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Quiet Sheba Volume II
By Elizabeth Clayton Trafford Publishing
Copyright © 2016 Elizabeth Clayton
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4907-6845-8
CHAPTER 1
The Lamentations Into Redemption
Nature
Vol II
"... resting untroubled,
and the evening's Moon flower face
in its sweetness,
as apology for heaven's distance."
Unheard Sounds
The day is coming around again to itself,
finding shadows
that will cover the last sunlight;
— and I imagine that I can hear the silence.
It is like seeing bells, ringing, seeing the wind blow,
seeing rain falling,
all not to hear, but thinking the sounds,
knowing time passing,
watching silent voices.
The sun, in the falling afternoon,
is wise, and generous; for his fatigue,
out of the east,
must be mended in the west,
so that we not be, in the new day,
without our fire.
In the late afternoon silence,
I hear the sun setting,
just above the rising of the moon.
Inside my rooms,
the brilliance of color in daisies
is also in the silence,
stretching out into unledgered moments of yellow hue
that cousin with the flame,
coming, in lighted candles.
Kindly, continuous, filling up emptiness:
autumn's reflections find wealth
in gentle, unheard sounds
that are rivaled only by the movement
of spent angel wings.
-- to be in touch with Holy Presence,
as in nature, as well as camaraderie, all of the loves
we can enjoy — but to have at hand, always, with no
requirements, wagers: the joyful exchanges the senses
allow us — ah — yes — heaven is the place of the all natural -
Deep Rose
In my softness,
surges of excitement or fear;
worshiping in the timeless sunlight,
its warmth falling all about, to sense and to touch,
wrapping me like a respectful vestment;
and in the doorway,
breathing the constant, faceless wind;
memories are allowed to come and mingle,
like autumn leaves
of gold and chestnut and crimson,
summoned beauty with an attending darkness.
The world is painted,
for ages and eons,
in seasons,
and the deep rose of summer is not always.
-- the beauty of nature carries, also, the intense truthfulness of
all that living: I learned first — not of instruction, fable or tale,
but of the lifeless blossom in early morning, beside the vibrant new — of the
reality of death, a mourning I have carried always --
Watermelon flower,
with tendrils, blooms and noble, bountiful heart,
you are the garden's smile
with handsome skin, meat sweet,
and more, to the aging child, reflection.
I have fashioned you from memory and childhood's good,
and you, in your rhine,
smile forth deep blush with black pearls painted about.
Can you know the days of sun
and innocent joy you suggest to me,
allowing my house to be filled up with treasure;
now opened, it spills into the day,
the latch unloosed by you, watermelon flower,
your harvested beauty
and your embroidered key
that unlocks the binding ornamentation of hours passed.
-- a symbol of childhood innocence, and happiness:
wealth for a lifetime --
A Sleep
O light,
whose joy it is to smile into today,
to give a camaraderie with the sun,
that spring might awaken,
its green to rise,
to bless and succor,
that our souls may know their way:
the daffodil will offer its throated gold,
and the dragonfly
will seek again quiet adventure;
— manifested rare and great,
the pattern that allows sleep,
at last to be troubled by a bursting longing,
into radiant unfolding.
-- "spring" is a bursting into beautiful awareness --
Close Conclusion
Autumn quiet,
and sabbath stillness,
used up by hummers and squirrels,
with shadows dancing early;
like a journeyed narrative,
summer green is heard with a polite care,
touching gently the inner deep,
leaving the grasp,
the step toward gold and chill,
a garden of close conclusion,
where smiles are held full,
and September flowers are gathered, joyful.
This second flowering,
becoming heavy bronze and wounded scarlet,
offers hours that sound a wide glory
before games and intermezzos finish,
with haste,
into night and echo.
-- there is a subtle and gradual foretelling of the conclusion
of a season, showing the infinite wisdom and care of
the powerful being who draws them; summer radiance
giving over to autumn glow touches me deeply --
The Assuaging
In the sleeping flow of the finishing moonrise,
in the smooth rock of flowing water;
in the coming wealth of the candle's charred wick,
in the canopy left of early morning's fallen dew:
in these speaks the beautiful, poignant knowing in loss,
for in its emptiness
fall the lines of its late fullness,
forming an image
that touches with dark flowering wisdom,
inviting gentle reflection
which finds a world assuaging sorrow,
of yesterday's summer warmth and ripe blackberry.
referencing my truth in the past I remember
as a child (early)
The Plenty
What wonderful moments await,
always,
those, the exquisite ordinary,
and more,
those marvelously rare,
of beauty not even imagined --
life,
in gracious generosity
within the stones and grasses along our path.
When waking,
the slow, restored providing of senses
embraces light and the sounds of quiet,
a dance of color,
dressed with a prophet's
burnished copper and polished gold,
green of olive
lying alongside rose and water's blue,
holding away the thoughtful Hebraic violin:
the therefore silent,
treasured rope of memory,
winding its way into a fullness
that arranges the present,
a gathering of these richly appointed moments,
a joyful knowing
of the plenty of hours within the stream.
-- a continuous flow of color attached to objects,
thoughts, seasons sentiments — the plenitude in
life, always, and always with beauty --
The Born of Morning
The flower of day opened,
unfolding with the constancy
of a reverently burning candle;
images dressed me with their beauty,
while shadows, yet,
softened the dark laughter of truth.
Yesterday's sunset
had been crushed into wonderful designs,
fashioning an exquisite butterfly
of captured light.
And past, sweet weepings gathered to flow,
laying out paths for new, innocent adventure;
incense of rose fell
into the veiling of growing verse,
breathing onto glass, colored in windows
that promised the fuller day.
A ceramic smoothness
and summer meadow stillness
echoed full masculine laughter,
the gentleness of brothers in their autumn voice.
My purse held the beautiful paisley,
winding, turning into joy,
with the anticipation of a wedding,
with the wealth of orthodox solemnity.
And mine came a purpose to drink
into its finish the cool wine of morning,
to free the lock that would not find
the violent green of spring,
or snow with the acorn before,
but as silver to flower,
and lie in a golden box.
My absolute joy at greeting the
beauty of another day!
Morning
From the mists of dying night,
the maiden, fair, of day arrives;
from the enclave of hanging dew
she glides into sense and knowing.
The mirror still of painted sky
looks wide about,
into a moment's quiet
and presence rare,
the beauty of rebirth,
the joy in its giving.
one of my many "morning" verses (early)
(2013 note)
The Drawing
Cascading white gold,
onto its continuous life,
finding the garden of humanity;
walking through hours in Indian summer
warmth,
when dust of the lost summer
holds to gold in the dancing grapevine,
in the grande fugue of wheat,
the pausing crimson
of the smiling holly berry:
moments cleave hold to each other,
beauty gathering itself into a drawing,
poignant with loss,
new and true,
to the side of sentiments
quietly content in reflection and acceptance,
hopeful that the gold
will continue into days that prepare,
silently, with patience,
tender,
a garment of surrender
to the power of winter's still.
-- the inescapable nature of the cycle of life --
In these deep hours,
sleep is the only adventure left me,
not with handsome warriors on mounted greatness,
their armor shining gold,
hearing, still, luted farewells,
but with the moon
allowing her majesty to the earth below,
like an elegant lady
unfolding a softly lighted silk.
Night birds offer unseen, pulsating melodies,
and the autumn butterfly
rests its small lamp underneath the fragile branches
of berries and late, dark blossoms.
The unknowing turtle slides silently into the water,
and the dew is kind,
laying down itself over the tired brown earth
that has forgotten summer.
And so, small and grand moments
find their way into waiting,
comfortable nets,
those that accompany me
into my grey, vaulted quiet.
--a very descriptive "night" verse --
Rubied Fancy
Like a rubied valentine of gold,
its light has held in the soft net of the morning;
and its being
was a smooth, strawberried confection,
a sweetness,
a sufflated trembling,
a suspended delight
demanding deference
from all that touched its glory.
Only the cherries,
nestled in their crimsoned opulence,
suggest, of the fancy,
a wisdom, perhaps, overmuch
a dewdrop, on ripe cherries
a nice conceit —
The morning reigns a flawless diamond,
rivaled only by its autumn smile;
birds are not feeding,
not moving the quiet around;
perhaps they sleep in the peace of these hours.
I think of French poets,
of when I was their student;
Shubert sings
and I feel alone with myself,
anticipating beauty,
but holding a darkly kept mourning
that the day will journey into the night
where I must find other beauty,
another sense of myself,
where conclusion will be greeted
as a season in death,
touching the diamond with darkness.
I do not wish to be always in advance of myself,
for my face is turned aside somewhat to the day
and its present,
full joy.
We need not focus too often or long on our ultimate
destiny, else we lose the feast of the day.
Somehow, in time unmeasured,
the watermelon
and vanilla hues of crepe myrtle have passed,
replaced by crimson lying against bronze and gold,
red satin and early morning yellow.
Is that not the way:
we pass from soft, sensuous colors
into those deeper,
with more pigment,
but we stand under a sky with less sun,
these colors leading quickly
into browns and farewells.
repeated theme
of the seasons, so important to my moods —
Lighted Amusement
When I feel that my days are lacking,
and weigh full of emptiness, or more,
encompass a great nothing,
I bring my attention to the lights in windows,
as darkness falls.
Windows light rooms,
and rooms light windows,
legions of them,
and in these rooms
is played out the great variation of life.
How colorful and busy, how gentle and faithful;
how strong are they of the many rooms.
Battles are fought here,
love is exchanged here,
and here the will to continue
is taught at the knee.
Should the sun come to gather
the stars of the night, to his morning,
they could not with their glow
ask more than to compliment
the light, the fire, the hope
that rises to the new day,
window sills among those first receiving,
opening eyes to another splendor.
-- light — either of nights, windows or open spaces in day time hours —
what wonder to imagine all that such encompasses --
The Moment of the Rose
We give up the day to night,
always, with a portion of sadness,
for sunlight
watches the moments spill around us,
and only by happenchance,
within divine pleasure,
do we let them enter us, to keep.
Cognitively then,
I have known the Rose,
her sweet breath,
her silkened petal skin,
sculpted in lines and contours
reminiscent of the sentiment of Eros,
of colors that ivory can fashion out of rouge.
The moment was when she lay gracefully
among her leaves,
and I stopped to enchantment.
At the close of the day,
the rose and I knew of our moment;
in declaration and submission,
our moment had called forth
our willing strengths and our emboldened spirits,
she, in giving to me,
I, in receiving the presence of this Rose.
We were, each, at twilight, spent and humbled;
we approached the natural cathedral's holiness
in thanksgiving's prayer,
that we two had each been
in the moment of the other.
-- a lovely tribute to the property of being aware,
just as I know beauty presence --
Part-Song
— A honeysuckled concert of woodland voices,
the mournful song of a passing summer dove --
falling beyond image;
and now only a warm movement in the heart,
lavender offering out of deep violet.
-- specific portions of nature warm our hearts,
perhaps more than others --
Moonrose
Within the outside darkness,
my landscape appeared
a darkened, standing plain,
and then, with my pillow mine ease,
her moonself's majesty became my pleasure.
A small portion of light lifted in,
to appear again and again,
a moon salad,
with pieces of grey and dark
together with smiles of light.
Suggested was a sensuous pulsating
of appearing and receeding,
and could a moon be rose,
there should have been a softly radiant rose
wash in the still, nighttime sky.
Moontides gather and run away,
and moonsmiles blossom and fade.
But as the whole of moonlight quietens
and gentles us
so that when the daytime sky is gold and warm --
demanding that we struggle and grow --
we do not, then, nod,
but again play out the primordial press.
-- the perfected plan, without imperfections we
"lesser gods" can find upon which to dwell --
Moonlight Healing
I awakened suddenly,
and lay in the quiet darkness,
unable to freely move,
for every joint was sought out
and pronounced so
that pain spread over me like dark water.
Presently I turned my eyes
to see the glass doors and balcony
which offered a still, moonlit splendor
in the mystical outdoors,
altogether the beautiful promise of spring.
The picture there served to suggest
a priest with the sacraments,
and brought, more than the bright red poppy,
with all her wiles
the blessed balm of relief.
Return
The swelling of the organ
lifts up the petaled smile of the gardenia,
and birds hasten when we walk;
these each becomes quiet, and to the aside;
they are real, truly,
only in the moments of their recognition.
But like a ship come to port from seas distant and wide,
bringing treasures we do not now know,
the well of our thought
allows the days to come again,
bringing gifts, again true,
even the fragrant nature of the gardenia.
--old theme
(2013 note)
With every touch,
a Southern snowfall is enchantment.
In its abundant whiteness the day is soft brilliance,
but the snowfall in moonlight
bestows to us each robes of royalty.
In daytime halos,
the snow lies like blanched lemonade,
with the familiar hues,
dark and light,
the green of rough wool,
presenting snowmen without their black hats,
a dark cherried eye,
showing perhaps the care of a waiting imagination.
There is a marshmallow sensitivity
in the feathered bushings of snow,
covering strength in structures,
appearing somehow softened.
A stillness, like a familiar character in a narrative,
can be broken
by the sudden entrance of a presumptuous cardinal,
suggesting the rouge comb
and sounds of Chanticleer.
Perhaps the freshness in the snowfall
calls most to our hearts,
leaving us restored
through an innocent magic
that asks only that we acknowledge
that the butterfly does not, alone, tell of joy.
-- one of my spontaneous "wisdoms," midst supporting description --
We know the dying of the day,
with its soft, earth- toned shadows,
its birds that are innocent in their neutral and red cheer.
And our wisdom is enlarged in reaching forth
to the first suggestions of summer's end:
the smaller splendor of the Morning glory;
the quiet entrance of the flowering Golden rod,
and the exciting of first frost on mellowed fruit.
We have known and felt the growth of these,
and we pause to look with discomfort at their message.
This message is brought by the constant runner beside us,
the pilgrim of memory,
and the full script he holds for each day.
His pace is deliberate, silent, but interminable.
Unwavering, despite our labored contest,
is the awareness he mirrors to us,
and all that has led to it.
And so, our enigma looks toward the glass,
and in a moment faces the darkness of the day,
and the reception to the coming season.
It may be that the significant regret of the world
is that it is inconvenienced by,
that it does not allow,
the eloquence in saying,
while smiling overmuch on words discordant.
With fugue-like steps, we hold within ourselves our pain
and know the ruin of a still birth.
Perhaps we hope for the enduring smile of the holy mother,
or the impeccable features of the cameo lady.
But what of mortal hope:
only that it fires our efforts, and they are lost,
in their newness and freshness, to the world;
that we claimed them silently, with gentian Violet, and
they are ours to lie with us under gray, elegiac stones.
-- a somewhat "grey" face given to nature -- yet, true?
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Quiet Sheba Volume II by Elizabeth Clayton. Copyright © 2016 Elizabeth Clayton. Excerpted by permission of Trafford Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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