Yes, Said She

Yes, said she

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Angela Carole Brown is the author of three published books, The Assassination of Gabriel Champion, The Kidney Journals: Memoirs of a Desperate Lifesaver, and Trading Fours, is a recipient of the Heritage/Soulword Magazine Award in poetry, and has produced several albums of music and a yoga/mindfulness CD.   Bindi Girl Chronicles is her writing blog.  Follow her on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram & YouTube.

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The Daughter’s Sonnet (A Father’s Day Tribute)

 Old-Man-12

 

if by thy brow a simple sweat doth bleed

a countenance of noble toil hence laboured

then bounty borne god wouldst baptize the seed

to harvest rich the terra to be savoured

 

much have i pondered on the whole of thine

existence, footmen of the earth thou art

thou’st tilled the ground to ripeness, intertwining

labour and love for thy children’s start

 

the waxing of an oak from seed to tit’n

accords the span of seasons thou hast trod

through wars of men. thy battle doth enlight’n

a stalwart vigor ‘neath thy shield and rod

 

wisdom environs thine autumnal year

a gift i quest to conquer in my youth

but make myself a showy sonneteer

whilst thou with simpler words discourse in truth

 

yielding must be my grant, that i might learn

to recognize that wisdom is a page

from thy books i ought read, instead of spurn

the heart of thou who art the truest sage

 

o weary dotards, weak only in frame

thy wizened visage resting on the world

a yore of life abundant thy sole claim

whilst greater words ne’er from a mouth unfurled

 

growth and a shaping yet have i to mold

to learn from thee thy lessons, men of old

 

 

 

 

 
Angela Carole Brown is the author of three published books, The Assassination of Gabriel Champion, The Kidney Journals: Memoirs of a Desperate Lifesaver, and Trading Fours, is a recipient of the Heritage/Soulword Magazine Award in poetry, and has produced several albums of music and a yoga/mindfulness CD.   Bindi Girl Chronicles is her writing blog.

Morning-glory: A Reluctant Aubade

Morning Glory

 

That day one autumn long ago when snatched a glimpse did I

the break of morning and watched her from my window,

when through the nocturnal blinds I peeked, a dazzling hue arrested my eyes.

I saw her.

She crept upon the slumbering earth,

roving in quiet majesty beneath a starry heaven.

That day in autumn did I catch her blush and hold her secrets in my silence.

She danced before me in a grassland clearance and smiled.

And whereupon that smile stole my spirit, she looked on her offspring,

the vineyards and wheat beds,

and pondered the aftermath of the twilight storm.

Then quite in her glory morning knelt before her soil to spread forth

her caress.

Onward she crept like a feline thief as I watched her that day in autumn,

her tide almost in.

And conducted she the meeting of rays to rain on rooftops.

Morning bowed when she caught sight of the ground below

on which rested a wet leaf and a chilly worm.

Victim to the biting crisp was he, that worm, changing tempos of his journey,

slowing to decipher a warmer place.

And in her maternal clemency morning scooped him up in her palm and blew

a warming breath;

the tiniest of treasures for a journeyed worm.

And I wept for her gentleness and called her god.

I clung to sweet morning as the young cock crew, already bereft of her inevitable passing.

Would that she could live ever to keep me warm.

And morning sobbed.

Anointed she the soil on which I have walked a fair many seasons.

Loved her did I that day in autumn, but understood her not.

Only that madness would take me if not relieved of my pining,

and I gripped fast the hem of her garment lest she leave me

lost in the terrors of night.

Swallowed her I tried,

poured her over me to lose myself within her bosom and linger in her

diurnal greatness.

Yet morning spoke, and bade me fear not the illusory monsters of dark.

“They are but reflections of your fear.”

And morning called herself not god.

“Merely a tilling limb, night being the humble other.”

I would not listen.  Could not.

She passed across my heart, perched me on a high ridge that I might

watch her move through the trees and provoke them to dance.

Morning sprinkled her sun over the sea bed and me.

And out of her sun-drenched gourd drank I, and became like a drunkard.

Never quenching.  Never satisfied.  Always thirsting.

‘Til distorted she became and disappeared.

 

 

A vigiled quiet hung from airy ropes,

as I mourned my mistress’ demise,

and all on earth bowed in reverence,

falling to dreaming as was their custom.

The yellow river ceased its merrymaking and stilled itself to drowse,

where not far from its bank the whippoorwill sang, calling out to the dusky mystery.

Her sun was no more.

How like a tumor my heart did rupture,

for all that once did hide me from black gloom now

sold me like a bawd to night’s fondle.

And I felt morning’s treason and sat helpless.

So night stalked.

Beneath an eerie crescent I hovered and cursed morning’s betrayal,

seeking refuge amid frosted primrose and sleeping cypress.

Thus from the breathless clouds sauntered an infamous moon,

a hunter’s moon,

that rendered ghost stories for an audience perturbed.

And my fear alighted in anticipation of phantoms that walk the earth.

Of dragons and fallen angels that haunt the body and unrest the spirit.

Of skies so black as would harrow up the soul of Proserpine herself,

and make her a blind worshipper of the light.

And night strutted before me in exalted fervor,

as from the pores of earth bled an accompanying symphony of vainglory,

parading before me in a strange and frightening beauty.

Night caught me, a tangled fly.

While set ablaze the sky did he with trinkets of opal and ice.

And dazzled were my unbelieving eyes.

I watched night work in his regal splendor,

sucking up the fugue of day, to spit forth the grand suite of nightfall.

Glorious was the music of this eclipse.

A presence seeped within my flesh,

replacing fear with awe.

And heaven chanted.

Compelled was I to join the firmaments.

Before me night creatures frolicked and showed me his masterpiece.

Dancing fireflies who gave me the tease of light ornamented hickory and oak,

silhouetted against an indigo sky,

whose visions reminisced of Christmas pines.

Whereas the thunderous rumble of nature rang across the celestial roof,

night wrapped me in his lithe black cloak and caused me to fall in deep love.

There I indulged in the dark enigma of night,

drowned myself in his inky nectar to wear him on me,

and thought no more on her majesty the morning.

‘Til while in my reverie night’s tide began to fold,

and before my witness faded from his eminent power to a rueful grey.

My spirit caved as I prophesied a second betrayal.

When all at once the splinter of her dawn dashed out night’s heart and left him to falter.

(So left she my wrecked heart as well.)

And night closed his labored eyes, and nobly fell to his cycled quietus.

 

The fickle two!    Ahhhh, my heart.

 

Serenely did sigh a hummingbird sweet.

Softly did burst into the bloom the magnificent morning-glory.

And whereupon the inconstant night yielded to morning’s inconstant orb,

and I forced to endure the insufferable inconstancy,

once more did I weep.

For loved them both did I that day and night in autumn long ago,

and for the days and nights to come,

of every season.

And sorrowed yet surrendered

that seize them each my prisoner in selfish grip

I could not,

and call them my very own.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Angela Carole Brown is the author of three published books, The Assassination of Gabriel Champion, The Kidney Journals: Memoirs of a Desperate Lifesaver, and Trading Fours, and has produced several albums of music and a yoga/mindfulness CD.   Bindi Girl Chronicles is her writing blog.   Follow her on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram & YouTube.

I Discover Treasures

CrosswalkBox

 

Newborn pups suckling from their mother
who is wary of the stranger stopping to take it all in.
As well she should be for her protection of her young is a wonderful thing to behold.

A lone bloom in a garden full of yet-grown flowers.

A couple on a street corner holding hands and kissing.
Perhaps a little too intimate for public view.
So deliciously meretricious.

A crosswalk box so layered in endless encounters with midnight taggers and their spray paint cans
that it has transcended its civic role and become art.

A fledgling on the pavement before me
whose little life has been lost from falling out of the nest too soon.
The scurrying ants upon it.

The windshield glass in the street shattered into snow and the splats of red upon it.
The ubiquitous yellow tape.
Remnants of a city tragedy that are merely an inevitable part in the tapestry.

A sky that radiates a marbled canvas of unspeakable magnificence.
Or the rolling dark angry eyes of a tempest creeping.

The tiniest thing is mine.

All mine.

To love.

To cherish.

To covet.

To reflect upon.

To mourn.

Perhaps a moment of silence and a bowed head.

Just another day on my morning walk.   A meditation.

Until it is someone else’s turn for a captivating discovery.

And then to be able to let it go.

To appreciate its impermanence.

To move on to the next wonder.

The next brush.

The next audacious interception with life in all of its astonishment.

I once opened a fortune cookie to a fortune that was meant for me:
You discover treasures where others see nothing unusual.

 

I DO discover treasures where others see nothing unusual.

It is my proudest trick.

I also brazenly plagiarize fortune cookies.

 

 

 

 

 

Angela Carole Brown is the author of three published books, The Assassination of Gabriel Champion, The Kidney Journals: Memoirs of a Desperate Lifesaver, and Trading Fours, and has produced several albums of music and a yoga/mindfulness CD.   Bindi Girl Chronicles is her writing blog.   Follow her on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram & YouTube.