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Archive for November, 2014

Stone Roses

stone walls and roses

A poem for my great-grandmother Hazel Applebee from England. She was the family romantic who grew up in England and loved to tell stories about castles.

Stone Roses

We stand
West of a whisper
Close to falling in love.
Twin souls
Bending over balconies
Watching
Stone roses blooming
In moon smoke.

We meet
The bitter and the sweet
At midnight
Lighting candles in the chapel
For the breath of fire
Born free
In the hanging space
Of saints.

The Merlot
On our lips,
As red as the berry
Before death,
Betrays us
As the heart
Betrays us
To love
Who ever
We must.

Passion
Ties charms
To rain drops
Looking for a chalice
Finding
The cottage teapot
Cracked brown with the age
Of our tears.
The magic invisible.

We are
Part of the harvest
That stains the fields
We plough.
We never
Surrendered
To the black sheep
Passing through
Our separate lives.

Years from now
We will walk
Through honeyed dust
Collecting seeds
Of a memory,
Weary
Of a path grown short
And shadows
Gone blind.

Crossing over
The silent fields
We look for
Grape vines
Finding
Spring weeds
Growing up fences
And black sheep
Passing by
Stone roses.

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Sea Grape Vines on South Beach, Hutchinson Island, Florida

Remember Me

Old I am and tired,
Asleep beneath the sea grape vine.
Invisible between its roots
And shell rock middens,
This shore that once was mine.

This old house of sand
Has always been my refuge;
Is the only one that stands
In memory to the ships and battles
Fought against the sea.

This old house and I
Have heard the hollow din of gulls
As they fish in swells.
We have listened to the searching sounds
Of warning bells in storms.

We have kept the secrets
Of treasures and pirates’ pleasures,
And hid our eyes from fortunes spent
By men and governments
Against my brothers and the elements.

With hearts
Of courage, we have lived to see
That nature never meant for any man
To lose, to win, to challenge.
And in seeing, we learned to balance.

As you stand
before this house of mine, be honored.
Few men will keepers be.
Most slip between the shifting sands,
Mournful, losing, never learning.

Remember me

The first soul that lived here free,
And remember me
in the breath now blowing
Across the sea.
I am he who bends in life to wind.

I am Native.

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