Stitched Verse: Joyce Mason poetry

Showing posts with label Joyce Mason poetry. Show all posts

Friday, October 2, 2015

Roots/Delicate Flower

Revisiting my past

the places I grew up

the people who made me who I am today:

waters my roots

a human flower

survivor of many growing seasons.

How deep this structure

that supports me

through every kind of weather

excess sun/exposure,

bitter rains,

hail, frost and storms

of all kinds

assaults that bend

and even level delicate buds

but never touch the strong

rebirth medium

thick dirt sanctuary

for limitless resurrections.

Some people and places

fertilize blooming

some give ideal growing conditions

others—hope

when the plant looks dead

or destroyed beyond all

recognition.

These people and places

are the ribbons

that hold together

a spray of freshly picked blooms.

They make possible

a lifetime of beauty.

To them I give my bouquet.

~~~

Photo Credit: kichigin19 – Fotolia.com

Sunday, September 27, 2015

A Friendship Prayer

Protect me, O Lord;

My boat is so small

And your Sea is so big.

~ Traditional Christian Fisherman’s Prayer

May those who have been in the same boat

Be life preservers to each other.

May synchronized caring

Provide the oars.

May we know whatever the weather,

Rough seas pass.

Challenge, like wind and rain

Is known for its changeability.

May we feel the vast sunshine of Divine Love

Ever present

But sometimes subtle

Like the Face of God and Goddess

Reflected in our friends

And in every and person and problem

We meet.

Amen.

~~~

Photo Credit: © Christian Stoll - Fotolia.com

Thursday, March 20, 2014

Spring Haiku

Mother Nature’s kiss

On the brow of sleeping seeds

Awakens all life.

~~~

Photo Credit: © Michael Schütze - Fotolia.com

Thursday, October 31, 2013

Self-Doubt

Thank you for spinning me into self-doubt

your perfectionism a magnifying mirror

of my own.

My creations rendered ugly by your measure

words only a mother could love

the baby spanked with your measuring stick

before it draws its first independent breath.

I’m grateful for the preview

of the moments that will terrify me

when my uniqueness confronts others

more concerned with form than substance.

I’m better prepared.

I stood up to you.

Self-doubt will not be

the boss of me.

My child will go out into the world

find its own way

make its unique contribution

and if it wears purple spiked hair

with a gray flannel suit

self-expression and reverence for custom

will meet in an explosive synergy

a blast that leaves in its rubble

the best of all worlds

an explosion that might just change forever

the one where we used to (almost) live.

~~~

Tuesday, October 22, 2013

Loss and Found

When all the grief is gone

echoing the emptiness

There is only love.

And this is the reason for loss:

that we might know

the height and breadth and depth

of our capacity

to feel

to expand our hearts

to keep on loving more

until we burst

into starry fireworks

and return

to the love and light

sparks of the Creative Oneness

made in Her image:

Divine Mother.

~~~

Wednesday, July 17, 2013

Older Than Dirt

Today you are officially
old, senior by even the strictest
definition.

I dare not write
to say Happy Birthday
risk opening the ancient wound
each of us hurting the other
in ways so subtle
they go right over
our heads.

I’m still not over
your last missive
dripping regret
cursing the calendar
biology
wrinkles
being wider
maybe not wiser
your losses as palpable
as the sorrow still in my psyche
grief as old as dirt
not even buried
by four decades
and a marriage that’s right for me.

Us at our best
still eclipses the pain
the sadness
the chances we passed up
each in our turn
the eternal enmeshment
of our psyches
my dreams
a constant replay
you still haunting
my soul
with alternating grace
and damage.

I was in my scrapbooks
this week
for another reason.
You were frozen in time
young and virile.
I hit replay in your
photos, cards, gifts
vapors of your disappearing acts
rising out the pages
opportunity unrealized
loss crystallized
fading to yellow

tears of mourning
arthritis of the spirit
too old and creaky
to flow down the rut
we dug
in my cheek.

~~~

Stitched Verse