Joyce,* my friend,
Has every right to lord it over
The Brave Little Tailor.
His seven are nothing
To rival her slaughter of a single
Stink Bug.

Armed with a Shakespearean tome
In the right,
And poetic treatise in the left,
She takes off after the pest
Determined to smash it to smithereens.

Barely having recovered from a bout with
An ornery gray cat, energy renewed with a
Single deep breath, she is invincible.

That look, that Macbethean furor,
That, “Listen here your devil cat
I’ll have none of your
Shenanigans
In my house,” is ear shattering.

Hearing that, the bug should have know
Once on a tear,
Joyce is unstoppable—
Hannibal, Alexander, Charlemagne, Napoleon, MacArthur—
All you staunch-hearted tailors,
Regardless of political persuasion,
Better take care.
She’s wearing that sash
Emblazoned with her motto,

“Have no fear,
Joyce is here.”

*Joyce Abell, author of
PRICKLY ROSES
Passager Books
Baltimore, MD

Charlene James Duguid
Amissville, Virginia
2/2018

We own a forest.
Not just any forest but
a magic stand of trees.

Twenty manicured acres that exude
Primordial Powers.

Pagan callings to gods are buried
Somewhere in the tangled roots,
In the wealthy underground.

We thought it only one tree,
The Merlin Tree
Inhabited by an old, wise barn owl
Until we looked more closely at
The landscape’s bending branches
When no breeze was in the wind.

We certified it’s magic by chance.

One day,
A small puff, pink around its edges,
Trying to be a cloud,
Made a surprise appearance.

Alas,
Our responsibility was to mythical matters,
It demanded,
We were sorry to say,

‘You have to grow up, first.”

In a flash, the sky turned from blue
To permanent rouge,
A full-throated voice rang out,

“There, are you satisfied?”

What could we say but,
“Sure.”

Charlene James-Duguid
Amissville, Virginia

Years past our lives met
He reserved as stately oak
I fluttering by

No model for us
No mold to harden firmly
Only look by look

Words unworkable
Oceans streams and rivulets
Apart no love thoughts

Still there as Fuji
Majestic Being often
His frown reappears

Peonies I want
Lavish peonies I get
Profusion abounds

My wishes fulfilled
Whims become wants serious
As Noh intentions

No gifts in return
I’ve none of value slight seeds
Mature so slowly

Too late he is dead
Shattered lightening strike so strong
Clouds part fearfully

Might-have-beens since gone
Left at my lintel denied
A way to enter

My Japanese friend
Mysterious to the end
Gathering peonies

Charlene James-Duguid
Amissville, Virginia
2/25/2018

Photo by Martin Jameson

If I were a moon, any one of them,
I’d be distressed
At all this talk about waxing and waning.

First off because I don’t know what they mean.
Those dictionary!

I’m alway the same
Never smaller or larger.
Except after the holidays when I should try to
Lose a few tons,
Clean out my craters.

But those humans, their perspective
is wrong.
From where they stand
earthbound and all
This Dark Age idea speaks of their superstition
Not my bulk.

I can live with unfounded folly
And the humor of all that.

But one thing I do know for sure,
I am a reason for being, destined.

When sad angels die
They need a place to go,
A reward for bearing and harboring,
Protecting human kind from woe.

Their choices are endless
Seasides, mountaintops, sandy expanses,
Yet in wild chorus, and unending
Hallelujah
They come to one of me.

I greet they joyfully, we sing together
For without me, they’d have no home.
Without them
I’d wane away.

Charlene James-Duguid
Amissville, Virginia
2/2018

Just because he’s on the newspaper staff
Otis, that silly hound, thinks he’s so special.
Well I have NEWS for him.

No dog can snuggle and cuddle the way I can,
Or chase squirrels, that’s my talent.
It keeps me down to a svelte 49 pounds.

But squirrels are nothing,
Vanquished before breakfast.
I really star at fending off dinosaurs.
I forget I’m a lady when the job calls for
Grit.

Unlike that Dunce, Otis,
I come from a pure source, a famous , saintly Maggie,
Perhaps a bit shopworn but angelic, nonetheless,
At least to my mind.

My bark is symphonic, ripe for Carnegie Hall.
My gait is balletic, unique stylish pirouettes.

Not merely a dog
I’m as smart as Border Collies get.
Every passerby greets me with a smile
And a ruffling of my coat.

I’m irresistible they say,
Ravishingly “Me”
The one and only
Miss Maggie,
The Cudahy Canine Cutie.

Charlene James-Duguid
Amissville, Virginia

Photo Credit: John McCaslin

Puny creatures leading paltry lives
Trying to redeem our aged souls.
Nothing is what it seems to be.
Deceptive paths, trick-filled roads.
Care places with no care.
Canes that bend, chairs break.
Falls bring on finality, hamper
Our walk toward what wishes were.
Decide, once and for all,
Is living the heart of the matter
or is it reserved for its soul.
Question where we went astray
Forgetting to retrieve the golden ring
This time round riding perpetual sadness.
Is it the last note played on a reedy oboe
While a Queen of Hearts snores nearby.
Will the worth of a minute, a day, or year
outweigh the pain each second brings with it.
Can you wait while daughters squabble,
Lawyers sit in silence pretending papers
Hold the answer who controls what’s left
And all the while The Loneliness
Like a shoreside siren beguiles us.

Charlene James-Duguid
Amissville, Virginia

Photo Credit: Jackie James

So, it’s my eighth birthday, you see,
Or so they tell me, these sentimental humans.

One glance at my Mistress with my big brown orbs
And there is a treat on its way.

And today, my presumptive birthday, I’ll hit the jackpot.

One cockeyed, woebegone stare
At my Master,
And he’ll get me all the pizza crust
In Christendom.

So, I’m their birthday boy, don’t you see,
A red-letter day of their making.
Maybe true, maybe not,
But it keeps the goodies coming.
Who am I to complain.

“Otis, the birthday boy,
I’m a clever canine,
Toasty warm, fed to nearly fat
And employed.

A DOG!
With a real, live, human job.
With an editorial berth on the local tabloid.
Room and board of the finest fashion
Lavished on me,sparing no expense.

The job description?
One candid, terse, insightful comment a month
My own byline and header “Otis sez ……….”
Before I cuddle up in their bed.

A one-liner worth its weight
In doggie treats.
Who would have imagined.

It’s all about me, and should be.

Hum, I think I’ll master Latin
Before I’m nine.

Charlene James-Duguid
Amissville, Virginia

Photo Credit: Geoff Gowen

It should have been an ordinary sunrise,
In a common year,
At a place like any other.
With everyday coffee in our cups
We looked out of warm windows
Stunned
In disbelief.

Never before and never to be again
The forest bears crystal fruits.
Sparkling droplets,
Hanging silently from slender branches,
Ready to dance if we ask.
Morsels of frozen magic,
Spectral in greens and reds,
Eagerly wishing for a permanent home.

Allowed to be,
At only a certain degree,
They try calling up
Powers rarely used,
To fill the landscape
With fragile beauty
And permission to stay.

So strong a thing to see
Becomes so hard a word
To sing.
None quite right
This perfection is so singular.

Its charm will stay on,
If named.
Existence would be assured.
Find the word, give it a baptism,
Be in its grandness.
Wonder in its mystery
Rest with icy diamonds
In the magic forest
Together, forever.

Charlene James- Duguid
Amissville, Virginia