This Is My Day: Mairi's Tree

Sacrament Meeting Poem

Frustrated by inane lyrics of a folksy song about Jesus sung in Sacrament Meeting, I sat down and composed these on the spot. They come close . . .

In the quiet woodland,
Green beneath the trees,
Jesus walked.
And by the sweeping shore
Where long white waves
Curled singing at our feet,
The Savior walked.

He touched us with his hands,
Warm as the sun
That spilled her golden light,
Soft as the gray dove's wing.
And in his eyes
Were all the harvests,
All the gardens sweet,
All the pure smiles of children
Throughout time.

And Love.
Oh, in his gaze
That Love poured forth
Like honeyed light,
Like all the stars of heaven.
When His voice spoke
The wind spoke, and the thunder,
And the sea,
And every lullaby that mothers sing:

When Jesus spoke.
When Jesus walked with man.

IN THE BLEAK DECEMBER . . . MAGIC the NORTH WIND BLOWS IN . . .

TAKE HEAVEN . . . TAKE PEACE . . . TAKE JOY

quotes from letter written by Fra Giovanni, 1513:
"No heaven can come to us unless our hearts find rest in it today. Take heaven!
No peace lies in the future which is not hidden in this present little instant. Take peace!
The gloom of the world is but a shadow. Behind it, yet within our reach, is joy. Take joy!
Life is so generous a giver, but we, judging its gifts by the covering, cast them away as ugly, or heavy or hard. Remove the covering and you will find beneath it a living splendor, woven of love, by wisdom, with power.
Life is so full of meaning and purpose, so full of beauty--that you will find earth but cloaks your heaven.
Courage, then, to claim it . . . courage you have, and the knowledge that we are all pilgrims together, wending through unknown country, home . . .
And so at this time, I greet you. Not quite as the world sends greetings, but with profound esteem and with the prayer that for you--now and forever--the day breaks . . . and the shadows flee away!

THE TREMBLING MAIDEN ALL SILVER AND PALE . . .

I could not find anything about "ALL HALLOW'S EVE" . . .
so I wrote my own thoughts & impressions, and here they are:

All Hallow's Eve:
The gray night descends,
And the rooks rise up, and an errant breeze
Blows into a cold wind that shatters the sky,
And I can hear dozens of spirits cry,
Shadows that linger like dust in the air,
Or mist in the hollows. And over the moon
An old ghost whistles a gypsy tune --
Or is it a cloud cut the golden orb
Into shards of black ink that stain and spread?
And what is the moaning inside my head?
And what this fear, like a chill sick wave?
And the wind never still, and a new-dug grave,
And a trembling maiden all silver and pale . . .
All Hallow's Eve:
Where the ancient pain
Settles more sure than the stone-dark gloom,
And the voices that call through a thousand years,
And the sightless eyes that still weep their tears.
Why do you haunt me?
And why do I feel
A kinship with all that troubles me here?
What do I long for, just out of reach?
Bleak is the crow's voice along my skin,
So why do I raise my face to the rain?
And let the wind tatter my soul with its breath?
Oh, what kind of Life persists here beside death?

My Autumn Experience, real and truly lived . . . LEAVES

I can see the shadows of the big leaves
From the plane tree
Before they fall:
Like birds floating over my head --
But they do not fall --
They tumble and careen
On their short ride,
Then skid to the ground,
Trembling still with the
Glorious motion.

Do they look at the sky,
So suddenly far above them?
Feel the tickle of grass,
And miss the rough caress
Of the winds that sway the trees?

They had to let go --
And change --
And relinquish --
And what is left of them now,
Curled and brittle,
And mottled with autumn shades?

Oh, now! Now another magic
Rustles their spines,
And the wind sweeps them up,
Sweeps them up like the litter of fairies,
And in their high, shifting piles
The children of wonder
Wrestle and jump and roll,
And cover their heads with the bright leaves,
And bury their arms and their legs
In the tingling aroma,
And burrow like little moles
Until even their eyes are hidden,
To come sputtering up
New creatures, trailing secrets . . .

And on the paths,
Where the leves lie thick and trodden,
Young women walk,
And push the leaves with their toes,
As they push their dreams,
Laden with an ache and a longing
They cannot explain,
As they hug the glory to them,
And wonder why
They cannot soar with their longings . . .

I see the leaves,
They come one by one,
As we do:
As all things born
For the sake of Beauty
Must.

Let Fall No Burning Leaf . . . Let No Bird Call . . .

Nothing captures the feeling of autumn as well as Edna St. Vincent's poem: O WORLD

O World, I cannot get thee close enough!
Thy winds, thy wide gray skies,
Thy mists, that roll and rise,
Thy woods, this autumn day,
That ache and sag, and all but cry with color:
That gaunt crag to crush,
To lift the lean of that black bluff--
World, world! I cannot get thee close enough!

Long have I known a glory in it all,
Yet never knew I this,
Here such a passion is as stretcheth me apart:
Lord, I do fear thous't made the world
Too beautiful this year;
My soul is all but out of me:
Let fall no burning leaf, prithee,
Let no bird call . . .

THE OLD GHOST by Thomas Lovell Beddoes

Over the water an old ghost strode
To a churchyard on the shore,
And over him the waters had flowed
A thousand years or more,
And pale and wan and weary
Looked never a sprite as he;
For it's lonely and it's dreary
The ghost of a body to be
That has mouldered away in the sea.

Over the billows the old ghost stepped,
And the winds in mockery sung;
For the bodiless ghost would fain have wept
Over the maiden that lay so young
'Mong the thistles and toadstools so hoary,
And he begged of the waves a tear,
But they shook upwards their moonlight glory,
And the shark looked on with a sneer
At his yearning desire and agony.

LONG HAVE I KNOWN A GLORY IN IT ALL . . .

Hastening September on her way, I peer into the coming October days, anxious for the glory, color and sense of LIFE which comes with autumn . . .
Hence, in anticipation . . .

"Where there is no imagination, there is no horror"
Arthur Conan Doyle

"A house is never still in darkness to those who listen intently; there is a whispering in distant chambers, an unearthly hand presses the snib of the window, the latch rises. Ghosts were created when the first man awoke in the night . . . "
JM BARRIE

"If a man harbors any sort of fear, it makes him landlord to a ghost." --Lloyd Douglas