Poem Definitions XXXIV- XXXIX
XXXIV. HEIR, for Tom Gabbard
Conspiring minds care to know
Which hands will lift the chinks
What homage to restrain or show
To what name the lawyer inks.
The king is dead long live the queen!
But the blessed saint reigned days, just nine
Before Mary's crown was seen
Craving until her monarch rays
Revived her supplanted church
But proved she inherited the Tudor curse
Unhappy was her marriage bed.
Oh disinherit me like my Queen Jane!
Although she lost all and then her head
The comfort of her soul remained.
XXXV. LAVENDAR, for Kate V.
You could not escape the calmness
From the anointing of her head
Her gaze upturned and steady
By her infusing of every dread
With the immortal, patient flower
Which was how fragrant patience spread
To all the persons in our elevator
A call to live knowing yesterday is dead.
Remember all the fields of France
The purple hills with sunsets red.
Trains sliding in their trek to Rome
With transports full the bane of war.
My dear calm memory take the flood
Of fields drenched in LAVENDAR
Instead of crimson blood.
XXXVI. CHEMISTRY for Alex B.
The man he was a chemist
I had believed he was a prophet
Many hold both occupations
And are unsure which one prevails.
I was to him a lab rat,
One he called caressing names
Each one I believed was a Truth
'Lady fair,' and 'mighty queen'
Or that stronger of his commands
That I might just be "Me,"
I was unaware (oh trusting heart!)
That every look and little touch
Was his own cold experiment
Whilst I thought a palace of this hutch.
"I am just not for you," was his declared result
Which meant I was too strange a rat:
Too loyal, too quickly won;
Too much of a loving dog
And my heart had been dug up easy
The Chemist, disappointed, then released me--
Full of the scars and toxins of his chemistry.
XXXVII. BLOOM, for Hannah C.
Brown and corse from weathered storms
Under-watered and decidedly dead.
So was the wretched Rose Bush
Sleeping in a forgotten plot of bed.
"Remember, remember, remember!"
Whispered the gasping weeds
"When we were tasting April rains?
When the ladybugs tickled our leaves?
When your blossoms were offset with greens?"
In dead silence the bush received these taunts.
No, she could not remember, all was thirst.
What was the taste of black most soil?
Or the comfort of worms beneath the Earth?
What really was a Gardener, a legend or a myth?
The days possessed this same pained question
Until three noisy children broke on through.
Forcing open the rusted door,
A fox ready amid her thorns,
"Look!" Was the astonished cry,
"Her heart is still alive and green!"
As proof from a severed bough.
Pruned and watered through the Fall
In May her roses more splendid than any year had seen.
XXXVII. FINAL HOPE, for Vivek
At last this solitude was welcome
The silent madness in the moor
Amid the heathered breezes
A change from Thornfield doors.
"Let all my dreams be shattered,
These stars recall me to Thee, Lord."
Gazing at the heaven-lights
Prayers most eloquent were wordless
"No, I am not a bird, but just as friendless
Ease this pain in my sparrow heart."
The rains rattled on her neat-stitched sleeves
Twice her feet slid under weary weight
Of a bonding cord she meant to break.
"Rest my soul in thy Maker-King
And let Adams surgeon
Attend to the inward bleeding."
Dignaty had given her feet their wings
When all her veins were hot to stay.
Fly O'friendless bird,
And trust your flight is seen
But the solitary pilgrim's keeper
A companion walking through the Moor.
XXXIX. TRILL, for Ben R.
The very sound that is immortal
A Nightingale haunting the Poet's night
Or else in his song's variety,
Shattering an imitation jeweled and bright.
Tones causing the eyes to open slow
While eternal Joy wells within.
Something in it recalls us home
Amid the trees, before fruit forbidden.
A song Adam heard for a lullaby
And awoke to sing his own rendition
When first seeing Bone of Bone take breath.
Were birds the first of our instructors?
Did they contribute to how David learned
To play so sweet and skillful
To ease a devil tormented King?
Some days those tones strike ill our drums
And rattle through an angry soul
Until he calls, "Enough! Have done!"
And hurls a spear into his wall.
The old man who tries to silence birds
For grieving memories accompany the tune.
Yet I shall welcome that strange voice to me,
When surrounded by metal siren wail.
Enchant me little trilling feathered thing,
And I will weep when winter claims thy silencing.
Conspiring minds care to know
Which hands will lift the chinks
What homage to restrain or show
To what name the lawyer inks.
The king is dead long live the queen!
But the blessed saint reigned days, just nine
Before Mary's crown was seen
Craving until her monarch rays
Revived her supplanted church
But proved she inherited the Tudor curse
Unhappy was her marriage bed.
Oh disinherit me like my Queen Jane!
Although she lost all and then her head
The comfort of her soul remained.
XXXV. LAVENDAR, for Kate V.
You could not escape the calmness
From the anointing of her head
Her gaze upturned and steady
By her infusing of every dread
With the immortal, patient flower
Which was how fragrant patience spread
To all the persons in our elevator
A call to live knowing yesterday is dead.
Remember all the fields of France
The purple hills with sunsets red.
Trains sliding in their trek to Rome
With transports full the bane of war.
My dear calm memory take the flood
Of fields drenched in LAVENDAR
Instead of crimson blood.
XXXVI. CHEMISTRY for Alex B.
The man he was a chemist
I had believed he was a prophet
Many hold both occupations
And are unsure which one prevails.
I was to him a lab rat,
One he called caressing names
Each one I believed was a Truth
'Lady fair,' and 'mighty queen'
Or that stronger of his commands
That I might just be "Me,"
I was unaware (oh trusting heart!)
That every look and little touch
Was his own cold experiment
Whilst I thought a palace of this hutch.
"I am just not for you," was his declared result
Which meant I was too strange a rat:
Too loyal, too quickly won;
Too much of a loving dog
And my heart had been dug up easy
The Chemist, disappointed, then released me--
Full of the scars and toxins of his chemistry.
XXXVII. BLOOM, for Hannah C.
Brown and corse from weathered storms
Under-watered and decidedly dead.
So was the wretched Rose Bush
Sleeping in a forgotten plot of bed.
"Remember, remember, remember!"
Whispered the gasping weeds
"When we were tasting April rains?
When the ladybugs tickled our leaves?
When your blossoms were offset with greens?"
In dead silence the bush received these taunts.
No, she could not remember, all was thirst.
What was the taste of black most soil?
Or the comfort of worms beneath the Earth?
What really was a Gardener, a legend or a myth?
The days possessed this same pained question
Until three noisy children broke on through.
Forcing open the rusted door,
A fox ready amid her thorns,
"Look!" Was the astonished cry,
"Her heart is still alive and green!"
As proof from a severed bough.
Pruned and watered through the Fall
In May her roses more splendid than any year had seen.
XXXVII. FINAL HOPE, for Vivek
At last this solitude was welcome
The silent madness in the moor
Amid the heathered breezes
A change from Thornfield doors.
"Let all my dreams be shattered,
These stars recall me to Thee, Lord."
Gazing at the heaven-lights
Prayers most eloquent were wordless
"No, I am not a bird, but just as friendless
Ease this pain in my sparrow heart."
The rains rattled on her neat-stitched sleeves
Twice her feet slid under weary weight
Of a bonding cord she meant to break.
"Rest my soul in thy Maker-King
And let Adams surgeon
Attend to the inward bleeding."
Dignaty had given her feet their wings
When all her veins were hot to stay.
Fly O'friendless bird,
And trust your flight is seen
But the solitary pilgrim's keeper
A companion walking through the Moor.
XXXIX. TRILL, for Ben R.
The very sound that is immortal
A Nightingale haunting the Poet's night
Or else in his song's variety,
Shattering an imitation jeweled and bright.
Tones causing the eyes to open slow
While eternal Joy wells within.
Something in it recalls us home
Amid the trees, before fruit forbidden.
A song Adam heard for a lullaby
And awoke to sing his own rendition
When first seeing Bone of Bone take breath.
Were birds the first of our instructors?
Did they contribute to how David learned
To play so sweet and skillful
To ease a devil tormented King?
Some days those tones strike ill our drums
And rattle through an angry soul
Until he calls, "Enough! Have done!"
And hurls a spear into his wall.
The old man who tries to silence birds
For grieving memories accompany the tune.
Yet I shall welcome that strange voice to me,
When surrounded by metal siren wail.
Enchant me little trilling feathered thing,
And I will weep when winter claims thy silencing.
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