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 

I’ll never meet him,
Feel his trained doctor’s touch
Or herd the goats while watching the
Chickens peck for corn so near his simple
Infirmary, a clinic I will never see.

He, dark and luxurious of skin, the pillar
Of his native African village
Will never know my name.

He will go on his mission of mercy
Grateful, untroubled, confident in knowing
Someone, somewhere, intercontinental,
Believed in him, this unknown young man,
Believed he
Could help with the work of Christ,

To gently cure the sick. 

CHARLENE JAMES
AMISSVILLE, VIRGINIA 

Visiting sick friends
Really far too much trouble
Till you’re the ailing one

Haiku happens best
As mountain’s grey capping clouds
Appear then fade quick

Winter kill is real.
Ask any blossom failing
To believe snow knows

Why write of sorrow
Pain, aches, unhappy sad times,
Joy will romp in May

If you’ve read this far
Your heart still beats wild, freely
Be glad like newborns

Conclude, top off days
With blushing whole ripe cherries
More fun than sauerkraut

Photo by Martin Jameson

Suspended on a silken thread
In the celestial universe
Of Christmas Eve,
Midnight Mass waits to begin.
Anticipation grows
For the perfect moment to announce
The Christ Child to His fans.

Lights! Camera! Action!
The elves, reindeer, shepherds, santas,
Nutcrackers, and sugar plum fairies,
The Magi and minions, snowflakes and snowmen
Loiter, sharing peppermint canes with
Paparazzi, poised for a scoop.
The Baby Jesus will awake, the festivities will begin.

But nothing happens
Except for a stray cow lowing.

No carols, no star on high, no joy on earth,
Too silent a night.
The miracle moment is stuck in time 

Until
A ginger-haired little girl
Passes a department store’s window.
As she pauses in delight,

Trumpets blare, Drums rat-a-tat,
Alleluia, Christmas is here at last.

For in the smile of this child,

There, is Christmas.

Charlene James-Duguid,
Amissville, Virginia

We age, shop, hold hands.
Not much else to do, when body
Is tin can for soul.

*

Little left in life.
Relish what is and can be.
Caterpillar does.

*

Happy thoughts flap wild,
Clothesline full, gamely whipped as
Small wrens tip the pole

*

Fear of forgetting
Runs rampant at my Bridge Club
Or is it Canasta?

Thanks
Giving
Brings out
Orphans in the storm.
All those stray dog-and-cat-type folks
Without a place to go.

Searching memories for words
To make an acceptable presence,
They pretend
At a festive table.

The hostess, herself,
Tossed in and out of marriages,
Hopes a three hundred dollar gobbler
Will
Save the day.

“Of course it won’t”
She tells the only guest caring enough to know
It is a fruitless effort.
But with a single tear falling, as she carves,
Her heart sings out,
“I can dream of love
Shawling my shoulders,
Making me whole.
Can’t I “

Charlene James
Amissville, Virginia
November, 2017