Dedicated to Carole Jean

They had a serious conversation,
Eloise and her Angel.
Both of tender age,
Marking the giggles and woes of their short lives,
With recipes for chocolate delights.

The happinesses and hurts would not stop
Regardless of how they tried.
This was
The way it was.

Yet, Their Desired Things
Followed no other path, only
With its advice to be gentle
Children of the Universe.

They took turns stumbling along.

Then they rested in the safety
Of the Merlin tree, exchanging gifts,
Beliefs and believing,
As hard as they could
That the answer
Would arrive before the rain.

What Knowledge looked like, they could not guess.
What flowed from Her, not a clue,
But for each sadness She took away,
Two joys appeared in their stead.

Magic began to happen in their midst.

Rose petals, each filled with a drop of fragrance swept
The air when Eloise touched her finger to her chin.
Then an iridescent glow filled the forest.

Together, Eloise and her Angel finally figured it out.
All things in the universe are connected,
And so they must be too.
Eloise and her Angel,
Sat in their smiles,
Under the Merlin tree.

Charlene James-Duguid
Amiss, Virginia
June 4, 2018

When you’ve been pummeled
By an air bag
You know you’ve been pummeled,
Laid low,
Decked,
Wiped out.

These “Million Dollar” Babies
Know how to strike.

Not to be outdone by seat belts,
The master bruise makers,
The Bags’ “one”, “two” combos
Do you in.

“Pow eeee”
Pink,white, maybe yellow, I can’t remember
They rush forth, blossom, deploy,
A shocking moment
That catches you unawares
No other surprise like it.

Well, perhaps surpassed only by
Smoke pouring from
The dash board.

In a moment of clarity
You see the instructions, and lots of them,
Printed helter-skelter on the inflated
Lifesavers.

Blessed little devils,
Sorry, no time to read.
Just jump, react,

Split second the moment.

For as they say,
“It could have been a lot worse.”

Charlene James
Amissville, Virginia
June 2, 2018

She’s tiny, ever so petite,
And fragile
With a tumble of golden curls
Crowning her little head.

Lost in a sewing box
These hundred years
She’s unsure of her magic
Now.

Can she bundle joy,
Fill a home with laughter,
Bring thoughts of gaiety
To a woebegone world?

Shopworn, she,
Yet hopeful her magic has outlasted
All the dusty days.

How to test it?

Wish!

Yes, you, reading this now.
Ask a special favor,
In a polite tone
And see if it comes true.

The sweetest bonbon,
The brightest ribbon,
Better still, the grandest step
In the lightest dance.

Toes that barely
Brush the floor
Saying things
Words cannot say,
Opening worlds,
Raising antique memories,
Blossoming in a sunshiny day.

Precious doll,
Victorianna dear,
If we believe,
Your magic will live again.

And, yes, believe, we do,
We do in candies, ribbons,
And in dance.

Charlene James-Duguid
Amissville, Virginia
June 1, 2018