do, I pray,
remember how this winter day gave light;
it held at bay the terrors of the night.

Penny Smith, Havant, UK

Sunday, 5 January 2014

Daily Diary by Michael Keshigian

All day,  
every day,
through the night
while you sleep,
dust floats upon airy parchment
to silently describe the moment
and soon
another page is complete.
Early, when it’s quiet,
the faint sound
you think you hear
is a streak of sunlight
that sings
the chilly dawn breeze
into a story. 
Even snowfall covers
a page of barren countryside
with white ink,
transforming blank to verse,
rain erases most mistakes.
On a bright day
you may catch hand shadows
swirling fair weather fonts
into words
in front of the sun,
creating a gust
that inspires leaves and twigs
to choreograph the landscape.
When the inkwell runs dry,
the rattling pen resounds
a thunderous clap
and the dark hand pulls
upon the spigot moon.

Michael Keshigian, USA