Gentle, protective
Rain’s sound keeps harm full away
Mossy clad, I rest.

*

Panic and Stress danced
Hand in hand down flowered aisles
Toward neoned Black Holes

What is it?
is it is or is it it?
or the patina
they make on a page?

Like a Baby’s dimple,
Where ?

Will the “real” poet know?
The perfect wordsmith
To the perfect word,
Carrying it from his cart
Of the ordinary to the
Front of the self-service line,
Dropping it in.
Its characteristic sound
Clues us to its use
Reveals the depth of perfection
We can expect
Soon, so, soon.

Will we be freed to gambol
In its air,
Gavotte to its flute,
While others with no smithing shingle sink?

Words’ devotees
Blithely capture breaths,
Keeping them
On Holiday
All the moments
Of allotted existence and
Given utterance
As the gift with no returns.

Then, a phantom baby cries.
And the Smith must launch the
Search again.

CHARLENE JAMES-DUGUID
Amissville Virginia 

Where did this cup with its
Vague, happy flowers come from
And this scarf, torn cross the beauty of its face?

The pen, the boot, only one of a set,
Will there be more coming Venus-like from the mire
Called my life?

Discarded carelessly, rendering chances
For a true requiem impossible.
That would take thought .
There is none here.

Instead
Pick one or even some to archive,
Wrap carefully, ribbon as you wish
And wish as you ribbon.

If the sting disappears in the act
You are lucky,
If not,
you hurt, you cry, you mourn
The day the cup, scarf, boot
Entered your life.

Charlene James-Duguid
Amissville, Virginia

“Helen,” I asked in all seriousness,
“Do mathematicians play or
Work
With numbers?

Before she answered, she gave me that
Signature

Helen-throws-back-her-head-
And-enjoys-the-moment-
With-a-healthy laugh.

Will she solve my dilemma,
Apply advanced calculations to
My adding and subtracting?

She is my prime number,
My quantity of infinity,
Always becoming
The poem with such ease,
Writing itself with silky smooth chalk
Traveling whitely, brightly across
A fifth grade blackboard.

No question too large.
No formula too long.
Helen, at the ready,
With slide rule in hand,
Makes knowing all too much fun to be work.

Charlene James-Duguid
Amissville, Virginia

Why a Lion
In my dreams
Magnificent, bedecked with
Autumnal flowers,
Staring. Why?

An alarm shocks the dark
Then stops
To unsettle the lion’s gaze.

It is no Lion.
A Tiger instead
Festooned in Springtime
Hoping to burn bright
Knowing Nature says
‘Not this time.”

Now give the Lynx her day
In a soundless place,
A place
Perfection sings its
Lithesome song
Dressed in choral garb
She needs no fashioned cloak.
In itself she is enough.

Charlene James
Amissville, Virginia