Sits heavy around us
Taking oxygen we need
Without caring it must be ours.
Gliding in on tulle-draped gowns,
Prussian Blue in hue,
It transmutes,
Multiplies its powers to the nth degree,
Smothering us quickly
As we reach out to grasp
At least one breath.

Its guise changes
With the seasons.
Hapless month’s go by
And bring new names
To nothing times.
In each age, we are alone,
Defying poets.
Captured periwinkle tries
To break the spell.
While vines deny it’s effort.

Delicate flowers,
Bride’s maids dresses,
And the Moon, twice full
In the month’s rotation
Could have kept us
Living.
Instead
Stealing the tides,
It sealed our fate
With a gasp.

Charlene James-Duguid
Amissville, Virginia
4/1/18

Deflating a toe-tapping ballon isn’t easy.
Its capture is like landing a lasso
As a pink unicorn romps
Across your front lawn.
Maybe a bit more difficult.
Actually, a lot more.

It has a mind of its own,
This balloon,
This sly Terpsichorean,
This rainbow-spectrumed vessel
Frilled with magic,
Lighter-than-air, gaseous gas.

What is it telling me
That I can report to you
About life, love,
And the pursuit of frivolous moments?
It guards the last gasp of air
Passionately, jealously.

Dance on, it echoes.
There is no grace in falling.
Don’t trip up in the gavotte.
And
Heaven help you
“Dancing in the dark.”

But then again
If you must,
Don’t hesitate.
Pick up the beat
And
“Shuffle off to Buffalo.”

Charlene James
Amissville, Virginia
3/26/18

Why would
I
Anybody
Or
Anyone
Want to meet an
Angel

I’ve heard they have a
Way with words
Being messengers
And they know dictionaries
Inside out

Can pull out thought
Like
Sweet Blindness
Give it meaning with no trouble
And march off to another
Cloud

Charlene James
Amissville, Virginia
3/18/18

Albatross hung there
Bed post yawns from weight too bold
No flight or exit

All evil caught up
Trussed like Japanese horror
Relentless wounding

Sin curls through strata
Asking nothing but a space
To stop and decay

Well,
Think of what its like to be an undistinguished,
unloved, unappreciated,
left in the grocery bin,
Vegetable.

Add to that a name
That, though it rolls off the tongue,
Rhymes with nothing else romantic,
With nothing else at all.

German cabbage, sure
But does it have a ring to it,
No.

Add that its difficult to cook and eat,
And has the unfortunate appearance of a Revolutionary War grenade.
You have the lowly kohlrabi .

I remember eating them fresh, raw,
Picked out of a Polish backyard garden
Fighting blousy, pure,crisp sheets
While fending off a barrage of gloriously
Shaped, patinated, aged, wooden clothes pins.

Not much about a kohlrabi to commend it
Except memories,
Growing up with tradition
In hand,
In foreign words,
In a purity of spirit
That needed no definitions.

Kohlrabi,
I salute you,
Revel in your radish-like flavor
And hope by some miracle,
You gain your rightful
Place in this ultra-organic world.

Charlene James-Duguid
Amissville, Virginia
3/18/18

Photo by Geoff Gowan

Why is there a night?
So glad day can break anew
With morning glories.

Why is there a dawn?
So eggs be laid for breakfast
Calling hands to work.

And why a sunrise?
So colors’ glory can sing
Vivid breezy tunes.

Charlene James-Duguid
Amissville, Virginia

—–

Why is there a night? So we can feel the light
Of distant stars — and maybe Jupiter and Mars….

Geoff Gowan

Photo courtesy of Wikipedia

They gather round Dorotka’s Easter basket
Like hummingbirds thirsting for the sweet, flowery nectar
Of Spring.
“How does she do it, improve on Perfection every year?”
“She says it’s because she fasts all Lent. Can’t wait for its breaking
On a glorious Sunday morning.”
“That may be why she is so trim and spry,
But that basket is something else. Inspired!” a babushka chimed.

If it were an annual
Holy Saturday competition,
Which it is, Dorothy, the woman blessed with grace,
Wins every bright Easter match.
In her family’s prized , traditional basket:
Polish sausage displayed in its marbleized gray glory,
Home-made, perfectly seasoned.
The slice of ham calling out to be tasted.
Each grain of salt counted,
Washed if she could find a way.
Linens brought from the Old Country.
Creamy butter lamb, and bread glistening in its roundness.
She waits for the sprinkling holy water to come.
Then, with just a hint of a demure curtsy,
Presents her basket to The Father,
With pride, but never prideful.
They all wonder, how does she prevail?
Year after year, Mistress of the Blessed Feast.

In answer, God, in heaven,calls down, joyously,
To the amazed gathering of busias.
“Easy, He chortled, I help her win.
I just can’t resist when she turns on that
Dorothy Polish Smile.”

Charlene James-Duguid , Poetry Curator