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Writer's pictureW. Grey Champion

The Carriage Lamp

Updated: 3 days ago




The Carriage Lamp


Among the many things we share, Anna and I are Sherlockians, and thus enamored of the late nineteenth century, before the car, when horses and carriages were very important. Under this heading, The Carriage Lamp, evocative of those bygone, romantic days, we will on occasion include original poems, either hers or mine. The title poem is given below, and just below the divider you will see the most recent addition.


A carriage lamp lit as the night comes down

To hang upon the roofs.

Then through the foggy streets of town,

The sound of hoofs.


He’s come for me

In a horse drawn coach

As he has before.

I watch the lantern’s light approach

And hasten to the door.

“Come, my dear, and let us ride!

The coach light leads us on.

Through the night, sit by my side

Till break of dawn.”


 

Another Christmas


   Christmas full of jollity,

   Snow upon the holly tree,

   Friends and foes too much for me!

   Scrooge died anyway you see.



Christmas


   Upon the emptiness of time,

   Upon the falling off of life

   Into the hollow spaces,

   Absent teeth, absent flesh,

   Absent love and hope,

   Upon the darkness gathering

   Faster and faster - 


   Christmas, alight and full,

   Casts a final glow,

   Catching the breath.

   Even the last.



Winter Trees


Sky shows through at last -

The sun, the overcast,

The daytime moon,

The stars at night -

Tall and bare, the winter trees

Let in light -


Come ice and snow,

Come winter’s blast,

Fall on your knees!



Fringe


A fringe only,

Red of red maple,

Yellow gold, another,

Pink of winter cherry

Struggling to bloom.

In a moment of light

Together, then gone

Before the day is done.


But at least that.



This November


Joe Pye weed waves its amber flags,

March grass browns,

Goldenrod blossoms,

Every tree is bonneted with vine

And algae blooms all over the place.


Dogwoods reliably russet,

Maples struggle to show coral,

Oaks and poplar give up dead leaves

Standing bare too soon.


Autumn,

No sun -

Singing alone,

The last cricket -



Stunned


What is it like going down,

Washed away in a flood, to drown?

To lose all we have in a blaze?

Do we stand and stare in a daze,

Unbelieving?

When what is real

Is the hellish ordeal?


What is it like as a Caesar comes,

Crowned with laurel to the beat of drums?

Are we as lost as in flood or blaze,

Unbelieving, to stare in a daze?

We drown or we burn,

Never to learn.


My November Guest


My sorrow when she's here with me

Thinks these dark days of autumn rain

Are beautiful as days can be.

She loves the bare, the withered tree,

She walks the sodden pasture lane.


Her pleasure will not let me stay.

She talks and I am fain to list.

She's glad the birds are gone away,

She's glad her simple worsted grey

Is silver now with clinging mist.


The desolate, deserted trees,

The faded earth, the heavy sky,

The beauties she so truly sees,

She thinks I have no eye for these,

And vexes me for reason why.


Not yesterday I learned to know

The love of bare November days

Before the coming of the snow,

But I were vain to tell her so,

And they are better for her praise.


        - Robert Frost



Autumn Drought


Leaves fall down, dead,

Not yellow, not red,

Nor the soft coral blends.

A tinge of color only, on the ends

Of maple branch, of oak bough,

Making red of brown somehow

In waning light

Of gathering night.


Leaves fall down

Already brown,

Not red. Dead.


Borders


The ends of days and seasons,

The hollow stillness when the songbirds roost

And the swifts and bats etch the empty twilight

With the magnificent, dark line drawings

That silhouette our joys -


The ends are what I have yearned after:

Of storybook days that pass unsensed,

Until shadow sweeps to the tops of trees,

And the sky becomes the border, unpatrolled,

Unending, of the black unknown.



Flocks


   A flock of birds blows across the sky -

   A flock of leaves blows down

   A sunny blizzard -

   Revealing their true colors

   They skitter through the yard

   Racing towards me in the wind -



October


   Reds made redder,

   Yellows, gold,

   The sky made bluer,

   Clear and cold.


   Clouds made pink

   At dusk and dawn,

   Dew made diamonds

   Spread on the lawn.


   Nights made longer

   For bats and ghouls,

   Grinning pumpkins,

   Snag-toothed fools.


   October flames out,

   The fire soon dead,

   But now its glow

   Makes reds more red.



Druid


Trees disrobe,

Strip to their naked colors,

Distinguish themselves,

A gaudy Turkey rug

Over the forest,

Never so red, never so yellow,

Infinite blending of each.


Gone the uniform of summer,

The green hijab.

Now lining the road,

A harlequin quilt,

Soon laid bare,

Stripped to the beautiful bones.


Rest now, my lovely ones!



Autumnal


A fringe of shimmering leaves

Catches the lukewarm light

Glancing from a south setting sun -

Exciting once, now

A terrible pure sadness,

The tinge of romance

Distilled from it.


The smoke of a bonfire,

Crickets falling asleep in the cold -

Half hearted laughter

Catches in the throat

Of a soul long dead.



Autumn Song


Clouds drop low on mountains high,

Hang like drapes

In graceful shapes,

Blur the line of sky.


On and off, cool showers

Dampen hearts

With fits and starts,

Yet bless remaining flowers.


Come autumn winds, blow bold,

Sweep the clouds,

Draping shrouds,

Awake our souls to cold!



September


As much if not more

Than the ripening of apples and pumpkins,

As much if not more

Than the chilly air, the yellows and reds

Revealed resplendent,

Infinite shades in the leaves,

It is the shadows of the leaves

Dancing on the floor,

A last dance

Before the fall.



Southward


Moving south,

Sun shortens the days,

Leaves place for the cool peace

Of night to take -

Plunging toward the equipoise of equinox,

Then deeper,

Rays only glancing treetops,

To the dark rest of solstice!



Rents


   Rents in the green drape of summer,

   Dead leaves below,

   One then two then four,

   Falling begins unnoted

   Until stiff winds bare trees.

   Sky is seen again

   Through rents in the clouds,

   Sun, moon, stars!



Lotus Sermon


Gathering in the Jetavana grove,

A throng came to hear him.

He sat by the pond where lotus bloomed,

Eyes fixed on a blossom,

Close disciples near him.

He did not speak.


A murmur rose from the crowd,

“What is wrong? What does he say?”

“We came to hear a sermon.”

He sat by the lotus pond ,

Eyes fixed on the flower.


Only one disciple heard the sound

Of his silence.



Locusts


Fiery hot -

Locusts hammer and saw

From trees thick and tall -

Chainsaw and jackhammer

The day long -

While chirp and song

From cool wet grass -

Crickets are

Lovers of night -



Humankind


   Queer, these creatures,

   Nonpareil in bloodiness,

   Natural bonds turned deviate,

   Deadly. What? What!

   This is your own!

   No wolf would do it.


   Queer, these creatures,

   Vacant of mercy,

   Predator ghouls

   Of human quarry.

   What, you do not bleed,

    Cry out in fear and pain?

   This is you. Humankind.



South Wind


Swamp breath, hot and wet -

Not a chill to squeeze out dew -

Try not to breathe - 

Ironical!

Fish smother in water -

Gills notwithstanding.


Swamp breath, fetid and pestilent -

Desert heat, lethal when indexed -

No chill but death -

On shores stolen by the tide

We died - 

Humanity notwithstanding.



Wetland


Marsh grass browns,

Goldenrod blossoms,

Joe Pye weed

Waves its amber flags,

Every tree is bonneted with vine,

And algae blooms all over the place!



Summer Moon


The half moon in a halo

As of cloudy egg white

Rides a clear dark sky

Between trees -

Look now or miss it!

The heavens in summer -



The Storm


The clouds grow dark

With rolls of thunder,

Monsoon time, no wonder,

The steamy air, the lightning spark,


The rain enraged,

At war with heat,

While life encaged

In grim defeat,


Looks with hope to morning,

Innocent of the warning,

Tempest in the rolling thunder,

The future will pull all asunder!



The Pond


A breeze ruffles the glassy pond,

Rocking leaf boats,

Fragile ships with elfin crew,

Sailing for the overflow

And down into the rill

That flows at times,

Quenching the deer,

Hatching frogs,

Soaking into the boggy wetlands.



The Last Angel


The grand pin oak cossets a native holly in its bosom -

Where two maple seeds fell together stands a doubletree -

High in the sycamores, two old hawk nests -

Aburst in morning song, a rainbow choir -

Cardinals and bluebirds, wrens and finches and sparrows -

Siberian iris were in bloom, deep passion of purple -

Then a flight of angels -

The first have faded, now the last -


One white angel stands alone

On the day my brother died.



Meditation


Hand of heaven on my head,

Pulls the spine like a puppet string.

Now I’m a buddha, so I’ve read.

Posture is the thing.


So aligned I can be as I am,

Sitting still to follow my breath,

The rise and fall of the diaphragm,

Born on the rise, on the exhale - death.


Duality encompassed in one.

The paradox breaks my head.

As I sit in the rising sun,

Am I a buddha? So I’ve read!



Ah, Summer!


Pillow clouds parade

Across the sky,

Pillow sails across the bay,

Knifing the glassy water

Into spray,

Hilarity bobs, buoyed by the day!



Silence


In silence -

Buds swell and burst.

Without a sound -

Cells divide, limbs lengthen.

Unnoticed -

 A thought twines through my brain.

Unsung -

A song blooms in my mind.


Listen -

In the growing silence

To all things that grow

And pass in silence..



Tao


   The photons before they reach your eye -

   The still air before it ripples with sound -

   The tension of thought before you are conscious of it -

   Is not the Universal Mind your very own?


   Because it is your eye,

   You cannot see it -

   Because you ride the waves of sound,

   You cannot hear it -

   Because you never left it,

   You cannot enter it -

   You are still at home -

   Wake up!


Merry Month


Bees are buzzing -

Birds are building -

Buds are bursting into burgeoning blooms -


Bumblers bumble

On the blowing blossoms -

Raucous revelling resumes!



Rain at Night


In the rain washed night

Drops of light are scattered on the air

To glow like fog.

The road shines clean

Throwing back the images

Of tree and fence and traveler,

Falling through the dark

As fast as rain.


Carving a tunnel with our lights

We speed to our end

As if we knew the way.



Growing Season

Within days

The filigree of limbs

Will be obscured by leaves,

A green canopy will hide the sky,

And on the forest floor

Moss will green,

Ferns unfurl their furry fiddleheads.

The long sultry season will insinuate

Within days.



Forget-me-not


With my breakfast tea,

Sweet as it can be,

Forget-me-not!


Morning pick me up,

Blooming on my cup

And round the pot,


Symbol good or bad,

A message to be had

For all to see,


Not the violet’s preening,

Redolent of meaning:

Remember me!



April


Violets blooming on the first -

April fools -

Cherry blossoms swell and burst -

Rosy jewels -


Breezes send

Now warmth, now chill -

The jonquils bend

To April's will -


Dogwoods too, while April rules,

Do their parts -

Violets, no shrinking fools,

Purple hearts!



Coming Forth


Forsythia whispers of yellow -

The swollen redbud hears -

Willow puts out a green fringe -

Tathagata -



The Drape

Behind a drape of new green leaves

Put up by deciduous trees,

The sky withdraws,

Like my mind obscured

By nettlesome thought.


The sky is there unseen till fall,

When the drape comes down;

Just as thought drifts across a clear mind,

The sun, the moon have been there all along.



Soft Spring


Soft spring,

Pale on the trees,

Twilight's slanted glow

Lingering on window panes.

So came the end of days

Long, long ago,

Now memories,

Pale and soft

In spring.


Do You See?


Setting moon hung in trees

Lights a valley fog -

Do you see?


Light and dark,

Day then night,

Back and forth -

Do you see?


But all is encircled,

One is the center -

What is this?

Only light!


Twigs


   Twigs lie strewn on the lawn,

   Skeletal hands grasping at ankles.

   From all angles a cold sun glares,

   Glancing blows of light

   Off blind eyes whipped by wind.

   Small and white, the crocus

   Braves March.


Luna


   Round and full and white,

   Rising through the thick bare trees,

   The quiet of reflected light,

   Mother of pearl in glowing orbit,

   Some few arise to catch the sight,

   To those few subtle lunatics transfixed

   Bring peace, bring night!



Swans


The mute swan is not called upon

To speak,

But is prized for his beauty,

Peace and grace.

He grows old

Very quietly.


Never called upon, he is mute about

The black swan,

Mythical, terrible, improbable;

But the mute

Never tells what he knows

Unless called

To speak.



Winter


(40)No longer do the trees, aflame with color,

Command attention.

They are line drawings on the sky,

Reflected glory.


It is the emptiness of the air itself,

For what it contains:

The damp, the chill,

The echoing bark of dogs;

Catching us by the throat,

We gasp for empty air.





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themurows
Feb 10, 2023

testing😀

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