Captured by Long, Icy Winter: Poems from Gloucester, Mass
160
Captured by Long, Icy Winter: Poems from Gloucester, Mass
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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781426937620 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Trafford Publishing |
| Publication date: | 07/21/2010 |
| Pages: | 160 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.37(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CAPTURED BY LONG ICY WINTER
POEMS FROM GLOUCESTER, MASS
By Margery McManus Leach
Trafford Publishing
Copyright © 2010 Margery McManus LeachAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4269-3762-0
Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
Long. Icy Winter
EASTER
As I prepare this Easter greeting,
slices of my life while still alive,
I wonder, will they be buried
as mementos of grandmother
who lived so long ago
then resurrected when
you are eighty-five?
Will they have any meaning
for you in twenty-five?
What will the world be like?
Will there still be a land of the free?
Will it be destroyed by human disregard?
Or will it survive only in memory?
I can leave nothing more certain
than the joy I feel with God
who made a world
full of beauty and love.
No matter what your trials,
hang on to that.
MY HEARTFELT PSALM/PRAYER
Gracious and loving God over all,
tell me,
How can I serve you now?
Physical and mental powers fade,
but my soul cries out in joy
with each new day.
Yet this is not enough to clutch
for self alone,
the golden leaves that surprised me
at dawn outside my window;
the full-faced moon tonight
rising between trees
just beyond the church.
And now, here, a circle of seekers
'round the room
make for community,
hope for tomorrow,
a legacy for youth.
My mind wanders ...
in search of what?
I know not.
Lead me on.
WHAT A MESS!
I don't know when my life
became so untidy.
It just sneaked up on me.
Weeks of writing
celestial thoughts
as I wandered through the days
talking to my maker ...
Papers here and
papers there with
folders on the floor
a little dust between.
The mail arrived.
How to answer, I cannot think
adding more confusion.
My bed is still unmade
and dishes fill the sink.
I await computer helper
whom I cannot comprehend
to kick a virus out
while more and more pile up.
When will this clutter end?
I would not trade
these moments of bliss
for tidiest dwelling ever.
But where, dear God
in all this mess
have we left my glasses?
LIVING WATER
On my morning walk
a moment comes
when I feel the water of life
filling my cup.
It gives me strength.
It lifts me through the day.
But by evening
my portion is almost gone.
It is time to watch
the sparkling sky,
with its promise for tomorrow
and maybe, even more ...
CREATION
As a child of five or six
I stood at the edge of the road,
my cousin's farmhouse nearby,
a vast cornfield and dense wood
was on the opposite side
covered in heavenly blue.
Only a train whistled by.
I thought of the noisy city
I called home;
houses, flats, apartments
all in a row;
autos, trucks, and streetcars
humming, honking, rattling by.
The haunting sound of trains
linked both our worlds and beyond.
I wondered at those different spheres
and if God, or I, could create others unlike
what I already knew
where we could all share
each other's lives.
I thought and thought on that farm
and when the night train whistle blew
across my city far.
As hard as I tried I could not view
outside what I already new.
From time to time I pondered again
as I grew, but had to accept
that God's mind
was greater than mine.
TWO VIEWS OF MY FATHER
My father was agnostic,
he claimed.
Bible myths he disdained
and advised,
"Don't clutter our mind."
But at six I defied him.
Went to church school,
heard stories of Jesus,
sang hymns and
made friends.
A loving father
of intellectual bent,
he read Darwin and Rousseau
and was non-violent,
no spanking for me.
My conscience instead
would keep me from trouble
he said.
* * *
But later I found
the freedom to live as we please
may bring sorrow, distress and disease.
Drink ruled his life
and his actions, not theories
left our lives in the rubble.
From the soil I arose,
a tender shoot among others,
nourished and grew
seeking cover.
Christ is my haven.
of that I'm aware.
But God's love abides
in all those who care.
MY FATHER
C.E. MCMANUS OR
WHY I LOVE THE WOODS
Into the woods we went.
I was not yet nine.
The winter was cold
and he, without a job,
tried to explain the world to me
in that quiet secluded spot
devoid of people,
leaves or even grass.
A frozen pond
amongst bare trees
has marked the spot
that's carried me
through years of hard times,
resentment, anger, distrust.
And pity, oh, yes, later pity
as his body wasted away,
eyes became sad
and voice was stilled.
Yet his hand scribbled on
with notes of advice,
"Use your head, Girl," his last.
No churchman he.
It was decades after he died
when on a long highway I cried
in wonder and amazement
at what a blessing he'd been
exporting knowledge, tolerance,
love of music, beauty,
the urge to write and the woods.
Oh, the woods.
MOTHER MINE
April 2, 2009
Oh, Mother mine,
Let us sit and have a chat.
It's been almost seventy years
since we have done that.
I see you by the line
hanging clothes blowing in the wind.
The sun is out, the grass is green,
dots of yellow dandelions
grace the scene.
Oh mother mine, I know
your life was full of sadness.
You hardly ever laughed
yet brought me so much
gladness.
On warm summer days
we strolled to the park.
I did somersaults on lawn.
You sat and read beside a bush.
On hotter days with picnic lunch,
we took two streetcars
and a ferry to the riverside.
Belle Isle was paradise;
swings beneath trees,
gaily decorated canoes sliding
under quaint, arched bridges;
at eventide the magic
of a rainbow fountain
and concert under a shell.
In winter cold and wet,
I came inside.
You took my damp clothes
as I shivered over the heat grate
and brought me hot chocolate.
Yummy!
Our trips downtown
on Saturday afternoon
were another delight,
Central Park shaded by trees,
with tall buildings all around.
We moved through aisles of perfume,
yard goods and ribbons,
lunched on hotdogs with buns
with time to listen
as handsome young man
played "Carolina Moon"
on grand piano,
all over too soon.
I see you pumping treadle
making dresses of yellow,
pink and green,
a coat of navy blue,
cut from Grandmother's
older, larger one.
Better than sensual pleasures
and physical care, you fostered
independence and adventure.
I wandered city streets alone,
joined after-school gymnastics
and drama.
When you knew you would not live
much longer, you pleaded strongly
that I not marry before nineteen.
I knew your words were wise,
but my world was so empty without you,
I soon did otherwise.
I've been more obedient
most of the time,
but if I've been good,
it is because
words you said at four,
I took to heart.
"An inner voice
will be your guide
to tell you right from wrong."
You followed Dad's lead
and seldom went to church.
But when I was ten
he left us in the lurch.
In a strange new city
you saw my discomfort,
urged me to go by myself
to the church of my choice.
I've gone ever since.
Wherever I was, you were with me
all along, you and God,
Mother Mine.
CLOUDS
Fall 1977
Clouds fill the sky.
The rain falls.
My heart overflows
and tears roll.
I want to scream
I want to shout
I want to call
my beloved out.
Where has he gone?
Can he see me still?
No, let him be
painless for eternity.
Or let him see
I love him still
no matter what
the pain for me.
How short his life
How filled with good
Let it shine
now in mine.
Oh, Donald of the soft brown eyes
gentle voice, and loving care
that made this earthly life
for me almost paradise.
How can I clutch what we just had,
hold it closely, nurture it,
then let it go to bloom again
in some unknown way,
beyond my ken?
MICHIGAN JIM
April 2009
Michigan Jim has traveled far and wide
mostly with Janet at his side.
It's different now, more difficult,
but fond memories still abide.
With a slower pace,
other places have been tried.
Woods still comfort and sustain
through sunshine, wind and rain.
His sons matured, grandchildren too.
Laws and torts were left behind,
but unsolved problems still remain
of politics and miscellaneous pain,
needing less muscle, more brain.
The outward-inward dance goes on:
people follies, society pitfalls,
What is right and what is wrong?
Which is weakness? Which is strength?
Why can't we just all get along?
Modest sage of Smith Creek,
comfort of widows,
I salute you, cousin, keep buzzin'!
No April Fool,
Happy Birthday!
Gerry
BEYOND ORION
Four windows bring light
into my back room slumber space.
Two look south, the others west.
During milder seasons
foliage of great trees block
the night time sights both ways.
But oh, the glories of the cold
when Orion flies the skies
across my southern view.
Back to Conneaut I am born
now stargazing with Dad,
home at Grandmother's house,
from a long job hunting trek
across the nation wide.
What a wondrous treat
to walk the sandy shore at eventide,
to gaze above at the changing dome,
yet recite so yearningly:
"Twinkle, twinkle little star.
How I wonder what you are
up above the world so high ..."
ending nightly with fervent wish,
Please dear God,
find my daddy a job!
Seventy plus years have passed.
Other children come to mind.
Have their parents lost jobs?
Have they lost their homes?
Has someone taken them in?
Or are they cold and hungry,
looking longingly
on high?
As hard as such times are,
new delights come to treasure,
like searching sky in clear weather.
Please dear God,
grant each as much as I.
NEW THOUGHTS ON CREATION
Ah, yes, God's mind
was greater than mine.
But how did I fit in all this?
With help from my maker
through many blessings,
much turmoil and death,
husbands and children,
I tried to manage
without damaging
the shoots from our roots.
In my distress I sought knowledge
tending books in college and career
until husbands and children had flown,
my mates to heaven and offspring
to lives of their own.
Once again I was restless.
God responded with a quest
that reminded of search in the past
for a different world.
Though God was wiser,
the different world I sought
and thought sealed,
needed to be revealed.
Every ingredient was already here.
But those who inhabited
God's magnanimous gift
required a nudge, yes, from me
to help them see
how we may endure adversity,
caring for one other.
Would you believe?
I was led far away
from my sheltered home
and congenial job
East of China and Korea,
to bring back word
of good and generous people
still suffering in the far Pacific
from burning ash
of U.S. testing blast!
LAND
February 9, 2003
This land
your land
my land
Native American land
preserve it;
conserve it;
it deserves it.
In fear, bombs, missiles
is no security.
Schools deprived
guns survive.
impure water
unclean air,
let's show some maturity.
Endless war
seeking terrorists
can never please,
a solution worse
than the disease.
We can't control it.
We can't afford it.
A world aflame
we cannot tame.
US cannot survive
lest it contrive
to share our bounty
with others.
Stop robbing brothers.
That land
of the Bantu,
Koreans, Hindustani,
preserve it.
Their children deserve it.
That land of the Iraqis,
preserve it.
Their children deserve it.
NO WAR PLEASE!
(Continues...)
Excerpted from CAPTURED BY LONG ICY WINTER by Margery McManus Leach. Copyright © 2010 by Margery McManus Leach. Excerpted by permission of Trafford Publishing.
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