Image by Lang Elliot

My only friend,
He visits every day,
Stays far longer than
Any human companion would.

Understanding perfectly
That now, my dotage
Is veneered with
Layer, upon uncomfortable layer,
Of infirmity.

His songs are determined.

And I never complain.

That’s our arrangement.
I never ask for less than his
Routine, an everyday song.

Often I’d like to help my slow-learning
Visitor understand
that knocking his head against
The window causes headaches, nothing more.
But he is content to continue.
His ways are pure
And seem to work.

How clever!

He mIgrates by night
Using the stars to navigate.
Wise above all else.

But things change.

My special friend,
What will happen to him,
In days to come?
Will he visit and bang his head
On the glass
When I am dead ?

I do not fear, for
In his magic,sweet, gentle way he sings
So I know
we will keep on together,
To touch,
Star by star,
Trill by trill, the pathway
toward our new home.

I close my eyes
And understand.
We’ll surely fly off to a
Beautiful unknown.

Charlene James-Duguid
Amissville, Virginia
May 26, 2018

Roof, hold together.
Tighten your braces against
Today’s harsh onslaught.

Rain, kiss rose petals
Twice, then leave peaceful fac’ed
Blissful in dawn’s glow.

Singular hard woods
Noble oaks, maples, ash. Strong.
Unbroken heroes.

Catchers when others
Fail. Protect creatures so frail
God alone can see.

CHARLENE JAMES-DUGUID
AMISSVILLE, VIRGINIA
5/17/18

Soured loves and acned lovers
Crash into each other.
Shattered egg shells
In uneven, disturbing, warped time.

From teenage infatuation to midyears’
Indiscretions, before the white light
Removes breath from my breathing.

Others turn embarrassment to
Memories, I cannot.
Mine hang heavy as shame dripping
Off the tree of sinfulness, the arbor,
It’s own orchard of vile fruits.

Worms, all worms.

Deformed by defilement
It steals sleep,
Plagues peace,
Destroys the little left
Of humane honor.

No Greek salvation through pain.
No redemption by fire.
No way to repair the universal wrongs.

Perhaps, oh God, by chance,
You’d grant
The worth
Of one blessed word,
Now and again,
To carry along
As the soothing balm,
A touch
Of unexpected grace.

Charlene James-Duguid
Amissville, Virginia
5/10/18

The Wood Cutter (Le Père Jacques)

Why,
If I had a choice of
Who to be,
Where to live,
What moment in time to capture,
It would be the waif-like
Gamine
Surfacing from the weeds and brambles
To help grand pere
Collect wood for a long winter’s frost.

Why she, not me?
Innocence, of course,
Untouched, unsullied, undamaged
By the ways of the world.

For years, painted to capture my soul in the
Calling, the longing
Of a perfection
Gone for centuries.

She, all truth or an allusion
We are wedded in a dress.
I long for mine to be pure
And blue.

Her small hand barely holding a wild flower
For fear of clutching
Too tightly.

A tiny wren would know.

Charlene James-Duguid