I'll Never Forget You Dear

I think of you in the sunshine,
I dream night and day of you.
When all the world is silent,
And the stars shine out in the blue.

And wheather the hours are golden
Or weather the day be drear,
It seems you're beside me always-
I never forget you dear!

I see your eyes in the stars, love.
I hear your voice in the sea,
The spell of your tender presence
Goes over the world with me.

And distance cannot divide us,
Though far away, or near,
In my heart of hearts you dwell, love,
I never forget you dear!

The stars may forget their places,
The day may forget to break:
The flight of the hours may alter,
The rose may forget to wake.

But love that is true is forever,
Not a day, nor a month, nor a year;
To the end of the world I love you,
I never forget you dear!

-W.C. Harris
Long Branch West Virginia
1876-1936

The River Of Swans Poem #32

Though the vacant field was peopled with the pallor of naked trees/ and those piercing yellow shards warmed me toward newer poetry of Summer’s charm/ the effect of the day was as amber darkening clay, the colour of pitch blood. An interment of our decision to ask, the past is an empty sky worn southward and cool ravens eyes seem to watch me today insistently – Though the singing air could coax me (when I am willing) beyond an uncertain death / Of breath and gazes, our flagrant light lifts those darker shadows, sending them reeling against orange flame of edged horizons, where nothing must subsist.

-T. Byron Kelly
From The River of Swans
Summer 1995

Advent Omega/ Ascension-Love Conquers Poem #21

O throng of blackbirds risen against a slow shift of grey clouds (newly)
parting/ O the hope and the high arch of wondrous flock- slowly adrift then 
risen like quick arrows emboldened by the sun. To curve and 
sweep/ slow truth [the] deep destiny of time's removal and 
halo's in bright gold of rainbow's surmounting/ O love and the fair 
wings of trust/ you must have been beautiful, departing that
lonely afternoon and  as the Angels sang/ your four winds blended
with ocean mists-Your promise is still simply Grace/
as our cold monuments fade into misunderstanding. Love long/ the true
witness born/ the unsearchable poetry of vision-entwined 
of fire/ O body's guest/ Return the mind or flower frond-Tonight I think of deep born 
Spring and the sure Light which ordains the trees into green/ tonight the vast
sky looks into Winter/ as stars tender their far gleaming and recount colour of noon gusts of snow light .

-T. Byron Kelly
11/22/1998
Revised
4/27/2007
https://soundcloud.com/studioappal/ascension-poem-21

We Are Builders

(y)our words
hold a mighty power
to build up
and to tear down

maturation
of the spirit
gives the strength
to control the impulse
to destroy

so the gifts
of words
and wit
and wisdom
and where-with-all

aren't used

in a harmful way.

we can give
kindness
love
forgiveness
gratitude
praise
hope
empathy
caring
understanding

with our words

on
purpose.

(thank you God.)

Amy K.
February 2008
Blue Ridge Mountains, Virginia

Message

secrets of the spirit
sing in the wind,
listen very closely ...

your heart will mend.

Amy K.
May 2007
Blue Ridge Mountains, Virginia

Dost Thou Remember

Dost thou remember, dearest heart,
Before our lives were torn apart
How oft we met beneath the pines
Through which the silver moonlight shines?

Dost thou remember, fairest one,
Our midnight joy rides and fun?
When oft we took paths obscure
And found delight in each detour?

Does memory fail you, oh, my love,
How from New River's heights above
We lingered long midst leaf and fern,
While friends awaited our return?

Will time erase the tragic scene
When love and passion swayed my Queen?
Where lash-horns met across the trail.

When storms had passed and fogs dispelled,
Some wondrous scenes our eyes beheld;
Again we view the flock with pride,
Each lamb is safe at mother's side.

But time has turned another page
And storms still in your bosom rage;
One question I would ask tonight:
Will love or passion win the fight?

-Walter C. Harris
Long Branch West Virginia
1876-1936

Where A Lamp Is Lit

Light spills through a window filtered by a broken blind onto a littered street; a flood of warmth amidst blight. I imagine someone is sheltering there— away from the graffiti on the warped plywood boarding up the next house, the pawn shop wrapped in bars, needles on the ground.

-Patricia Thrushart
 http://www.thewatershedjournal.org/

What Your Cousin Davey Knew

What Your Cousin Davey Knew

Do you think your cousin Davey knew,

When he suddenly died at 62,

That the time he sat on his front porch

After supper,

Under the Summer Triangle,

When the air was finally cooling off—

          God it was a hot one—

his thoughts drowned out

By the katydids and cricket calls,

The trilling owl and far-away yelp

Of the coyotes,

Answered by the rising bay of his hounds

In their compound just behind the

Clapboard house—

          Missing a few shingles

          And a shutter or two—

Things he just hadn’t gotten around to

fixing

Quite yet;

Do you think he knew

That it was the last time he’d see those brightening stars,

Or hear that fine chorus,

Or hush his dogs—

           for Pete’s sake, shut up—

Or that he’d never get

to those little annoying repairs? Patricia Thrushart
 http://www.thewatershedjournal.org/

Coyote

Coyote

I forget that you are there

Coyote, you sly one

in your canine cleverness.

You the trickster of ancient stories

who spread the stars with your tail—

You fool me.

I’m distracted by

the bumbling possum,

the facile raccoon,

the leggy beauty of the flighty doe,

or even the lumbering bear who fears nothing, clawing the trunks of great trees

and feasting on seedy berries and fish.

I never see

you Coyote,

and barely notice your traces of

muddy prints and bleached bones.

Yes, I forget. I walk, my dogs run ahead;

blissful they are, happy to find the bones you leave, happy to sniff your lingering presence. And me, I walk unaware, until

at night

late with no moon

your howls with unearthly overtones

fill the forest and

my primal human hair

rises up on my neck

and I remember

that you stalk the fawn and

the grouse and

the pet and possibly

even me.

I think in your howls I hear

the reminder that life is

moment to moment,

full of peril;

and safety a dangerous illusion

born of chosen ignorance

so that one can enjoy

a walk. Patricia Thrushart
http://www.thewatershedjournal.org/

Snow In April

Snow in April,
white moths in the sky
fly willfully
in the bright sunshine.
Mood of the passerby
with a yellow blossoming tree nearby
swung by
the traceless fairies in delight！

Snow in April,
fine salt over the soil,
disappears quietly,
where gathering starlings stand by. 
Hurried heart on spring journey,
comforted by
the cool
before the coming of the night.

Min Katherine Liu
Virginia Tech
WVArts Solitude
Spring 2016

Hometown Of Wind

I was born in
the hometown of wind,
where it is windy constantly.
Throughout dark nights/ and bright days;
where meteor streaks across even
with a strong blowing,
breaks into glistening lakes  
on the colorful ground around.

Migratory birds are confused easily:
Winter and summer are very short
While warmth is long,
Seasons cycle unusually;
Homesick seawater goes upstream frequently,
assisted by the wind
to embrace the snow mountain
and fall in a serene sleep ahead.

There grains grow so quickly,
golden sunlight in the field
satisfies/ all tongues and granaries.
The rest of the time people read poems, 
boil the wine* and laugh joyfully,
ride the wind to roam distantly. 


There women’s hair dances around
like blossoming fireworks/ or flowers;
There blooms are longer than elsewhere,
no disconsolate lovers.
Tears waft far away soon 
after they stream
and are a rainfall to moisten desires. 


Wind shuttles everywhere,
seeds, longings, dreams
and perfume of lives,
as dandelions root anywhere,
grow in an instant
into what they once expected.


Eternal souls wander with the wind
among the timeless future, reality and past
like shadows following the moonlight––
neither part in life,
nor separation by death,
for/ it is the hometown of wind.



*Boiling the wine is a custom in ancient China and even in some places of current China, which intends to warm the wine. After boiling the wine, some fruits such as greengages and preserved plums are added into the hot wine. People wait to drink the wine until the tart flavour of the fruits disappears.

Min Katherine Liu
Virginia Tech
WVArts Solitude
Spring 2016