It is your eyes that pierce me
Bright baby blue
In Sicily they marked you
Erroneously
As German
In Jordan, both men and girls followed you
Hoping to see your wonderful eyes again
It is your eyes that hold me
Windowing your soul
In your much loved face
Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond
When a poem dances with your thoughts
Sunlight and shadows mark the walls of your soul
Something echoes within
You change
Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond
“Bees do have a smell, you know, and if they don’t they should, for their feet are dusted with spices from a million flowers.”
― Ray Bradbury
The Smell of bees
I saw my first bee today, hearing buzzing while weeding
I searched for the little fellow and found him
Bumbling around the Lungwort
Buzzing with glee in the surprise warmth
Black, gold with a red bum
Furry and indomitable
He also harvests my garden
And mine depends on his
Its relief to see a bee today, with all the talk of their demise
Poisoned by chemicals that may yet kill us
Directly, as doses build, or indirectly
As my garden companions cease to pollinate
And harvests drop
The smell of small dusty bees
Will no longer tantalise my nostrils
Nor will the fragrance of food
Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond
I actually saw my first Bumble Bee last week– it is warm very early here this year.
Constable mirrors move
continually from light to dark
ever modulating apparent form
as the sun beyond
tries to pierce their hazy layer
parting it from the cool beauty
of the rolling opalescence below.
But the white motes now thin and slow their descent
becoming weary of motion
seeking quiet and rest
among their forerunners who now
lie on the cold earth
waiting for warmth to free them
for yet further journeys.
Copyright © 2019 Kim Whysall-Hammond
I am drenched in stars
spangled with worlds
in nebula spattered night
until bone cold moon
rises high
glints with laughter
sends me scattering
to the safety of shadows
and the long wait for
another dusk.
Copyright © 2019 Kim Whysall-Hammond
Icebergs, refracting blues and greens
as if gigantic gemstones,
and the deep massy ever moving ocean
exist symbiotically
made of the same substance
but separate entities
each enigmatic, inscrutable.
Icebergs lie in wait for unsuspecting ships,
their increased calving into the ocean
augur the doom of Antarctic ice sheets
and so of coastal cities and those within.
Yet their ice is open to light
sparking endless variations in it’s aspect,
while ocean depths are veiled by waves and opacity.
Differences simply born of lack of heat,
each is part of our blue planets girdling seas
as are we, in all our different complexities.
Copyright © 2018 Kim Whysall-Hammond
I have seen old ships sail like swans asleep
Beyond the village which men call Tyre,
With leaden age o’ercargoed, dipping deep
For Famagusta and the hidden sun
That rings black Cyprus with a lake of fire;
And all those ships were certainly so old
Who knows how oft with squat and noisy gun,
Questing brown slaves or Syrian oranges,
The pirate Genoese
Hell-raked them till they rolled
Blood, water, fruit and corpses up the hold.
But now through friendly seas they softly run,
Painted the mid-sea blue or shore-sea green,
Still patterned with the vine and grapes in gold.
But I have seen,
Pointing her shapely shadows from the dawn
And image tumbed on a rose-swept bay,
A drowsy ship of some yet older day;
And, wonder’s breath indrawn,
Thought I – who knows – who knows – but in that same (Fished up beyond Aeaea, patched up new –
Stern painted brighter blue -)
That talkative, bald-headed seaman came
(Twelve patient comrades sweating at the oar)
From Troy’s doom-crimson shore,
And with great lies about his wooden horse
Set the crew laughing, and forgot his course.
It was so old a ship – who knows, who knows? –
And yet so beautiful, I watched in vain
To see the mast burst open with a rose,
And the whole deck put on its leaves again.
by James Elroy Flecker (1884 -1915)
Where do the deer go in the day?
Empty fields, busy lanes
shady woods — all the same
No deer.
Walk in the evening
there they flit
in the shadows.
Where do the deer go in the night?
Same as the day — out of sight.
Copyright © 2018 Kim Whysall-Hammond
High on hilly plateau
nestled in sheep fields
wind ruffled lonely lake
unexpected broken boat
pulled up onto
sheep stained rocks
bright paint splinters
blue into chilly green waters
aground amongst sheep
Copyright © 2018 Kim Whysall-Hammond
Another great poem from Betty, and time I shared one with you…
.
He says she’s over the hill,
that she’s dancing
with entropy
toward the valley below
.
but she hears the call
of flickers, and the chitter
of squirrels,
and she sees ahead
.
lush meadows, tall trees,
and moss-covered stones
on the path
by a sapphire river.
.
There, she’ll follow the scent
of her own deep roots
to a range of mountains,
their tops hidden
.
in the subtleties he missed
between the lines
on her face
when e’er she smiled.
.
.
(c) 2018 Betty Hayes Albright
.
