Poetry

I once lived at the top of a mountain
Above the fog which billowed and shifted beneath my feet
Like the gently lapping waves of a great, white sea.
Other peaks poked through that vast ocean –
Isolated islands.
And the sky above was very clear and bright.

Unseen people below me looked up
And saw nothing but a flat, grey ceiling –
A fitting cover for a dreary world
Full of busy-ness and duty and
Feet planted firmly on the ground.
And beneath that grey, the California seasons
Pass by unnoticed in monotonous sameness.

But on the mountaintop, I watched the cycle of life –
The sight of the first glowing, translucent leaves of spring.
The hot, heavy scent of sage and dusty summer oak.
The whisperings and rustling of dying leaves.
And the delicate caress of the first snowflake on my cheek.

Every season
I climbed to the highest peak
And sat alone above the world
Silent and at peace.

—Joan Kerr

Childish beliefs in fairy tales
Deaf ears and blind eyes;
Courted by a fraud:
Carried away by his lies.

Naïve trust of rogue
Who became so profane:
So cruel in pursuit of pleasure
A harbinger of pain.

Headlong into disaster
The foolish maid is lain.
The “happily ever after”
A sorrowful refrain.

Purity and trust betrayed
By the fists of rage:
Love turned to ashes
Only a stain of blood remains.

—Kathleen Ellis Faulkner

Life is only a moment
In the span of eternity
A blink of an eye
So short a time to live
To enjoy our planet earth
To find the right person
With whom to share it
To be one with them
To watch the sun set
To have children
And each day
Live the life to its fullest
For in a blink of an eye
It will be gone, forever

—Kelsie Gates

Dark shadows enclose the wall of bricks at 5055 Canal Street, New Orleans, Louisiana.
A place of old spindly trees, fallen tombs and scattered bricks moistened green with moss,
We seek for a remnant of a grandfather who died young and his memory lost:
Entombed at Odd Fellows Rest Cemetery and forgotten for almost a century.
Maybe one fallen brick, linear and final,
Will engrave his name in the red masonry:

John Ellis, our progenitor, as we were told:
“Was an Irishman, linked to the Viking race:
A singing voice that would soothe the soul.
Blue eyed, a muscular stature, broad shoulders, a trim waist,
With an unquenchable thirst and a hearty taste.”

The wrought iron gate is rusted shut
From our generation anew:
It seems strange to think we exist
By only the dice that Fate threw.

—Kathleen Ellis Faulkner

After

an hour of staring into space,

a cup of coffee that would have been better

shared with you,

wondering what you said,

wondering what you really said,

after

conflicting emotions wrestle within,

after

the numbness,

after

the struggle

to put the experience into words

and concede that I am unable,

the tears arrive.

There is nothing to say.

—Virginia Bush