I wish for the sleep of a babe,
A newborn child,
Its sweet, short  snooze.
Effortless.

I’d even steal it, if need be,
To luxuriate in the peace of no memories–
Clear of half-bakering schemes,
Cropping up for businesses,
Or inventions
Or even poems.

I want to sleep among the puffy whiteness
Of a fresh-made crib of one too young to think.
No dreams, just slumber.
Yes, yes, yes.

No, no, no, oh no!
Had I forgotten?

Modern times say no more buntings,
Now it’s a plain

cardboard box

Charlene James-Duguid
Amissville, Virginia 

Love at any age.
Carefree walking, with one foot
Riding the rainbow.

Left or loved, alone.
Under a tree, unmoving
Waits for life, the fawn.

Tell me again, Sir,
Send your kindness to my world.
I’m lost? No way home.
Be patient, don’t rush
Wait, like a sleepy rabbit,
To be discovered.

God never loses one,
Not a single soul.
He’s good at that, filling any crack they might slip through.

These little ones , holy in their innocence,
Play marbles and cat’s cradle
Among the clouds,
Waiting for families to arrive
To hug and cherish
As they could not before.

He watches from His throne,
Only because it is the best seat in the house,
The tossled blondes and Afros, auburn curls,
The bright red plaits and sleek black tresses.
Small ones, hardly babies really.

They are all His creatures.
Infants formed,
Some misformed, yet
Not forlorn,
Never lost.

His chuckles, taught by Saint Nick,
Have a Gregorian chantiness about them
When he hears, in languages from across the globe
The rote of a dog-eared prayer.

“Who made you?”
”God, of course, who else could?”

Close to sassy, with a confidence that erases
All but the brightness of their intellects,
These, His children, play out their lives
In heaven’s nursery.

Charlene James
Amissville, Virginia 

Oh, bother!
It happened again.
The daily scar of humiliation.

But don’t  let false theologians persuade you
It is a virtue.
For them it is a way —
To sell a book
To engender complacency
To tout a tele-course
To fool with your soul.

While at rock bottom
God sits back,
Has a belly laugh
And huge tankard of monastery lager
At your expense.

Be comforted, though.
He’ll transform it readily
Into that perfect script.
For a jolly
Centenary Fete.

If you’re faithful
His gift, turned upside down,
Ripe for sharing, lasts forever.

Charlene James
Amissville, Virginia
2017

Sprig of sage,
Real sage from the grasslands.
Picked, then tendered with affection.

“A flower for my lovely lady, my one and only love.”

We saved it and brought Wyoming home.
The remnants, bittersweet, growing cloud-like.
Its savor leaving, slowly, moment by moment.

Gathered in memory,
Handed on in joy,
Treasured, but for so short a time.

Charlene James
Amissville, Virginia
August, 2017

The soul does nothing

But must exist, lively, strong

Ready for action

He spoke to me on his cell phone
As he walked from his apartment to the rehearsal hall. 
Twenty minutes that was my allotment. 
And then a fast good bye
as he buzzed himself into the theatre.  

I expected no more. 
He was PJ
who deigned to give me as much time
as my limited creativity warranted.

Of course I solved his problems–that was my job,
To get him past the boring,
unnecessary necessities of dealing with
every matter that wasn’t worth his time.

But he never failed to ignite
In me
A spark of inspiration,
An excitement for new thoughts,
outlandish ideas.

PJ Paparelli,
boy genius of theatre.
Dead at 40.
Killed.
Trying
To save
a flock of Scottish sheep from an oncoming, speeding lorry.

Charlene James
Amissville, Virginia 

Patchin Place, Gregg Rothstein Architect

Joyce and me (breaking rules) up and right, Left
And down
In a tree
Singing or swinging
Or is that the wind we see
as we live a dream (or is it a wish)

to live on Patchin Place
Not any place on Patchin Place
Just the place on Patchin Place
So filled with energy
We’d learn to employ
Words
Like:
Perspicacity
Nemesis
Overwrought
Fadge 

Reliable thought patterns
That stuck to it’s (breaking rules) walls, its paper,its floor, its door knob, its stairs,
Its window pain (breaking rules)
Left behind when he left

If only to live on Patchin Place, the right place
On Patchin Place, the only place on Patchin Place
That is where wheel (breaking rules) think more
Try more
Live more–
Of coarse, of coarse (breaking rules)

It’s number FOUR.