Yes, to cure a terrible disease, to dispel a disaster,
To step up as a hero, mighty in determination,
Pulling out every ounce of good from a tragic time.
This is noble.  Praiseworthy.

But,
To sew a seam,
Hoe a garden,
Catch a trout,
Fill a chalk board,
Patch a bike tire,
Make a bed,
Write a poem,
Dust a piano.

These million tasks of life,
Go unmentioned.
Everyday deeds unrecorded in
The History of Labor.

Yet deep down when the task done feels good,
A delightful whistle rises between the lips
Curling past the tongue.
It comes along like memories of children
Keeping time with elves along the path.

So we celebrate the minutes that pass as days.
The stack of logs,
The fires made,
The warm baked breads,
The homes kept safe,
The comfort built by hands and hearts
In small and gentle ways.

Charlene James-Duguid
Amissville, Virginia

The characteristic lilt in her voice
Made the names, abandoned for centuries, live.
Women mostly forgotten, as their bruised knees hit the floor
In prayer again and again.

“No wait! ”
They must have had kneelers embroidered exquisitely .
Silk threads telling epic stories of saints transformed from sinners.

As she called out their names: Photini, Melania, Eudoxia and Pelagia,
As she rounded up the Marys from Egypt and Mesopotamia
Pausing to highlight the Magdalene,
I wonder if she wondered why she had been misnamed,
Outside this sorority that she so envied.

“But never you mind,”
Her optimism, ever-cheery wins out.

Finding the
True Cross
And
Mothering an emperor

“Was pretty darn good,”for a namesake.

Charlene James- Duguid
Amissville, Virginia

Without a second thought,
Sara put the sun and moon,
the stars, clouds, shadows, and beams
Connected with a divine design of hues, to shame.

She stood quite still, near the corner of the room,
Without a word, but anticipating a gentle sigh, one
Of so many that the past year had brought round.|
Accustomed to its resigned serenity
No words were necessary, her creativity
Enveloped her.

A perfection of color we could not name
Radiated from her presence, releasing
The crayola spectrum in a sweet range of melons.
Sherbet or sorbet dance on her sleeve
Raising the message of delight,
While from head to toe
All we want to do
Is watch her glow.

Charlene James-Duguid
Amissville, Virginia 

He’s definitely no ordinary clay pot.
In fact, don’t load Him with flowers.
Roses and irises, peonies and asters will fade immediately.

By origin He is a mystery
Roasted in a kiln
To an unnameable, untamable
Color.
Never again will it be.

So far He’s kept His peace
Derived His power from
What might have been a lunar beam
Or a star gone astray
On His eyelid.

If you are wise, replace the bewilderment
You are thinking right now with bewarement.

Pack up your posies
Leave Him to
His omnipotence,
And walk quickly away.

Charlene James-Duguid
Amissville, Virginia 

How can you lose a love
Then stay alive.  Kiss him
Routinely good bye
To learn
In shock
It was farewell.

To watch a smile
Spread on the
Face accustomed to grinning
Only to meet that visage
Again, wIth a tear.

A photo left, of exuberant fun,
All black/and/white when that was all there was,
with skin sheening, eyes sparkling,
Ready for the next shake of hand and slap of back.

The teacher, the husband, the lover beyond compare,
Waiting, wanting the party,
Where chance had turned off the lights,
To begin the revels again.

Heard in the beer halls of heaven,
His laughter
Keeps sweet Jane alive.

Charlene James-Duguid
Amissville,Virginia 

The lucky kind only, of course
And in the most unusual times and places
Of course, perchance  an unusual kind of kid,
Of course.

Oh, it’s not only the smile,
But the mellow, growing smarter,
Year into year,
Matinee idol popping out of every photo.

Cary, Gary, Jimmy
Reincarnate,
Waiting for his subtle joke to
Capture their moment of frivolity
To take its magic hold.

No, Mo, you don’t have to do a thing,
Play a trick,
Juggle three balls or come up with
A bunny wriggling it nose.

No Mo, what you have is
All you have to do.

Charlene James-Duguid
Amissville, Virginia

My grandmother, who used her little scale
To weigh each meal during Lent,
Would not know what to make of it.

“What, no numbers, no sobbing,
No penance of a hundred rosaries a day
For the next month?
How can God forgive, if you were let off so
Easy?”

“I don’t know, Granny, all I can say
Is that times,
And maybe even God, change.”

No one ever talked about it.
Not even her grandparents
Who knew her best
And had seen the silent whirlwinds
Take shape each time magic was in demand.

Not the gamboling pixie type
Or one with leprechauneske qualities,
But a – one – of -a -kind rendition
Merlin called a marvel.

Grandma with her pure spirituality
thought it had something to do with her saint’s name.
Grandpa, suited with his scientific bent, believed
Firmly
It had to do with the way her brain was wired.

Those of us on the outside, joying over
Poppies and anemones she caused to blossom
Gave it no name.
Why?
Having it, unfettered by a calling, sans wonder,
Was quite enough.

Charlene James-Duguid
Amissville, Virginia 

Pick it apart to glue it together again,
But how?
with places or people ,
Telling bright stories ,
Old Folks’ memories ,
With several woes to keep it real ?

A beautiful child, exploring unafraid.

Selected arrangements of light and color
Coming, going, staying, leaving,
Tied in the privilege of lives well-lived.
Joys remembered, wars recalled,
Never striking a chord, merely a sanctuary bell,
Designed to reverence the day.

Char James-Duguid
Amissville, Virginia 

I wish for the sleep of a babe,
A newborn child,
Its sweet, short  snooze.
Effortless.

I’d even steal it, if need be,
To luxuriate in the peace of no memories–
Clear of half-bakering schemes,
Cropping up for businesses,
Or inventions
Or even poems.

I want to sleep among the puffy whiteness
Of a fresh-made crib of one too young to think.
No dreams, just slumber.
Yes, yes, yes.

No, no, no, oh no!
Had I forgotten?

Modern times say no more buntings,
Now it’s a plain

cardboard box

Charlene James-Duguid
Amissville, Virginia