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

Joyce,* my friend,
Has every right to lord it over
The Brave Little Tailor.
His seven are nothing
To rival her slaughter of a single
Stink Bug.

Armed with a Shakespearean tome
In the right,
And poetic treatise in the left,
She takes off after the pest
Determined to smash it to smithereens.

Barely having recovered from a bout with
An ornery gray cat, energy renewed with a
Single deep breath, she is invincible.

That look, that Macbethean furor,
That, “Listen here your devil cat
I’ll have none of your
Shenanigans
In my house,” is ear shattering.

Hearing that, the bug should have know
Once on a tear,
Joyce is unstoppable—
Hannibal, Alexander, Charlemagne, Napoleon, MacArthur—
All you staunch-hearted tailors,
Regardless of political persuasion,
Better take care.
She’s wearing that sash
Emblazoned with her motto,

“Have no fear,
Joyce is here.”

*Joyce Abell, author of
PRICKLY ROSES
Passager Books
Baltimore, MD

Charlene James Duguid
Amissville, Virginia
2/2018

We own a forest.
Not just any forest but
a magic stand of trees.

Twenty manicured acres that exude
Primordial Powers.

Pagan callings to gods are buried
Somewhere in the tangled roots,
In the wealthy underground.

We thought it only one tree,
The Merlin Tree
Inhabited by an old, wise barn owl
Until we looked more closely at
The landscape’s bending branches
When no breeze was in the wind.

We certified it’s magic by chance.

One day,
A small puff, pink around its edges,
Trying to be a cloud,
Made a surprise appearance.

Alas,
Our responsibility was to mythical matters,
It demanded,
We were sorry to say,

‘You have to grow up, first.”

In a flash, the sky turned from blue
To permanent rouge,
A full-throated voice rang out,

“There, are you satisfied?”

What could we say but,
“Sure.”

Charlene James-Duguid
Amissville, Virginia

Years past our lives met
He reserved as stately oak
I fluttering by

No model for us
No mold to harden firmly
Only look by look

Words unworkable
Oceans streams and rivulets
Apart no love thoughts

Still there as Fuji
Majestic Being often
His frown reappears

Peonies I want
Lavish peonies I get
Profusion abounds

My wishes fulfilled
Whims become wants serious
As Noh intentions

No gifts in return
I’ve none of value slight seeds
Mature so slowly

Too late he is dead
Shattered lightening strike so strong
Clouds part fearfully

Might-have-beens since gone
Left at my lintel denied
A way to enter

My Japanese friend
Mysterious to the end
Gathering peonies

Charlene James-Duguid
Amissville, Virginia
2/25/2018

Photo by Martin Jameson

If I were a moon, any one of them,
I’d be distressed
At all this talk about waxing and waning.

First off because I don’t know what they mean.
Those dictionary!

I’m alway the same
Never smaller or larger.
Except after the holidays when I should try to
Lose a few tons,
Clean out my craters.

But those humans, their perspective
is wrong.
From where they stand
earthbound and all
This Dark Age idea speaks of their superstition
Not my bulk.

I can live with unfounded folly
And the humor of all that.

But one thing I do know for sure,
I am a reason for being, destined.

When sad angels die
They need a place to go,
A reward for bearing and harboring,
Protecting human kind from woe.

Their choices are endless
Seasides, mountaintops, sandy expanses,
Yet in wild chorus, and unending
Hallelujah
They come to one of me.

I greet they joyfully, we sing together
For without me, they’d have no home.
Without them
I’d wane away.

Charlene James-Duguid
Amissville, Virginia
2/2018

Just because he’s on the newspaper staff
Otis, that silly hound, thinks he’s so special.
Well I have NEWS for him.

No dog can snuggle and cuddle the way I can,
Or chase squirrels, that’s my talent.
It keeps me down to a svelte 49 pounds.

But squirrels are nothing,
Vanquished before breakfast.
I really star at fending off dinosaurs.
I forget I’m a lady when the job calls for
Grit.

Unlike that Dunce, Otis,
I come from a pure source, a famous , saintly Maggie,
Perhaps a bit shopworn but angelic, nonetheless,
At least to my mind.

My bark is symphonic, ripe for Carnegie Hall.
My gait is balletic, unique stylish pirouettes.

Not merely a dog
I’m as smart as Border Collies get.
Every passerby greets me with a smile
And a ruffling of my coat.

I’m irresistible they say,
Ravishingly “Me”
The one and only
Miss Maggie,
The Cudahy Canine Cutie.

Charlene James-Duguid
Amissville, Virginia