Missed Wishes

Missed Wishes

Outside I sat,
heated and embraced by my own salt tinged sheen,
when, I felt the lightest brush
of rain cooled air.
like a mother's kiss on fevered brow.

It took me aback,
this brush of angel wing,
the clean scent of water washed breeze,
and I turned my head,
I closed my eyes,
trying to connect again
with the tender brushed embrace.

But, like too many loves
it left me unsettled and wishing,
wondering why it was
and then was
no more.

Then, when the promise of showered gust
fell hard and reached with damp fingers
for me,
I was inside.

I missed the rendevous.

As I understood the kiss,
for an invitation to dance with the wind
and leap into its cooling grasp,
to release my heat into its captivity.

But, like too many loves
I left it too late and unsettled,
wondering why I took
of its free gift
nothing.

I heard the rain fall without me.
Part of me wanting to be within,
part of me yearning to be without,
wrapped in, and wearing a rainbow,of wishes unfulfilled.

Open My Heart

Song

On the wings of music,
I fly
Above an ocean of thoughtful dreams,
Like a drunken seagull splashing
In the waves.
I dive,
In a fearless swoop and splash
For a glutton's ransom
Among the glittering multitude
Of harmony's blessing.
I cry my delight,
And a thousand thousand voices answer
As one.
Ah, eternal song,
I hear the voices of heaven singing
In rich tumult.
Sing the triumphs of heaven's sigh,
Whisper the joys of lover's delights,
Shout the beauty of the world's turning,
Music and madness and love unending,
My heart, my self, my soul,
Given gladly,
For the gift of song.

Nancy France

Rain Dance

I like going outside
just before the deluge hits,
when you can smell the rain in the air,
wind blowing everywhere.
when the air smells of ice cream
and green leaves.

I venture out uncaring,
out in a nightgown, if I can
(just the gown)
The air takes liberties with me,
blowing under and over and thru me
and the thunder rumbles like my heart beating,
and the trees sing with the wind,
and all else is quiet
except for the approaching storm.
Even the summer cicadas silence their song in reverence
to the approaching weight
of rain-laden wind.

And I, embracing
Dancing as I stand,
leaning into wind’s caress
with arms outstretched and worshiping
Rain’s outrider,
Wind.

by Me,

July 2007

Summer Song

I heard summer’s song begin
In cicada chorus within the trees,
With dancing leaves
Swaying to soft warm breeze,
In courtship calls of low croaking toad,
To the high sung peeps of treetop frog,
Summer sang its song today,
Just as the sun slipped away.

by Me, June 2007

Flight

Dreaming,

I close my eyes

and float clear sighted,

attaching the threads

of inchoate dream

to passing clouds

fat with wet promise

of future storm.

I soar,

And lie expectant,

buffeted by the winds

of chance and fancy,

passing thoughts reigning,

separated by--yet tied to logic's grasp,

but loosely held,

as visions form

and flee laughingly

from what might be real,

or might be dream,

I open my mind

and gather beauty

in drops of sunlit
Joy.



by: ME

Talk To My Lord In The World He Has Given

As I stroll thru the country,
--I wait for the morning to arrive.

I want to greet the day,
--so it is I that can say.

Good Day to a time that keeps me still,
--for God has tread here, I can too.

This place, this time, this view of my life,
--will enable me to find a reason to return.

I know that I will never again find this place,
--but any other peaceful place will remind me.

To remember the calm and harmony I feel,
--is to talk to the Lord in the world He has given us.

I live for moments like these,
--I long for the times I have seen the trees.

I paint the colors in my mind,
--I swirl the hues and find the contrast of my life to His.

For this is my goal, the reason I stroll,
--To know my Lord, to See what He has set in Life for Me!

(A POEM BY DA PUP)

LORD OF MY POETRY

As I have opened my soul to you,
So shall I open my heart,
For you have opened the gates of my mind,
And the upwelling of poetry,
Refreshed hopes,
Water's my soul.

Oh, lord of my poetry; my life,
Take care.
You hold in gifted hands,
Sighted eyes and brilliant mind,
Myself.

I am buoyed by the warmth of heart,
Your gift to mine.
Indeed, so high am I soaring
On hope's fragile wings,
I could fall.
Be but my wings,
And the air beneath
Shall be as the breath of love.

We shall soar together,
Through sunlit sky
And embracing night,
We shall rise on words of love,
And the delights of the mind,
Travel the path of delight and joy,
And body's sweet knowledge.
For you approach my inner self.
Take care.

Me

My Dad

A warm beating heart easing ear’s hurt,
Hand patting gentle and slow
Till we both half slumber
cuddled in one chair,

Deep voice rumbling and thrumming
With song half said and half singing,
With my aching head and kid-sticky sweat
Gluing us both to a half dreaming sleep.

I wonder if you knew sometimes
That my ear did not ache so much as
My dreams made me cry and need
A warm beating heart and rumbled story
to ease my aching mind.

And now, with your heart beating
(But now my heart breaking)
Your mind is the aching
And too full with the invader’s reach.

That I fear that too soon,
My dreams will tear at me,
And my ears ache once more,
But there will be no more smokey hand,
Nor heart with thumping ease
Nor mind to tell stories to drive out
Errant thought and fear.

And your children will be alone.

Your wife will be alone.

And we will only know ease as we know
There is One is large enough to hold you
On His lap,
And pat gently on your back
As you lay your head on His loving heart.

Me

I missed the anniversary of my dad's death. Just as well, as I'd rather celebrate his life.

Duet

Duet

Mama
slip slapping
toes to heal clapping,
mule shoes beating
ta tap ta tap ta tap tap,
walking to the music
in her head or body,
and before her
dancing to her feet music
her boy,
her 'loved child
dipping,
tip, tip tipping
side slipping
arms flapping
fingers dancing
feet strutting,
a page,
preceeding his queen.

Aug. 2004

Past Lives

PAST LIVES

When we were dolphins in the deep blue sea,
Together, swimming and free
We touched by singing
And water's tryst,
When we were the clowns of the sea.

When we were eagles in the mountains high,
Together we soared through the sky,
We touched with feathers
And echoing cry,
When we were the mountain's kings.

When we were wolves in the shadowed woods,
Running as only we could,
We touched with noses,
And howling call,
When we were the forest's song.

Together we've traveled thru worlds unknown,
When lifetime's gold promises shone,
We knew the secrets
And shared the joys,
When we were together as one.

Creation..........Warning...Epic Poem Alert

Creation

The world is made new,
again and again,
from ancient things made new.

I’d like to shape lumps of clay
and have them turn into stone
hard usefulness.
For I am a practical woman
who loves both the shape
and function of a hand made
thing.

I would like to take it
from the dry powdered clay,
(for that’s what you get to be
when you’re old rock worn
down into its myriad pieces),
and mix it with water,
splashing water,
to quench
its parched form
.
I’d play in that mud
that cool slippery squishy
mud oozing through
my fingers
encasing possibility
and painting my hands grey
as if I were ancient rock
fire born too.

I’d smell the scent of earth
Ancient Earth,
born in fire
when none marked time.
I’d smell it,
taste it,
as it landed on my lips.
I’d taste eternity,
something older
than any living thing.

Then,
I’d take it and give it form.
My hands commanding its shape,
its being.
But, being myself
only myself so young,
I can only give it the semblance
of its true form
as I return it to fire again
stained with pigments
to please my fancy,
until I can hold it in my hands,
glad of it’s form and use.
Pour in earth colored
ancient brew,
I’d drink in
my morning with
ancient earth
made new.

The world is made new, again and again…

Then again,
let me create in its liquid
beauty
Glass.
Let me thaw it from its
frozen form and warm it,
freeing from the chill
of this place,
this air,
this sand
Phoenix born in fire
then captured

I would watch this liquid
flowing so slowly it
captures the semblance
of solidity.

Glass,
colors itself .
Blushes
with elements
that dissolve in it
as other things melt in water,
becoming its partner,
but separate still in its
solid liquidity,
the elements floating within
creating sublime color,
as if light has been captured
from broken prisms.

Each piece of glass
is a bubble
held in suspension
until popped
as all bubbles are.

Did you know
If you hang a pane
of glass in a frame
for a century
or two (or so),
the glass will flow,
making a puddle
at the bottom of the
bubble’s frame
until the top is so thin
it loses it’s shape
and shatters.

But I would not work
in large pieces.
Small things,
shiny things
give me delight.
No, for me,
I’d rather take the bits
left over
from bigger things,
or broken things,
remeltig
reheating and reshaping
into a droplet,
A bead., a ball,
A piece to fit your hand
or string together in harmony
To capture light itself…

I would work in smallness
close to the droplet
liable to get splashed
now and again.
What’s a few burned fingers?
I want to make new
beauty,
have it flow through
my hands,
filling my eyes,
with liquid light
broken light.
Fill my
ears with tinkle,
and harmony’s
chime,
.

Glass,
it is a
glorious liquid
who flows in its own time.

I wonder,
if a being living
in the turgid liquid
(like a fish)
(but not)
would see us as mere
flashes
splashes
dashing by?
What stories
or colors
do they create?

The world is made new, again and again…

Then again,
perhaps I could
sing my creation,
draw it out of air,
shared breath and breathing,
movement
and form ephemeral,
complete in itself
but relying on
those vessels,
living thought
and voices.

With words and tone
create the song,
the song creating
the breath.
What pictures created
in mind and soul,
of creatures great
and tiny,
in feather’d breasts,
scale covered ribs,
fur and hair covered hearts
and minds.

Would it exist
in memory
or spirit,
when the last
voices fail to sing?

Or will the song
remain?
Its pigmentless art
creating pictures
from modulated
sound waves
each changed,
added voice
by voice
and breath,
air and
surroundings,
the soundboards
reverberating
and amplifying,
transmitting,
permitting
shared dream

So ephemeral are
those dreams
shared,
lost by waking
slipping from
mental grasp.

Yet memories
infected by sound
and dream
and love
and heart,
live
from generation
to generation
reborn.

The world is made new, again
and again.

Then again,

Perhaps I could raging
fire reign.
Pouring the strength
of earth,
fire born,
sweat wrested
from silent bed,
heated with ageless
black stone burning,
air cooled
water quenched
pounded with muscle
and thought
into what is wrought
beauty, strength,
utility
bound into folded
layers of red tinged
oxygen oxidation
bathed in flame.

Then, could I pound
out ringing song
within my hand
hammer grasping
arms burning
sweat pouring
breath gasping
my strength tied
within the worked
amalgam, shaped
by heat and heart
pulled, pounded
teased and touched
by no human hand
yet formed
in human creation.

The world is made new again and again.

Poem.. Together

Together

Together we morn,
not just the born unborn,
but those never conceived
except in dream.

And alone we are
in the eyes of those
who only exist in the eyes
of those they've born,
those who wonder if we exist
within their world of Mother,
never knowing the loss we've born,
carried beneath our hearts.

Together we live,
loving the others born
to those we love and knowing
that they bear our future too,
and never forgetting those we've born,
Unborn.

Nancy France, December 17, 2004

Dedicated to Val, who now has born a living heart.