Should be a rare,
Interminably long, epic poem
placed in your talent quadrant
So you become a fine-oiled machine
On autopilot.

You perform by rote with ultimate emotion
Working in all the arts.
It is perfection when nothing
Goes wrong because it has in the past.

The juice never runs dry, it bubbles up
Like the finest champagne
In every corpuscles.

The Fates chose you.
You can’t say no.

Charlene James-Duguid
Amissville, Virginia
July 22, 2018

Each night, round two a.m.,
I wake to the same dream.
A perfect girl-child
Seeking comfort from her tears.

Fear, sorrow, want?

I don’t know why, but they flow
Till I lay her on my breast,
Soothe her cheek,
Smooth her hair.

It takes some time
Til, with a little giggle,
Then a sigh, she cuddles in,
Closes her drenched eyes
Peacefully, replaces woe
With weary eyelids
Fluttering in their own
Lullaby.

Sad little child,
Perfection set aside,
You’ll learn to laugh
Not cry, the way,
Imperfect though it be,
We survive this
Vale of tears.
Charlene James-Duguid
Amissville, Virginia
July 12, 2018

She sits, a flower,
First-unnoticed ,
Then daffodil-like, pure yellow,
Waiting,
Always waiting.
Beautiful in her imitation of
Springtime.

A quiet smile.

Sometimes tender, fragile,
Blushing tiny rose, or
Often green with bright-colored tangerine petals.

Her blues most striking, a new meaning to the colors,
Cyan, cobalt, teal.
Even steely grey under her charge
Given new presence.

If he were alive,
And she were wed-able,
He would hope
So grandly
To capture her bouquet each day,
Take it on a calliope ride to Arda
Stay for High Tea in the Middle Earth,
Invent a dozen new words,
And be home before dark
To ready tomorrow’s color.

Alas, He never comes,
It’s not allowed.

So

She reads and reads again
Every word, then two, three, then a sentence, paragraph, epic stanza.
The magic in his kingdom,
Hers, this hold on happiness
High fantasy never higher.
This is her heaven.

She favors his genius.

It brings him joy,
that she, like no other,
Knows
His real thoughts,
Thinks him not foolhardy
Looking for lost things,
Cavalier as any troubadour.

He sighs, asks again and again
To no avail,
To be reborn in her life where
She will always be dressed in periwinkle,
Wearing a color called
Waiting.

Charlene James-Duguid
Amissville,Virginia
June 30, 2018

Like tiny kisses, pecks, perhaps
On cheeks young and old.
Travel long distances, they do,
Whistling as they go,
Fireflies in the darkening eve.

Joyful, two growing girls, glowing,
Learn brands of doing
Only lightening bugs can tell.

Magic and science are on their fingertips.
Glimmering tests
Of knowing,
Then, knowing what to do with knowing.

Keena, taller by a bit, thinks they’re brilliant jewels,
So asks them,
Questions their luminosity.
‘’How and why can you shine .”
Curiosity plays off her brain waves, one by one.

And Mira always thriving on a dare, catches one in her hand
While handing up-side-down on a fast swinging trapeze.
She wants to know
“What are your names?”
When none replies, she gives them names, wild ones for sure.

With new-found magic, miracles in hand,
New friends who skirt the ground with ease,
At home, now new,
They send their kisses through the night to
Others needing magic.

It’s their doing that peoples the universe
With spectral hope,
And names too delicious to repeat,
Unless in whispers—
“Pumpkin, Puff, Ghost, and Don’t.”

Charlene James-Duguid
Amissville,Virginia
July 9, 2018

What can I write about fireflies
That hasn’t been written afore.
Embarrassed,
I don’t even know how these
Wee creatures make light?

What are they really,
Christmas wishes?

Or slices of lightening ?
Why not “surprise bugs”
Or a dream exploding?

To learn
I’ll become one,
Fly the midnight sky,
Skirt the earth
Listening for
Sighs of delight.

Yes, I’ll join
Their circus of light.
Catch
Star
Dust
Outside my sleep-room’ s window.
Grandly deciding to take off.
Never to return again.

Charlene James-Duguid
Amissville, Virginia
July 9, 2018

When I was about seven, my alleged assault on cousin Floyd, with the miniature baseball bat, must have been forgotten, or at least, set to rest. I would not be sent to Juvenile Hall. There were grander plans in the works for my immediate future. And, face it, the boy suffered from nothing more than a goose egg on this forehead and a blow to his pride.

Well, what did the family have planned for me that was important enough to forgive using my cousin’s head for batting practice.

Valentine and Marianna Jendrzejczak were about to celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary. For this monumental occasion the family was pulling out all the stops. It would show Milwaukee ‘s Polish South Side that they had retained their lofty upper-class satus. Granted, their son, the youngest, my father, destined for the clergy, had married and married down in their eyes. And if that wasn’t enough, he then fathered a pint-sized delinquent.

I was this blond, dimpled granddaughter with a Shirley Temple air that they needed, at least for the time being. Their anniversary scenario called for a little princess to play the bride , recreating a romantic fairy tale wedding, walking down the seemingly endless aisle of the famous St. Joseph’s Basilica.

My cousin, Loretta, a bit younger then myself, might have been their first choice, if it were not improper for her to be paired with her brother, the groom. And there was the added problem that Loretta never smiled. Never. She was the leading contender for the title of “Little Miss Sour Puss.” Even her grandmother, the Battle Axe, had to agree.

So it was Charlene, the pint-sized delinquent on Floyd’s arm recreating the romanticized, imaginary wedding day of Valentine and Marianna, once aristocracy in Poland “pan” and “pani” lording over the peasantry.

Valentine would finally be ripped out of his chair for the occasion, and Marianna in all her buxom glory would regain her Old County position of royalty. So what they were living in a democratic republic where the honored Jendrzejczak name signaled nothing more than a collection on Polack greenhorns.

Now passing
Too quickly
The Earth’s sphere

Nearing the Moon
With its
Companion star

I’d like to fly between the two
Separate
Them
For
A
Moment

So when rejoined
They’d know their love again.
Charlene James-Duguid
Amissville, Virginia
Recast June 23,2018

Noble Oak Tree @ Autumn Haze Farm, Amissville, VA

So much a symbol,
Its life in nature
Often blurred,
The bark and branches,
Leaves and roots
Recede, surrendering
To its renowned as a noble tree.

Sacred to all who see it,
The basics of its history overwhelms,
Causing awe and speechless wonder.
The magnificent, ancient tree,
Sadly bent at last,
Unable to stand against the storm.

Three hundred years
Of rings record times of
Growth and plenty,
Draught and saving showers,
Whispering dew and silent breezes.

All gone.

The farm will continue.
The farmer will mow and plow.
Yet,
Never the same
Without the signature presence.

Gone.

The Chestnut Oak.

Charlene James-Duguid
Amissville, Virginia
June 23,2018

At “7”
Imagination just happens.
You can’t buy it or steal it,
Chase it down or trip it up.
It comes to you on a windy day
When a big red balloon goes bumping by.

You feel the bounce in your brain
And it’s there forever,
Egging you on every time
You have a second free.

Sometimes homework must wait
Or kitchen chores.
Feeding the dogs and cats
Doesn’t much matter
When a hero knight
And wizard wise find
A Gypsy girl with powers
So strong they must be told.

I guarantee the perfect timing,
On the spot the second
You need to be sure
You’re the smartest kid
On your block.

You just know.
Imagination is crystal
It’s yours,
And here to stay.

Charlene James-Duguid
Amissville, Virginia
June 19,2018