To My Granny's Picture

Dear little Granny, let me take your hand
And thank you for the gift you gave to me--
That you could send your babies to this land
And yet remain yourself across the sea
For two long years before you also came.
There is a look of sadness in your eyes
And poignant loneliness too deep to name,
Yet back of this--I marvel in surprise--
I see a glorious faith, calm and serene,
A look of reverent courage and of peace
That you had sent them here to fields all green
And fertile with God's righteous, rich increase.
Your children's children honor you ... They stand
Holding your torch of faith in this choice land.

Legacy

He looked around the room and saw his ten--

A few short hours was all he had to live--

He smiled, "Six stately women, four tall men!

To you I leave no lands or gold but give

An honored name on which you each may build

Your cherished castles, live your dreams and find

No breath of scandal that must needs be stilled--

No specters that can haunt your peace of mind;

For though I have but walked the lowly road

My thoughts have been as high as yonder star.

My love has lightened every heavy load;

And I have watched you climb to where you are

Pride in my heart--Now my short trek is ended.

Continue choosing pathways, broad and splendid."

Granny's Rosy Glasses

Dear little granny with her charming way!

How very often have I heard her say

About some person I had frowned upon,

"My darling, put your rosy glasses on."

Portrait of Courage

(Mary and the Mother of Judas)

Beneath the fateful sycamore where still
A frayed rope hung, they sat in quietude
Of grief and saw: three crosses on a hill;
Repentant Judas ... Darkling death there nude.
Heads bowed, eyes tearless, bleak, both mothers knew
That winds through palms would sing triumphant, free,
The Song of Life, while whispers slithering through
The grass would hiss, "Betrayer!" endlessly.

"How kind and mother-wise to seek me here!
Forgive him, Mary."--Grief's taut floodgates broke--
"His hands were grasping but his heart held dear
Your Son, his Lord. Would I might ease your yoke!"
In syllables love-tender, Mary said,
"Yours is the greater burden. Lift your head ..."

Let Her Dream

Walk gently little donkey for you bear

The patient waiting Mary as your load.

The silent Joseph breathes an anxious prayer

And, pondering, walks beside you on the road.

O little lamps of Heaven, softly shine,

Reveal the wonderment in Mary's eyes:

A kingly little, son, His sire divine!

Remembered angel-words still bring surprise.

Dreaming, she smiles and sees a path of glory.

The night is brightened by a strange new star,

The angels have begun to sing their story,

The Magi journey from their lands afar.

Ahead lies Calvary. Stars, softly gleam.

Walk gently little donkey, let her dream.

Midwest Chaparral

That You May Find the King

These gifts I wish for you this Christmas day,
These simple gifts the heart may ever hold:
The faith to see the Holy Star's clear ray
Leading to Bethlehem; the treasured gold
Minted from friendship through the changing years;
The frankincense of hope to ease despair;
The myrrh of love that will illume your tears
Revealing Heaven through the gate of prayer.
From the garden of your heart may you give flowers
Petaled with all the beauty you have known
To burgeon for another's perilous hours--
Who walks with beauty never walks alone.
These gifts I wish for you and may they bring
The chrism of peace that you may find the King.

I Shall Keep Faith

Though Christmas may not be within my heart,

I shall keep faith with my brave son who died

A martyr on that far Korean shore

Where terror's horsemen ride.

Then hang the holly and the mistletoe

And light the Yuletide candles; trim the tree--

Dear God, pin back death's curtain with a star

That he may see.

The Archer

First in Archer Christmas Contest

When Every Heart Accepts

The little donkey will be journeying
To Bethlehem again this Christmas Eve;
Still gently will he step, the unborn King
Upon his back. Will Mary have to leave
The blazing Inn to seek a stable bed?
Will shepherds listen to the angel song
With man-made spheres exploding overhead;
Jets cleaving spaceways through a starry throng?
The patient donkey's journey will be done
When every heart accepts the Holy One.

Country Doctor

When duty called

Me from my home, my work, where tranquil skies

And smiling hills gave benediction-peace,

I wore rebellion's mantle on my soul.

Why should I thus uproot my feet from loam

That knew my easy tread, and go afar

To heed the cries of those already doomed?

How I am here

Where I, myself, behold the face of War

And feel his cruel arms, and breathe the air

Made foul by his hot breath; here, where I lead

Your sons through strange dark corridors of pain,

And prune their shattered limbs, and ease their shock.

While some but mutter curses, others weep

Like homesick children that they are. Last night

A lad so like my own was brought to me--

So young and fair and suffering, that I prayed

That God would grant me healing. Then I knew

He would not live the night. I saw his soul

Naked and bleeding: in its primal need

Craving the chrism of a mother's kiss.

A hardened country doctor! Yet the tears 

Rivered my calloused cheeks. I held him close.

As his eyes dimmed, I kissed his ashen brow.

He murmured, "Mom", and passed death's portals

To find, at last, the Holy Grail of Peace.

Now as I stand

In this vast auditorium of death,

War's grim face softened by the lamps of night,

I cast aside the mantle I have worn,

And place about my new-awakened soul

The robe of thankfulness that I can give

My holy gifts--the frankincense and myrrh

Of deep compassion, understanding love--

Illume the way to life, or death, for these

Our valiant sons whose birthright has been sold.

The American Bard

Mary's Lullaby

Not long the road to Bethlehem, not long:
The hours sped swiftly for I spun a song,
A lullaby that I would sing with joy
When I would hold Him close--God's little boy.
The notes I plucked from beauty on my way:
Lithe amber willows with their furry-gray:
(Would He love little kittens?) ancient palms,
An avenue of harps that strummed the psalms
Of David like a prayer; an olive tree
Wherein a dove was nesting; (He would be
The Prince of Peace.) a linnet fluting through
The quietude of skies of April-blue;
The lilies of the fields shy-whispering;
The grasses by the roadside new with spring.
From all of this I spun a song for Him.
(Would He love catkins on a willow limb?)

The donkey--Joseph leading--stepped so slow
And carefully, I wondered: did he know
He bore the unborn King? As dusk descended--
A few more notes and my song would be ended--
Came drowsy night-sounds ... Did a shadow flee?
One long discordant note wail Calvary?
No, not in my joy-lullaby! Instead,
A cradle moon low-hanging overhead
Recalled the waiting cradle Joseph made...
Travailing pain ... Yet I was unafraid
For high above there shone the Moving Star
And Joseph spoke, "Not far, my dear, not far!"

When I lay resting on the fragrant hay
I thought of all the beauty on my way
And sang the lullaby that I had spun
For I was holding close, God's little Son.

Let Me Waken

Tell, oh tell in joyful numbers

That this day is but a dream.

Let me waken from my slumbers

Resting by a lotus-stream.

Surely I must now be dreaming,

Man could never be so blind

As to throw an atom screaming

At the rest of humankind!

Chromatones

Madonna of the Woodland

The Wise-Men pines looked down upon her child
Cradled beside her in a snowy bed
Of curling bracken. Forest-dark was aisled
With moonlight. As the silver silence spread
On shepherd cedars kneeling in their awe,
The night wind's muted song a lullaby,
This gentle mother of the woodland saw
A strange new star that moved across the sky;
And shining down upon the bracken bed
It made a halo for her young fawn's head.

Love's Alchemy

From the plane his comrades bore him,

Placed him gently at my feet--

Maimed and wounded, scarred and suffering.

God in Heaven! Could I meet

All the need for love and solace

In those haunted eyes--that face?

With a cry I held him to me

Sheltered in my heart's embrace.

I could feel his wild heart beating,

Clinging to my very soul.

Looking then I saw but beauty,

For love's alchemy makes whole.

Montana Poetry Quarterly

When Winter Sang

I heard the song, "Lift up, lift up
Your eyes! For beauty leaves the clod.
Oh, hush! Be still! A daffodil
Within its golden chalice-cup
Declares the artistry of God."

Within a clearing in a wood
I learned His ways beside a brook.
All summer long I heard the song
And, listening, I understood--
The thrush, the leaves, the wind, my book.

I heard the song when fruited lands
Bestowed fulfillment's accolade.
In autumn sun the willows spun
The gold of faith and I touched hands
With God ... and waited unafraid ...

The Sea Is Singing

Since I have heard the music of the sea

I cannot bear to hear the voice of man

Mumbling discordant tones, for clear and free

The waves are chanting of a master-plan--

The earth a great Democracy of Love.

They sing the timeless lyric, "Peace, be still!

The God of Heaven watches from above

And wind and wave and man obey His will."

War drums will cease. The strength of wrong shall fail.

Wearing His shield, we shall erase the bars

Of hate and greed that right may yet prevail

And WORLD DEMOCRACY outlast the stars.

Above the clanging of the tongues of fools,

The sea is singing that the great God rules.

The American Bard

Hon. Men. World Peace and Unity Contest

Where Fear and Hunger Stalked

He searched in vain for beauty pure from dross,

The soul of beauty God had made when He

Had carved the mountains, boundaried the sea ...

But always in his search there fell across

His path the shadow of the albatross

Of selfishness whose discord drowned the free

Clear flutes of gentler birds; bade beauty flee

From terraced gardens ... Long he mourned his loss.

Then through the squalid streets of Greece he walked--

One drooping flower bloomed to lend its grace

Where bone-lean children carved their dreams in dust.

Startled, he saw--where fear and hunger stalked--

The soul of beauty in the withered face

Of one who gave away his last dry crust.

Repentance at the Holy Gate

Smiling cadaverously he knocked. The gate

Swung open and he said, "May I come in?"

I know the empery of Hell. Too late

Perhaps, I feel contrition for my sin

Of compromise with evil on the earth.

I might have reached a godliness of soul

But ruthlessly wrought chaos. Grant rebirth!

My cowering conscience pleads to be made whole.

My heart is now a crucible of fear.

Would that my soul had dared to seek the Fount

Of Light! With avatars and angels near,

I could have been a savior on the Mount.

The Emancipator

The Old Man Weeps

An old man, hatred glooms,

Weaves destiny--Dark is his face--

Upon the rim of chaos. Never mild,

His breath, now hot, now cold: a wind shrill-wild!

With somber threads he weaves--No trace

Of brightness from his looms.

Then love comes softly; love, a little child,

Brings skeins of sun with Royal grace.

No more the fear of doom's

Designing, for there blooms

The Rose of Peace ... Earth primrose-aisled!

The old man weeps ... yields love his sovereign place.

Desecrated Shrine

Always throughout the years I saw the Master

Forgiving, with compassion on His face;

But now I see, swift-flashing through disaster,

The javelins of anger cleave His grace.

Within His hand the very whip is lashing

He used to drive the money-changers out.

He hears the clink of coins within the clashing

Of swords that make the world a crimson rout.

Would that today we might retell the story--

The tables overturned, the changers fled;

Too many now defile the Temple's glory,

And God rebukes us for our martyred dead.

He stands majestic, as He is divine,

And bids us cleanse His desecrated shrine.

The Lyric

Second in MFCP Clinic Poems, Fall 1951

Speed Swiftly Time

Though time speeds swiftly on his vibrant way

I do not fear his silvering decay:

So lightly tethered to the earth am I

That traveling by my star, I reach the high,

White silences ... and view the Master's weaving,

Its flawless primrose strands, the gray relieving.

How beautiful the pattern He has woven

For me to follow! Never shall the cloven-

Hoof and lion-roar leave tragic scars

On its ultimate perfection. Even war's

Harsh and discordant notes of death will blend

Into His symphony where kingdoms have no end.

Speed swiftly time. As you pass, clear and free,

I hear the steps of immortality.

The Fragrance of Lillies Lingered

There among the crosses

The great, gaunt commoner

Knelt in grief and supplication.

God, in his shadow, touched him saying,

"My son, arise and behold!"

Where once the crosses rose

Was a field of lilies;

Walking through them, the living forms

Of the crucified, One among them

Like unto God who said,

"Behold, my brothers, not in vain,

Oh, not in vain we died,

But to bring undying beauty."

God spoke again,

"My son, have patience--

Look to far horizons

To see the glory of America,

And beyond, the glory of the world."

There among the crosses

God and the commoner were gone

But the fragrance lingered.

So May the Goddess Speak

I am the Goddess--welcoming you home.

Your death-strewn pilgrimage is ended when

You see my arm uplifted. On my loam

You are a kingly commoner; all men

Are peers. No feudal lord, here, has a place.

There is an alchemy within my farms,

My shops and temples, that will leave no trace

Of hunger-specters--or of war-alarms.

With eagle-pinioned valor keep my hearth

A citadel for true democracy--

The chrism of whose love will heal the earth

And planet-far erect an Empery

Of Peace. So bid me live and wave unfurled,

My Glorious Banner over all the world.

Poet's Reed

Sonnet Sequence, First in Democracy Contest

Love the Alchemist

Doleful is the world and dark;

On its rim an ancient one

Weeps to hear the wind blow wild.

Love, a laughing little child,

Carries sheaves of golden sun

To the hoary patriarch,

Takes his hand ... a dream is spun.

Shadowed ways are sunlight aisled,

Earth is singing! Hark! On, hark!

Would There Be Room

If Christ should come to Bethlehem tonight

And ask for lodging at the blazing inn,

Would there be room? Or would He know the plight

That came to Mary? Would a stable's din

Fall on His ears? His bed be fragrant hay?

Would He be mocked and spat upon and die?

Would some new Pilate wash his hands and say,

"I find no fault, but you may crucify"?

Or have the mills of time in grinding made

His own to know; to hear again His voice--

"Let not your hearts be troubled or afraid"?

If Christ should come tonight, would they, through choice,

Inscribe their banner--wave it high, unfurled--

"Jesus of Nazareth, ruler of the world!"?

Soundless Sermons

Though lips rebel not at the treadmill path,

The eyes, from deep within their smouldering pools,

Can give the lips the lie, and in their wrath

Speak soundless sermons never read by fools.

The Archer

A Sixth Door Opens

Sometimes after a day

of hearing the dissonant voice of the world,

beneath the stars I watch the moon

silver the ebon shade till all is silence;

then I step lightly into my many chambered mind

and close its five doors.

Noiseless, a sixth door opens--

a door forgotten when the five are wide.

To the patterned rhythm of the spheres

I drift back aeons to a time-forgotten kingdom

and enter, not as a stranger:

Old friends embrace me and I speak with the Gods I knew

before I breathed the Lethean vapors of birth.

Again I see the PLAN:

the beginning ... the now ... the ending.

(I sang for joy in the beginning.)

Tuned to the mysteries I hear strange music:

the strains in thunder chords and lightning flares;

in winds and quakings of the earth;

in the steel-winged sky ... in death ... and know

that the dissonance of war and tears

will blend into eternal melody.

Slowly I return.

The five doors open ...

His Were Patient Feet

The feet of Joseph, walking mile on mile,

Were willing feet. The donkey following

His lead avoided every stone: He bore

The unborn King.

Mary, who saw their feet were tiring, knew

She must reach Bethlehem to bear her Son.

She smiled at Joseph, knowing he too dreamed

Of the Little One.

The Babe's first cry dispelled his weariness

When resting in a stable sweet with hay.

He thought of the waiting cradle as he knelt

Where the Infant lay.

Oh, his were patient feet, not hesitant:

When an angel bade, they crossed the desert sand

Fleeing to Egypt. Wearied, Joseph touched

A little hand.

And was renewed--Time passed. Returning home,

The Little One would often coax to walk

Beside him; leave small footprints by his own.

The Wee Lad's talk

Awoke his father-love: What joy to work

Together in his shop ... until He grew!

All wisely would he guide those little feet,

For he knew ... He knew!

Betrayed

The earth is an old woman

In travail, in throes of agony,

Birthing, not the shining god she dreamed--

Her rightful heritage--but a horror-child

Sired by lust and hate and greed.

The earth is an old woman, weeping

For she has been betrayed.

The Searchlight

Rock of Silence

The rock of silence

Shatters the gruesome structure

Built by calumny.

Shine Softly Stars

Shine softly little lamps of night

That God hung in the sky;

O cooling breezes, gently blow

And hum a lullaby;

For on the road from Bethlehem

The radiant Mary smiles.

Her baby's tiny fingers cling

And joy illumes the miles--

Remembering the strange new star,

Once more the angels sing;

Again the Magi bring her babe

Their costly offering.

While silent Joseph standing near

Bows reverently his head,

Again the lowly shepherds kneel

Beside the manger-bed--

The little donkey's feet are sure.

Led by his master's hand,

Does he not bear a sacred load

Across the desert sand?

The baby sleeps in Mary's arms;

Her eyes, with wonder, shine.

A kingly little son is hers

To love--His sire divine.

Moon-Mother, veil the face of night

With moonbeams, sheer and thin;

Shut out the harsh world from her heart

And keep but joy therein.

O radiant Mary, dream your dreams

While little night lamps glow;

The road that leads to Calvary

Tonight, you need not know.

Giant-Slave

I journeyed in the valley of despair

Where stalked the spectre of the yet-to-be.

While terror bade my faith and courage flee

I waited for the atom's deadly flare.

I visioned a chaotic dying earth

Wearing the sackcloth in its misery.

Then came a flashing from Eternity

And eagle-pinioned hope achieved rebirth

I saw a giant slave with gentleness

Working our farms and mines; whose touch will bring

Freedom from toil and pain ... and give the stars

To man, his master, by his power to bless,

The strength of Atlas in his whispering.

I walk with faith beyond fear's prison-bars.

Midwest Chaparral

Third in Citrine Contest

Walls of Her Own Griefs

She builded walls

to keep out the neighbors' children

lest footprints mar the proper decorum

of her lily beds,

and a childish shrill

disturb the singing of her caged canary;

and she must keep free of slang

the language of her parrot--

High walls hold the secret to coerce time

to creep by at a snail's pace

while loneliness hears

the high heels of indifference clicking on the streets.

Even compassion fails to notice

when the pattern is broken and the gate left ajar--

She waited--taut was the thread of hope--

only to hear a perfect diction,

"Closed in by the walls of her own griefs."

"Hush!" she said to her parrot and wept.

Illumed by a Star

Since I am the pilot--

My ship built of days--

I sail for an islet

Beyond the earth-ways,

Its lighthouse a Temple

Illumed by a star--

The bells in its steeple

Call "Peace!" from afar.

Song for an Infant Son

O little man-child, sleeping on my breast,

I pray the carillons of peace will sound

Before the doleful drums disturb your rest;

Before a cross for you marks hallowed ground.

And yet my son, this grim, chaotic world

Whose greed's strong henchmen ride on crimson sod

Will some day see the flag of peace unfurled

And build a great imperium to God.

I wait the dawn to follow the dark night

Of horror, with the cross of Calvary.

You may behold, my son, the growing light.

One of the chosen builders you may be.

So sleep my darling, in your infant bliss,

For you may never feel the sword's sharp kiss.

The Emancipator

Hon. Mention in IWL Contest

I Shall Walk

Father, when Thou callest me,

Let it be in some still dawn,

Pearls of dew upon the lawn,

Love, my staff to lean upon.

Let the breath of dawning be

Fragrance from a wild rose lane--

Memories will ease my pain,

Love, remembered, heals again.

Death is kind and leads to Thee--

I shall walk, not bowed, but straight,

To the tasks that, for me, wait--

Not a harp--beyond Thy Gate.

A New Star Rises

Old carols--

Peace ... good will ...

Are worn threadbare.

The words:

Angels, shepherds, Magi,

Stable and moving Star

Obsolete.

My gifts:

A new pin-up--my girl in her wedding gown;

(She married the fellow at home.)

A new rifle.

The cry of a child dying--

(Not of the Babe, new-born)

The footfalls of communism in the distance--

Not receding--

And two years in the army.

I am only a soldier--

But a new star rises in Nevada,

Holy and Chill.

When You Meet Frustration

Walk with sure feet and bear your heavy load,

And when you meet frustration on the road,

Fear not his chill embrace or Judas-kiss--

Ahead, there lies a new Acropolis.

Anchor in the Wind

Forked tongues of lightning lashed the sky

That split then closed in thunderous roar;

The boy clung to a swaying tree

Until he saw the open door

Of home outreach its arms to him--

Wise-guiding arms they were, love-strong.

He learned to face each hurricane:

Head high, he answered song for song,

Then when the wind brought sounds of war,

The cries of wounded, dying, slain,

His were the tender, healing arms

To hold ... and ease a comrade's pain.

For he had learned--time-disciplined--

Love is the anchor in the wind.

Let Your Black Tears Flow

Weep black tears

for the fallen hero,

for the uninhabited mountain from which he fell.

Weep, for he lies at the foot of the mountain

wizened to a dwarf with his spine curved

like the willow.

Weep, and pull the sword

from his bleached heart.

Let your black tears flow

till the sword corrodes with rust

and the soaring Eagle sky-writes PEACE

with the ashes of the war-stallion.

No Light of Bomb

The flag of peace will be unfurled,

The light of hope illume the sky,

Vast reels of selfless-love uncurled.

The flag of peace will be unfurled

And God's own fingers clasp the world

When man decrees that greed shall die.

The flag of peace will be unfurled,

The light of hope illume the sky.

First in MFCP Triolet Contest, Fall 1952

He Steps from His Worn Moccasins

The Red Man slowly, surely has been shoved

Until he stands in sorrow on the edge

Of vast primeval prairies he has loved ...

Must he relinquish all his heritage?

He stands uncertain, stoic, stubborn-proud--

Does this mean death? Then comes a burst of light:

New grasslands yet to roam! Gone is the shroud!

For reaching out, in love, are arms of white.

How haltingly he takes the outstretched hands

How slow he plods through unknown tracts of mind

And climbs the culture trails ... then understands

That he is part of one great humankind.

He steps from his worn moccasins and hears

The song of progress-music to his ears.

Leave Me This Last Shred of Hope

Let us leave the answer

For the historian to record

We who have not prophet-eyes

To read the future

Cry with a terrible wailing

The senselessness of the last warring struggle.

Backward in history

Like-wailings were heard,

Yet time built a monument to freedom

On the graves of its martyrs--

The cross of Calvary

Transposed a song of death

Into a timeless symphony of life.

So may the fields of crosses

Blossom into the beauty

Of freedom for all men.

Leave me this last shred of home

For my son was killed in Korea.

Sesame

White-winged gulls of hope will rise,

Peace descend, when man shall view

Christ within a brother's eyes.

Pears will be as pearls of dew;

Mountains will resound with grace,

Valleys sing a symphony;

God will hold the spheres in place--

Love, the magic Sesame.

Chromatones

Second, Precision Poetics--Trochaic Octave

Seedtime and Harvest

A child knelt to pray

Beside his mother's knee--

Their cabin on prairie sod.

A man lights the way

Leading humanity

Through fruited valleys to God.

Young God

From the burning stubble of civilization

Beneath the mourning Heavens

Will arise a young god

Nurtured by the queer people, the dreamers.

He will revive the dying Eagle;

Empty the witches brew of hate;

Refill its casks with wine of ruth;

Build altars from the fragments of dead dreams

And light thereon the tapers of forgiveness.

Then will the thunderous echoes

Of the hooves of the stallion war

Die in the distance;

And again shall be heard

The triumphant screen of the Eagle

With never the clang of chains.

O queer dreamers of destiny,

Nurture well the young god

Whose name is love.

White Carillons

Rivers of grief are swelling, flooding the soul's mute sanctum;

Quivers of fear are shaking its depths at the curse of war.

Weeping, we see the crosses over our soldier-martyrs

Sleeping at last, while terror rides on his crimson steed.

Praying for war's cessation while on our knees we worship,

Saying, "Thy will be done," then leaving the rest to God

Never will bring right's triumph, lighten our cross of sorrow;

Ever we all must toil our utmost to bring release.

After the long dark night when dawn is breaking in glory,

Laughter will flow from hearts erasing the spirit-scars.

Winging to Heaven, our joy will be an anthem. The angels

Ringing white carillons will sound the Millennial Gong.

The Archer

First in Arabesque Div., Head-Rhyme Contest

In a Hospital Waiting Room

Apologetically through open doors

She came, a few spring flowers in her hand--

Somebody's mother, sweet as mine or yours.

To see her was to feel and understand

The bond of sisterhood. How lovingly

The years had lined her face and bent her form!

A trim nurse entered: There began to be

A smile like April sunshine after storm,

"For you, Miss Nancy!"--Eyes like sun-up glow--

"You made no difference. Your touch was light

As winds in southern gardens breathe and blow.

You held these hands--your smooth ones pearly white."

Her voice held mellow flute-tones of the lark--

What matter that her chrysalis was dark!

I Heard a New Bird Singing

(To Lilith Lorraine)

On the rim of chaos

my ear was cupped

to hear hoofbeats on a country road

but I heard a new bird singing.

Piercing as a naked scimitar

cleaving the housewife warblings of the wrens

came its new song.

Its tongued lightning,

its sundering bass,

deep with the thunder of the gods,

shook my Jerico-walls of apathy

until they crumbled--

Through my trembling skeleton

I saw the world.

I heard a new bird singing,

merging its song with the Eagle's scream

until in exultant crescendo

it mingled with the shriek of shattered patterns.

Yet Man Heeds Not

The coyote, trapped, escaping, keeps a wary eye;

The mother robin learns to wait the stealthy tread;

Yet man, divinely sired, heeds not the warning cry

Of nations, buried, but sins on then mourns his dead.

The Relief Society Magazine

Till All Doors Open Freely

As school doors in the South grudgingly open

Where eager ebon-faced youth enters,

In the faint echoes lingering on southern winds,

We hear the pistol-shot of a long curling whip;

The soft swish of the fan a black boy swings monotonously

Keeping the flies from the dinner table in the Big House--

He mutely sings, "I'll walk all over God's Heaven;"

The mumbling of the exhausted slave in his sleep--

"Swing low, sweet Chariot"--swing low in mercy.

We see the burden-bearers--meek--in the Sunday churches

Listening to the praises of a God of love and justice--

"All God's Children Got a Heaven."

School doors are opening grudgingly--

"Swing low, sweet Chariot" till all doors open freely.

Serenity

Serenity:

Pink pills for pale people

Who dare not try

The sedative of tired muscles

And a mind at rest.

No Greater Love

No greater love is known than this:

The love to dare the saber's kiss

That man may live--Christ walks again

Where men give life for brother-men.

Candor

Virtue

Her eyes are unsullied and virgin-sweet

As the lilies in fields the Master trod.

A star her light, she scatters the seed

Garnered from God's own beauty-grot.

As pure as the depths of a canyon pool

With crystal bars is her fount of life.

From the gyves of sin she remains aloof

Yet walks with the sinner the "second mile."

Portrait

We are a pale generation

With willow-withe spines

And anemic blood

Needing the transfusion of courage.

We are the "God's in His Heaven" people

Who linger in the miraged oasis

Rather than ride the imperiled

With the black-cowled horseman of doom to ask:

"What has become of the hot,

Red blood of your sires

With the unbending straightness of pines

Who answered to the challenge-call

Of the conquering lion

Rather than to the soft purring

Of the Machiavellian?"

Step Lightly Night

Shine softly, stars, above him where he lies--

My youthful son--somewhere beneath strange ebon skies

Dreaming of home and cricket lullabies--

                       Shine softly.

Blow gently, winds, and give him my embrace,

And let your cooling breath caress his boyish face

As he lies sleeping in some alien place--

                       Blow gently.

Step lightly, night, and mute the strange alarms

Of war, lest he be wakened rudely from the charms

Of dreams. O, hold him close within your arms--

                       Step lightly.

Walk softly, angels, pause beside his bed;

Placing your hands in tenderness upon his head,

Smooth his dark hair, and kiss him in my stead--

                       Walk softly.

Time, I Entreat You

Take not the rainbow's "pot of gold" away,

I could not live with stark reality.

Keep my heart young. Though years bring their decay,

Let virgin-faith companion still with me:

No craggy hill of thought will be too high

For me to climb and sing while doing so.

My forward-looking eyes will see blue sky

Beyond the darkness when the wild winds blow.

Let me, mind-tall, bend not before defeat;

The crest of truth be ever challenging

My will to dare new trailways ... I entreat

That I may ever feel the urge of spring.

Let me grow body-old, inform and spent,

But never let me grow indifferent.

Consider the Pine

Consider the pine, O man:

Century-wise on the mountain

Licked by the red tongue of war,

Seeing patterns in chaos,

Feeling the trembling of Atlas

And reading the prophecy of annihilation,

Waving its banners of immortality--

Constancy through change, its message

To a dying universe.

Consider the pine O man:

Its feet deep in virile loam,

Its forehead touching Heaven,

Its innumerable fingers

Tapping the air for sustenance,

Glorifying the Master-Mind of beauty.

Consider the pine, and let its challenge song

Drown out the siren croon of apathy

That would lull you to sleep

Lounging on its cushions of complacency

Until your ship of days enters the harbor of doom

From which there is no returning.

Bugle Call

O pilot now your ship of days or years

Unerringly to reach a promised goal.

The Master Helmsman will allay your fears

And still the tempests that would scar your soul.

You leave the haven of a citadel

Which greed would now destroy; so let a song

Rise from your heard that you may break the spell

Of avarice that moves a Judas-throng.

Wearing white armor, go and give release;

Brave terror's henchmen on the death-strewn plain;

Bid earth to sing a canticle of peace,

Become a sanctuary--love's domain.

Your shield is youth's clean strength which you have won--

God's arm is long to reach to you, my son.

The Improvement Era

He Had Made Cradles

He bowed in awe, mute with humility--
He had made cradles for many a little one--
Before him in a manger-cradle lay
        A Kingly Son.

Not his, but born of Mary. Not over strange
Was the clean stable with its scent of hay;
He had known mangers and contented cattle
        With their gentle way.

He knew the voice of prophecy, and spoke
With an angel; learned of Mary's promised Son.
While waiting, tenderly he made a cradle
        For the Little One.

They two would roam the fields of Nazareth;
Would both be carpenters until He grew ...
He bowed his head in tender reverence
        For he knew ... He knew!

To Fulfill a Dream

We who have heard the singing of the stars,

The symphony from lilting robin-throats,

The laughter of the hills devoid of scars,

Now hear the laugh of avarice that gloats.

The atavistic mirth that chills the soul

From mouths of grasping men with claws uncurled

To still the pulse of love--make earth unwhole,

Drowns out the Master's lyric in the world.

Yet as we listen to the ruthless tongues

We see ethereal candles brightly gleam,

And strive to climb the higher on the rungs

Reaching to Heaven to fulfill a dream.

We toil to heal the gaping greed-made scars--

We who have heard the singing of the stars.

Smiling He Comes

Sometimes when night's

Ethereal essence fills the silent air

And moonlight softly drapes her silvery cloak

Of gossamer about the sleeping earth,

Concealing all its scars, my mother-soul,

Filled with nostalgic yearning for that boy

Who left us in the pulsing dawn of youth,

Steps from its chrysalis of earthly flesh

And moves across a star-strung bridge of dreams.

Smiling he comes

Through portals hung with golden tapestry.

I take him gently in my hungry arms,

Caress his boyish face, his curling hair.

My first born son! The marks of death are gone:

The twisted foot is straightened, hands made whole;

The bruised flesh is restored ... No mortal wound

Upon his head ... He tells me of his dreams

And of his joy within the Master's kingdom.

There is no war.

This living son of mine! He is not dead!

For death is but the gateway into life

And happiness in God's own Empery.

Slowly the portals close. My lightened feet

Traverse again my star-strung bridge of dreams;

My soul accepts its temple. Comforted,

I walk all unafraid to meet the dawn.

Singing Pens

Sweet Is My Task

Lord, as my offering
Gifts of myself I bring--
           Sweet is my task.

Walking the brambled way
Seeking the lambs who stray;
Teaching a child to pray ...
           Sweet is my task.

Seed time and harvest too
I would be hands for You,
           (Humbly I ask.)
Yours, my Lord, riven through--
           Sweet is my task.

Josephs in World Egypt

When Man returns to leavens of the plow

And walks with joy upon the fruited plain,

There will be no grief-burdened hearts as now

For God is found in singing fields of grain.

The Josephs in the Egypt of the world

Will ever keep the flag of peace unfurled.

His Hands

Cymbals clang and drums beat loud,

Drums that chant of death.

Terror's mighty horsemen ride

With their flaming breath.

On the far Korean shore

Where our sons are dying,

Little children, scarred and thin,

In their need are crying.

Jesus bids us be His hands,

Feed His sheep in war-torn lands.

The Archer

First in Archer Miniature Contest

Barren Woman's Prayer

I who am childless see a hunger there
For more than new-made loaves and cherry pies.
There is a spirit-hunger in his eyes,
A love unfed, a craving for the care
Of one who holds him special. With an air
Of nonchalance he laughs but his heart cries
For childhood's joyous heritage with skies
Rainbowed with deep affection ever fair.

Yet she who feeds his body fails to see
He needs the manna of her arms, her kiss,
Her tender words, her love's sure alchemy
To feed his soul within its chrysalis--
These hungry lads, help me to feed and bless,
Who having mothers still are motherless.

To You Who Wear White Cloaks

Though we were given a darker chrysalis

To cloak our spirits, hide the white within,

No mandate said there need be an abyss

Unbridged between our souls, for our dark skin

Was given us by that same Father who

Cloaked you in white. Though you are fair of face,

Can you not see a brother smiling through

The covering He gave to every race?

Our hearts, with yours can hear Him when He calls;

Can feel the pulse-beat of all brother-men.

Come, let us batter down the blinding walls

Of race and creed and hate, for only then

Can we petition God to bid war cease,

And climb and reach, at last, the Mount of Peace.

Heaven's Alchemy

When in my garden of Gethsemane

The sun was darkened and my song was stilled.

My heart was bleeding, for a part of me--

The boy I birthed and reared with love--was killed.

While spheres were clashing, Heaven's mighty power

Rebuilt my shattered kingdom when I said,

"Thy will be done." The moment--magic hour!

Restoring my torn soul. Upon my head

I felt a crown of peace I had not known.

The veil was thinned ... The Master at the helm

Let me behold my living son, His Own,

And see the beauty of His glorious realm,

Its kingdoms reaching far as thought can look--

Mortality but prefaces God's book.

Singing Pens

To Teach Him How to Love

"I hate all women-folk!" young Danny said
When kept in after school for throwing rocks
At two small girls. Defiant-high his head,
He barked his scorn, "A female always squawks!"
Nor would he write one hundred times, I will
Not throw another rock at girls, "For that
Would be a lie." I failed with him until
I learned his "Mom" had left, and one stray cat
Was all that loved him; his embittered Dad
Fed him on hatred--When I saw him lie
Bruised in the street and heard him say, "I had
To save my cat. Teacher, I didn't try
To hit the girls," I gently smoothed his hair.
To teach this "lost lamb" how to love, my prayer.

In the Eternal Silence

I dug a grave in the depths of my soul

Then straightway forgot the place--

No paths lead to it. With none to condole,

I buried with silent grace

The wrongs I had suffered; then on my road

My companion was Peace, who lightened my load.

Shadowed Years

My joyful song

Is muted

In war-shadowed years.

Even the lyrist

In my willow tree

Sings in minor strain.

With Hands That Are White

"Teacher?" I looked into great haunted eyes--
School was dismissed--Then small Lemuel said,
"Why an I black?" How those shadowed orbs pled--
Set in a face dark as ebony skies
Asking for stars--seeking answers to whys!
Seeing his soul reaching out to be fed
Fair as the lilies where fields knew His tread;
Feeling His presence, I gave these replies:

Heaven is kind; you will have no regrets.
Gently will Jesus, the Master of right,
Tender and loving--Not one He forgets--
Welcome you back to His Home of delight:
Gardens of lilies and frail violets ...
There you shall pick them with hands that are white.

Miracle of the Gulls

Singing, they blazed a highway to the West--

The Mormon pioneers. The desert sod

They conquered, even to the mountain's crest,

To build a great imperium to God.

"Come, come, ye Saints," they sang, "nor labor fear.

We seek the place where God would have us dwell.

Though hard to you this journey may appear,

With joy, gird up your loins, for all is well."

A reverent people asking but to be

Allowed, in peace, to worship Him they loved--

Their right within a kingdom of the free--

Were driven by the lash of slander; shoved

From their ancestral homes with rams of hate:

To coax the dormant life from desert sands;

To keep their shrine of faith inviolate;

Release an Eden in primeval land,

Where high above the ravens of despair

White wings of hope would bid them build their dream;

Where, clarion-clear, through elemental air

Tolerance would echo in the eagle's scream.

Day after day the covered wagons rolled

Across the startled prairies. Light hearts sang

With violins in gladness. Mourning told

Of graves beside the trail ... Yet ever rang

The carillons of truth. A retinue

Of angels listened to their muted song,

"And should we die before our journey's through,

All, all is well." Hearts quailed to hear the long-

Drawn howl of hungry wolves ... A prophet's death,

Mob violence, were left behind; ahead,

Cathedral mountains and the challenging breath

From desert-lungs. When their great leader said,

Viewing the valley-land, "This is the place!"

All eagerly they plowed and sowed and reaped;

Laid plans for Templed cities. The embrace

Of toil was sweet, and life in earth's womb leaped

To greening beauty: Thirsty acres drank

From cool canals and "blossomed as the rose."

 

Then came black wings of doom, and laughter sank

In depths of horror: Hordes of cricket-foes

Came swarming from the mountains till the sun

Was veiled in darkness by them flying, creeping.

And field on field was barrened, overrun

By the marauders. Wives and mothers, weeping,

Fathers and children fought with fire and flail

Unceasingly, while sending fervent prayer,

Pleading for Heaven to save. To no avail

They toiled, then waited: On expectant air,

There came the ominous sound of rushing wind--

Great whirring wings alighted like a cloud.

The gaunt, worn pioneers, grief-disciplined,

Saw death descending swiftly in a shroud:

Rising from waters of the lake came gulls,

Great white-winged birds that brought but added fears.

Could nothing save now but God's miracles?

The cup of joy became a cup of tears.

Then, "All is well!" rang out the victory cry,

"God has delivered us! The crops are saved!

Great joyful wings!" Their paeans reached the sky--

"Praise God for mercy prodigally laved!"

The gulls would gorge, cast up, then gorge again.

Exhausted toilers stood in awe to see

The feasting birds eject the crickets, then

Refill their craws ... Their dark Gethsemane

Was lily-beautified.

                             As strong men knelt

And wept like children, with new tenderness,

Mothers held babies to their breasts, and felt

Anointing hands of angels in caress.

Within God's shadow, weary hearts (grown old)

Leaped with the pulse of April. Pioneers,

Young as tomorrow, in a rescued wold

Sang, "All is well! Dispersed are all our fears.

Why should we mourn or think our lot is hard?"

For God's sure fingers held His world in place.

Their hearts retuned unto love's harpsichord,

They joyed within the peace of His embrace.

Today, beside a timeless monument--

Great silent wings--their children's children tell

The sacred tale of how the gulls were sent,

And sing the stirring anthem, "All is well!"

Upon Whose Altar

Love builds a heart-shrine

Upon whose altar candles

Of forgiveness glow.

Montana Poetry Quarterly

Love-Wrought Miracle

Ebon faced
Lena envied Mary, fair
As the lilies blooming where
Jesus walked. Then Mary smiled
As she placed
Lena's hand within her own:
"Black and white,"--How sweet her tone!
"Each one is the Master's child."
Beauty graced
Phrases wrought a miracle:
Lena's soul felt beautiful.
Sun and shadow--primrose aisled--
Interlaced.

With Never a Backward Glance

When Adam and Eve

Stood outside of Eden's closed gates,

The gold of sunrise flecked the barren sands,

Gilded the great Joshua-arms of the desert

And glorified the far horizon.

In the distance--backward to Eden--

Came the singing of seraphim,

While from the waste land came the scream of the lion,

A challenge-call to conquer.

Eve spoke, "It is better thus:

We are not fallen mortals but rising gods

Knowing good from evil.

The Father smiled approval as He said, 'Depart.'

I am not afraid."

Adam answered her challenge,

"Wisely we disobeyed. In our innocence

We knew not we were naked until awakened

By the alchemy of the forbidden fruit.

Now we will multiply and have dominion over the earth

Even as God commanded.

In deserts of despair there will be oases of hope.

Guided by the torches of avatars from other spheres,

We shall make all earth an Eden."

Not guilelessness with pale, passionless joy was beckoning

But virile, purposeful toil holding a banner emblazoned "Eternal Godship."

The glory of Eden paled to insignificance.

Hand in hand, Adam and Eve walked away from the closed gates

With never a backward glance.

No Idle Playing on a Harp

The alluring

Grandeur of death

Bids me live gloriously-unafraid

In the now of the cycle.

Once, near the door

Death opened to admit a soul,

I glimpsed beauty unconceived before;

The burgeoning acres of immortality--

Every seed planted here, blossoming there;

The dream being builded;

A temple with carilloned towers arising,

The living builders singing the retrain,

"Nothing is lost, nothing is ever lost."

I shall welcome the silent restorer.

Unafraid, pass through the shadowed valley

To the blinding radiance awaiting

And accept the challenge--

No idle playing on a harp.

Different

Who Visions a Great Oak

My problem boy, now six-foot-two, full grown,
Is a man crowned with content, eyes wonder bright,
Who stops his toil to watch a lark in flight
Or listen to its silver flute intone
The wild, sweet breath of spring, for on his own
Green acres--no soul-need to prove his might--
He plants and reaps, with love his acolyte,
Yet spares the pheasant's nest till young have flown.

Once as we watched the land's awaking soul
Gently he mused: "Recall your problem lad?...
Who visions a great oak will plant the seed."--
His hand reached out, caressed the new-born foal;
His eyes sought mine with tenderness--"I had
A teacher, one who saw and filled my need."

Let Us Keep Faith

The peace of sculptured silence rests tonight

Where men gave life for man. On hallowed strands

Beauty conceals the countenance of death.

In love let us keep faith. Ours are the hands

To give the loaves and fishes and to ring

The Temple bells; our feet to walk the sea

All unafraid; our voice in ruth return

The prodigal to Him of Galilee.

Ours be the task to light the moving Star

Till man beholding, cries, "My Lord, You Are!"

Gypsy Fortune Teller

A toothless hag in a darkened tent

Cackles her wares as she casts her spell,

"Come lady there with the handsome gent!

For I move Heaven and I move Hell!"

She tests the coin for a ringing sound,

Then reads their palms by a candle's glow;

With evil creeping upon the ground

She tells the things they should never know.

They hang in air! With a crafty eye

She stops, refuses to cast her spell;

Another coin and she reads the sky,

For she moves Heaven and she moves Hell.

The flap is closed, for she knows full well

The witching power of her ancient guile,

That crowds will gather beneath her spell;

She hears each pause with a crafty smile.

She knows man's urge to the secret world;

She knows its power as she casts her spell,

Then grasps the coin with her claws uncurled,

For she moved Heaven and she moves Hell.

So all day long in her eerie tent

She plies her trade and her purse grows fat.

She fills the mind with dark wonderment

Then sits back wise as a grinning cat.

A toothless hag in a musty tent

Cackles her wares as she casts her spell,

"Come lady there with the handsome gent,

For I move Heaven and I move Hell!"

My fire has died to an embered glow,

My youth has vanished and I am old,

Yet still I dream of the long ago

And hear again what the gypsy told.

The Archer

Fifth in Ballad Contest

Where Maples Flame

"I will return in autumn," so I said,
"To see these greening maples crown this hill
With a flaming lei." But always when the chill
Fall days returned as time too swiftly sped,
I was not free so I could not fulfill
The vow I made. My heart in mute lament
Longed for wind-music, wild and eloquent,
While echelons of geese displayed their skill.

I could not be denied the joy-ascent
To my bright hilltop when the autumn came.
My spirit, country-bred, I could not tame
To city confines yet I know content;
For though the autumn calls me still the same,
My heart has built a hill where maples flame.

Loneliness

In the stiff brocade
of spinsterhood,
she sits on the edge of a dream--
not of the warp and woof of life
but of fantasy--
with eyes too bright and eager
and lips too smiling,
looking into nothingness
to conceal her loneliness.

The Pipe of Peace

Gitche Manito, the Mighty,

Grieved to see His people fighting.

Ever following the war trail,

So descending from the Sky-land

Called the nations all together,

Met with them in tribal council

On the upper Mississippi.

There, upon a wall of red rock,

Seeing, on the plain below Him,

All the wigwams of His children,

He broke off a piece of pipestone,

Turned it in His skillful fingers,

Molded it into a peace-pipe,

Smoked it till the smoke ascended

In a cloud-trail reaching Sky-land.

Then He called, His clear voice ringing,

"I am weary of your warring,

Of your chanted prayers for vengeance.

Cleanse your hearts and let forgiveness

Burn the candles on your altars.

See, my people, see the color

Of this pipe which I have made you--

Red, the flesh of all the people!

Therefore it can be a peace-pipe

Only when you cease your fighting.

Smoke the calumet together,

And let peace be here forever."

Gitche Manito, the Mighty

Vanished from them and ascended

In a smoke-cloud into Sky-land.

In that valley ever after

Not a tomahawk was lifted.

American Myths and Legends

First, "American Myths and Legends" Contest, 1953

In the Chalice of a Rose

Deep within the dew-cool chalice of a rose,
        Of a rose,
Do you read the mystic secrets of a rose?
           Does a master sculptor's carving
           Speak of One by Galilee?
           Is His love for pristine beauty
           In the perfect symmetry
        Of a rose?
Do you scan the moonlight lyrics of a rose,
        Of a rose--
Pearls of truth within the chalice of a rose?
           Is a virgin bud unfolding
           Fragranced by an Infant's breath?
           Do you see the Risen Master
           When you weep the gentle death
        Of a rose?

With Heart Untouched

Smug as a village that is unaware

Of sin behind locked doors, she sings her songs

Unheeding; fails to see the molten glare

Of atoms bursting; and ignores the wrongs

Of war's uprooted children, scarred and thin.

She purrs a few small nothings in the ears

Of neighbor folk, and then proceeds to spin

Her verses from the shallow froth of years;

And smiles, well pleased with quick and slattern form.

"A twitting little bird," she calls herself--

Too ponderous she finds the sonnet norm,

And rhyming wearies her; on her book-shelf

The classics gather dust. She sings of God

Yet walks with heart untouched upon His sod.

The Eye of God

Myself is but the inner me

That stripped of sham, of all pretense

Only the eye of God can see.

The Lyric

Second in MFCP Clinic Poems, Oct. 1951

Last Year's Lilacs

This day is ever mine to live again.
Though wind and rain in fury may deform
And mutilate, I shall remember when
A timid rainbow stopped a month of storm.

This gentle month is mine, and in the fall
When cold winds shriek and chill of frost invites
My thoughts to winter fens, I shall recall
Rose-syllabled, soft-spoken summer nights.

I have stored cradle moons--performing duty--
With coral dawns, a robin's crystal bars,
The sighs of aspens ... From my garnered beauty
I can give last year's lilacs and bright stars.

I Wear His Lei

(To My Father)

I hear him saying,

"My child, through praying

     The waters of the sea of doubt

     Will part to let you safely through;

     Your soul will hear the silent shout

Of April crying,

'There is no dying,

     For death is but life's messenger.'

     I weave this lei of hope for you

     To ever wear." Though tears may blur

My eyes, his weaving

Illumes my grieving.

Kindness

Kindness

Is the language

Requiring no training

For the deaf to hear or the dumb

To speak.

The Relief Society Magazine

Where Wild Ferns Grow

The wild ferns grow, about this home of mine,
Beneath cathedral trees where peace is found.
The silent mountains are green-robed in pine;
And deer are startled by a man-made sound.
The huckleberries grow along the trails;
Gay flowers beautify in nature's bowl.
A master-painting in a gallery pales
Before the work of the Great Oversoul.
The glowing lamps I need are singing stars,
My symphony, a joyous lilting bird.
No blinding walls of greed or hatred's scars
Where silence speaks a sermon that is heard.
Where wild ferns grow upon the living sod,
I hold a daily rendezvous with God.

In Tribute

(To Rexford and Marjorie Sharp)

I gazed long at your portrait in the "Bard,"

And carillons of spirit-music rang.

From some far Temple came an organ-chord

Of peace. Serene and beautiful, you sang

A silent lyric healing to my soul,

Bidding me see, beyond the mortal whys,

A new horizon, ultimate truth its goal,

And view the glory of the Distant Rise,

Yet know: that now is of eternity;

Together we live here in the real realm

Whose portals open to the mystery

Revealing God is ever at the helm.

Together you illume the shadowed trail--

Within your eyes, the light that does not fail.

Dispel the Gloom

Although the Lord gave me a chrysalis

Of ebony that hides the white within,

He gave no mandate for the dark abyss

Between us. Through the blackness of a skin

He sees the heart, He listens--He, the King!

And hurls no dolorous fiat for a doom

That makes pariahs of a people. Fling

Aside all thoughts of hate--dispel the gloom!

This heart, with yours, hears well the clarion call,

The silent flashes from divinity;

It longs to batter down the blinding wall

Of race--assured that each is spirit-free;

For He, whose hands are scarred, knows every smart

And bids us walk as brothers--not apart.

The Lyric

Fourth in MFCP Clinic Poems, Oct. 1952

I Am Returned

(To May C. Jensen)

So long death lingered that I never knew
That spring would come for me and flower-strew
My way. Yet now I watch young summer pass
Writing your name in jewels on the grass
And weaving leis of roses that declare
Your gift of life to me. On dawn's still air
A robin chimes your praise. At dusk a breeze
Whispers your name in love through willow trees.
The little river sings for you a lay
In silver lyrics, dancing on its way.
Again, as I caress a lily's face,
You lead me to the Gardener's healing grace--
So long death lingered ... yet because of you
I am returned ... my skies cerulean blue.

Laurel Crown

(In Memoriam to Virginia Cummins)

I saw the trenchant beauty of her soul

When first she bade me enter her retreat,

Gave of her manna that I might be whole.

Compassion's sandals were upon her feet,

About her form, the robe of love; her scarf

Of shining moon-glow faith--Now she has rowed

Across the Singing River; at the wharf

Of sunrise, views the fields of earth she sowed

With lilies, burgeoning, bursting into bloom.

She steps from her bright craft of song to weave

A pattern for the angels on the loom

Of Heaven as she sings. So do not grieve

But hear her lyrics, for she is not dead!

She lives! The laurel crown upon her head.

With Star-Loand Eyes

We who have loved the stars too long

To be afraid of night's still song,

Have, in its hush, with star-loaned eyes,

Glimpsed realms beyond the veil of skies.

Scimitar And Song

I Too Shall Return

Dark echelons of wild geese race the breeze.
In answer to a mute yet urgent call
They are returning to their emerald seas
Of northern marshlands, where the waterfall
Released from winter's boundaries fills the swamp.
Would I might likewise soar--My coronet
Be clouds and stars--returning Home to romp
Through meadows of the sky. I shall forget
That I am tethered when I see the light
Of my Primeval Home; unerringly
Swift-spiral upward, know the joy of flight--
Not long, not long till I am tether-free!--
How fragile are the chains of earth when I
See geese in ordered pattern mark the sky.

Portrait of Dr. Flozari Rockwood

(Founder of Modern Bards)

The beauty of her face and form is only

The chrysalis that cloaks her gracious soul.

Compassion bids her give the weak and lonely

The manna of her love to make them whole.

Though she has walked through corridors of sorrow

And felt the cruel javelins of pain,

Always the promise of a glad tomorrow

Has fringed her clouds with silver, dropped blue rain.

The years have yielded richly from their coffers

The jewels of truth and wisdom that impart

Their deep fire-opaled luster; now time proffers

Its greatest wealth, an understanding heart.

Within its shrine faith's candle ever glows,

And One abides whose timeless love she knows.

To My Enemy

To you my enemy I give

My thanks, for you have been the fount

Whose waters bade me rise and live

In purer air upon the Mount

Above hate's binding prison-bars

To build a citadel of stars.

Candor

Old Man in a Garden

Slowly he walks the paths of stepping stones
Tapping his cane, and hears the overtones
From the All-Source of beauty. Clear and still,
Within the chalice of a daffodil
He listens to Infinity declare
The resurrection promise everywhere.

He pauses by the lilies, there to glean
The sweet compassion of the Nazarene
As he caresses blossoms virgin-fair--
To him they speak the gentle Master's care.

In reverence he kneels that he might see
And feel the truth of immortality
Where violets awakening in the sod
Retell the miracle of death ... and God.

Yours Was the Saving Hand

(To May C. Jensen)

No star illumined. I was drugged with fear,

And stood by the perilous chasm of despair.

Yours was the hand that reached to draw me back.

Yours was the patient voice that, like a prayer,

Intoned my soul to peace. You wove for me

A shining lei of faith, then gently led

Me from the darkened valley, step by step,

Into the light of hope. Each word you said,

Each blessed, healing word became a star--

The music of your voice still calls afar.

Unending Victory

Why grieve for her

When death, the great physician, has released

Her spirit from its citadel of pain

Where she was prisoner and could not climb

To view the glory from the mountain tops?

Her heart was like a silent violin

That throbbed and wept with unvoiced melodies

Which even now on that Eternal Shore

Are bursting forth in joyous, vibrant tones

Whose echoes can be heard within our souls.

Her spirit that was waiting for release

Is soaring now and finding recompense

For all she could not do while tarrying here.

The doors, once closed, are swinging wide today--

A new world is before her to explore.

Then dry your tears and let your voices ring

And join with hers in glad, exultant song

That death has brought unending victory.

Reflections

To Challenge the Years

(To Pioneers of Fort Franklin, Idaho's First Settlement)

Hark to the song the Bear River is singing
Slow-winding through farms with their rich fruited loam,
Through villages, cities, its echoes clear-ringing
Retelling how pioneers founded a home.

Hark to the rhythm of wagon wheels rolling!
Mothers are queens, their gowns calico ...
Startled are prairies: A church bell is tolling ...
Wagon-box homes birth our loved Idaho ...

Primal land conquered: Sowing and reaping--
Hours are numbered by blessings, not woes--
Man bent to purpose: The desert is leaping--
Cooling canals--its triumph the rose!

Listen! In stillness the moon-threaded river
Sings in its saga how pioneer-tears
Bright-pearled the valley ... "God is the Giver!"
The message it lyrics to challenge the years.

Nancy Hanks Lincoln

"Stay close to God, my son." She held his hand

And searched his craggy face so young yet wise.

She prayed that when she reached the Promised Land

Her spirit would be with him, light his eyes

With star-filled inspiration, for she knew

The unawakened strength within his soul.

"Stay close to God ..." This golden thread spun through

Life's somber weave illuminates the whole--

"Be strong, my Abe! Stand tall! Be not content

Nor tolerate the grief you should erase."

In Heaven she beheld him, reverent

And humble in a grateful world's embrace.

How short her day with him--and fringed by tears--

But oh, how long her shadow through the years!

Universal Language

Strangers

From different lands

May be companionable

Yet understand no word, for all

People smile in the same language.

The Relief Society Mag.

Keep Your Eyes on the Stars

Keep your eyes on the stars, my child, and wear

Their silvery pollen

In your hair.

Keep your eyes on the stars and you will hail

Beauty along

The rugged trail.

Keep your eyes on the stars, my child, and see

The ascending path

To Eternity.

Heart-Hunger

He should have wed a woman with her feet
So deeply planted in the earthly soil
That she could never soar aloft and beat
Her wings in ecstasy. To him the toil
That plays from dawn to dark its weary role
Comes foremost. In his calloused brain the time
His woman spends to glorify her soul--
To let her hungry, questing spirit climb
To moon-veiled heights--is wasted. If she hears
And answers to the ringing clarion call
Of beauty, he protests, and there appears
His sulphurous, shattering anger. Castles fall...
Her grieving heart gives many a stifled moan
For she must walk her road of years alone.

Different

When Catkins Crouch

My youth returns when furry catkins crouch
Upon a swaying amber willow wand.
Again I am a child and go in search
Of whistle-making wood by creek or pond.
But hark! I hear a willow-whistle blast--
My grandson telling spring is here at last.

Poet-Teacher

(To Snow Longley Housh)

While piloting her silver yacht of song
To reach, at last, a quiet blue lagoon,
She bids the weary desert-hearts be strong

To find the cool oasis, flower-strewn.
The sails of sunset now serenely hold
The beauty she but glimpsed at dawn or noon.

Her singing spirit never will grow old.
Refreshed at wisdom's fount, she gives to youth
The wine of inspiration, and the gold

Minted from love and tempered fine with ruth.
A star, her compass guiding to her goal,
Her heart a chalice lifted high for truth,

Her light of faith becomes an aureole
Revealing God's own imprint on her soul.

When I Arise

When I arise on resurrection morn

I hope to find my outward self reborn--

That my beloved dear ones then may see

The beauty that I feel inside of me.

Scimitar And Song

Lost Beauty

Yearning to scale far mountain heights
Idly I dreamed. Now with regrets
I think of hills I might have climbed,
Near hills with violets.

As Shadows Pass

Mutely I stand within death's mystic spell--

Star-windows of the Heavenly Home alight--

Watching the silent shadows--in regret--

On cool-dewed grasses, and I gently smile:

His wounds restored, my first-born rests in peace

To hear an angel-bugle; rise; enwrap

His soul with dawn in sky fields ... Lest he keep

A tryst with earth, I smile as shadows pass.

White Courage

The treadmill path is easy, son of mine,

And broad and smooth, illumed with neon lights;

While only lamps of Heaven softly shine

To mark the narrow trail to lofty heights.

But robots never leave the well-worn sod--

It takes white courage to ascend to God.

Candor

Autumn Song

Harvest moon,
Fulfillment's rune--
Gold chimes of aspens ring!

Scarlet now
The sumac bough;
Plowed fields, gull-blossoming ...

Farewell tones
Of geese-trombones ...
A whisper, "Wait for spring!"

This Is Mine to Hold

There will be other autumns with their singing
When beauty spreads through valleys like a flame
And crystal mirrors wear a scarlet frame
Where wild ducks preen. Again will come the ringing
Of bells of silver aspens turned to gold;
When gilded birches flaunt their twirling splendor
Beside the Midas-willows, then surrender
October's crown to sumacs, pert and bold;
When locust-purses open and are flinging
Their burnished coins for earth again to claim--
There will be other autumns, but Time's Vendor
May give no more than this as mine to hold.

Autumn Reflections

Splendor flames when day is nearly done,

Twilight's anthem is an orison

With the song of youth

Clear-intoned within its melody--

Autumn hours fulfill June's prophecy

With their garnered truth.

First in MFCP Roll Call Poems, Oct. 1953

Silver Sorrow

When death
Closes one door
Another opening
Reveals a silver pathway with
A sign of stars: NOTHING IS LOST!

Lingering Mystery

Gay is the laughter of autumn advancing

Through moon-shadowed valleys where killdeer are calling.

Scarlet are sandals of gypsy feet dancing

Through byways of beauty with Midas-gold falling.

Through moon-shadowed valleys where killdeer are calling,

Oh, where is my love to follow and woo me?

Through byways of beauty with Midas-gold falling

Only the echo of dreams will pursue me.

Oh, where is my love to follow and woo me

By moon-rippled water, and aspen bells ringing?

Only the echo of dreams will pursue me,

The mystery lingers, the night is for singing.

By moon-rippled water, and aspen bells ringing

Scarlet are sandals of gypsy feet dancing--

The mystery lingers, the night is for singing--

Gay is the laughter of autumn advancing.

The Coal-Oil Lamp

The coal-oil lamp burns low tonight

And shines across the dimming years,

Its memory a hallowed light

Of laughter interspersed with tears.

The coal-oil lamp burns low.

On father sitting there

It casts its homey glow

Upon his silvered hair.

The coal-oil lamp

Recalls old thrills:

Young foreheads damp

From climbing hills...

The coal

Of youth will light

The path from start to goal--

The coal-oil lamp burns low tonight.

Reflections

By a Lily

My soul knew Gethsemane's sorrow:
My son, grown to manhood, was killed.
My song and my laughter were silenced;
I wept for his dreams unfulfilled.

Then I entered my beautiful garden
And knelt by a lily to pray,
And the infinite peace of the Master
Drove bitter despairing away;

For the Lily had lived through the winter,
Not dead but hidden from view--
The Master speaks in a garden,
My son was living, I knew.

Will Lead Me Through

The hands of time are near the twilight hour,

I do not mind or fear the growing old:

The fragrance lingers in the fading flower;

Age gives an added luster to love's gold--

When I am called to cross the Silent River

While death, the kind physician, holds my hand,

Strings of the Heavenly harpsichord will quiver

A song to welcome me to that Far Strand.

I would that I might leave with gracious etchings

Engraved by thoughts of beauty on my face;

Portrayed upon my mellowed soul the sketchings

Of artistry through giving love's embrace.

Death bids new portals open--When I go

The hand of God will lead me through, I know.

Who Walked with Him

The Master's hands held our world in place.
The soft caress of His gentle face,
The quiet peace of His loved embrace
Made a shrine of our childhood home.

We heard His voice in the flute-clear note
That curved on the breeze from the Southwind's throat,
In the timeless river's lyrical rote,
As we sang with the singing loam--

Our father who walked with Him each day
Bade us to know Him along our way.

The Improvement Era

Etchings

Knowing that she had gone to live in the New Tomorrow,
Rowing across the river to the Elysian shore,
Praying I stood beside her feeling the peace of angels;
Saying a low farewell, I saw on her dear old face:

Etchings of children's laughter, lullabies dreamland winging;
Sketchings of sleeping babes, of hands that were clasped in prayer;
Beauty of homey living, filled with fire-opaled wonder;
Duty that yielded glory tuned with the lyre of joy;

Rearing of valiant sons, then having them die as martyrs;
Cheering of war-torn hearts that bled from the saber's kiss;
Sadness that dolorous drums were beating of greed and envy;
Gladness that love would triumph--etched by the artist, time.

I Am the Pilot

Standing before myself I cannot hide
Behind the mountains if and might have been;
Wear robes of false pretense or erring pride;
Self-righteous sandals ease my feet, for then
My soul is nude and knows--perhaps in tears--
I am the pilot of my ship of years.

Portrait of Father

I still can see him following the plow

And hear him singing as he mowed the hay.

(Its fragrant freshness lingers with me now.)

Though years have passed, it seems but yesterday

That he arose a little after four

To ride the range to bring the horses in.

Beloved old ballads floated through the door,

His voice in song, amid the farmyard din

That called us from our beds to milk the cows.

How eagerly we greeted each new morn

With varied challenge as a farm allows

Of hauling hay or grain or hoeing corn!

Blithe laughter was a comrade to our work

With wholesome praise. (What boy would think to shirk!)

He said, "My sons, of this earth we are kings

And potentates, and there is in the soil

The breath of life that pulsates as it sings

With living joy as we give honest toil."

His buoyant spirit was still immature

Enough to dream and make of every quest

That daily beckoned us with work's allure

As though each were a special privileged guest,

A journey to the land of dreams-fulfilled.

This journeying with him brought rich increase;

So now when his great father-heart is stilled

We know our work together cannot cease.

We love and understand him even more

And see him beckoning from that Far Shore.

The American Bard

Old Coverlet

Made of far more than squares of calico,
This cherished coverlet, for Granny's fingers
Stitched in the faith that prompted men to go
To blossom barren sands. In each block lingers
The story she would tell me when a child--
Dear wise-tongued Granny! I heard graves' still-calling
Along the prairie; ghosts of wolf-cries, wild,
Slow-muted by the streams from mountains falling
Upon a fruited valley ... On the way
I saw Gran's sunburnt smiles, her tears ... In sorrow
Holding to the frayed hem of yesterday,
She reached to touch the new robe of tomorrow.
Not calico, but Granny's starward eyes--
What joy and grief and dreams each block encloses!
Loved murmur of desert lullabies,
She lived to see the wasteland bright with roses.

I Touched Her Worn Still Hands

Serene and beautiful, renewed,
She lay sleep. As yearningly
I touched her worn, still hands, I heard
Footsteps of immortality.

Oasis of Home

The home
Our childhood knew
Becomes a cool oasis
Where we return to be refreshed
From deserts of disappointment.

The Relief Society Magazine

The Tall Lombardies

Still the tall Lombardies stand
     Tempering the hurricane,
     Guarding fields lest once again
     Wind roam master on the plain.

Pioneers, a twig in hand,
     Planted dreams: Now monarchs shield--
     Climbing sky--the well-tilled field.
     Only time can bid them yield.

Rooted deep, they rim the land--
     Two have fallen in their row.
     Dreamers' children see them low,
     Mourn because the past must go.

My Heart Believes

Love, are you lonely there below
Remembering still another May
We knew and shared in the long ago
Before God called and I went away?
Lift up your eyes, my dear, and know
That I am lonely as you today.

Though I am lonely as you today,
My yearning spirit no longer grieves,
For the Heavenly pattern I now survey--
The tapestry which the Master weaves--
With its golden threads illuming the gray.
My dearest, I call that my heart believes ...

Oh, dearest, call that your heart believes
That death is birth--Hear my triumph cry:
Nothing is lost that the flesh achieves!
Look up, for together, you and I
Will live our dreams, for Heaven retrieves--
Love, be not lonely there below.

The Path to Home

When hammers of the rain beat on my head
And temper tantrums of the hurricane,
Shouting in uncontrolled and furious wrath,
Strike fear that numbs my heart, I take the path
That leads to home, and soon I feel again
Secure and warm. Love's mantle gently spread
About my trembling form gives me release--
The path to home will lead to God and peace.

The Relief Society Magazine

And Saw the Vision

For bedtime stories Granny always told
Adventures that would wonder-fill our eyes:
We heard the covered wagons as they rolled
Across the startled prairies, desert skies
Burning the sand. We knew the gnawing thirst
Parched throats endured. We stood beside a mound,
A little grave, and felt our hearts would burst
Lest hungry wolves disturb the hallowed ground.
Our feet kept time as violins sang out
The music for quadrilles and young folks danced
Within the wagon circle. We heard the shout
Which told the trek was done, then stood entranced
With Granny as she viewed the sage-bound loam
And saw the vision of her valley home.

Temple Bells

Love bade us sing through sacrificial years

Though pierced by wounding thorns among the flowers;

And always through our sacramental tears

We saw a Temple rising. From its towers

Hearing its bells at twilight, we would view

The desert an oasis bright with bloom.

Beauty would compensate our toil; renew

Our autumn hearts. Love's tapers would illume

Our faltering hours; the shadowed valley we

Would walk together, unafraid ... Now lost

And numbed I wait the twilight melody

Knowing the blighting kiss of early frost--

My song is muted to a stifled moan

For I shall hear the temple bells alone.

This I Have Learned

This I have learned--Fire-opaled beauty
Is found along the path of duty.

The Archer

Design of Gratitude

I bow before the beauty of old hands
Toil-worn and knotted, brown as autumn hay.
They speak of wresting life from barren sands
And have the grace to fold while old lips pray
Before a table with its simple food--
Old hands in the design of gratitude!

Lonely Homestead

The hills remember songs our father sang
When riding range before the break of day.
The winding trails where happy laughter rang
Are silent now, yet all along the way
The same wild roses, radiant and gay,
Hold modest faces to the sun. The sound
Of playing children in the twilight's gray
Is heard no more. Nostalgic meadow-ground
Awaits with hope for eager steps to bound
Across its greening carpet to make sweet
Its longing hours. The loved old home is gowned
In loneliness and yearns for children's feet
To skip across its floors. The years speed fast
Leaving the homestead dreaming of the past.

Twilight Ritual

I long for the wine of assurance
Feeling the doubtings of men;
My ship returns to its home port
To a scene of my childhood again:

Aspens sing for the river's
Lyrics that never grow old.
Stars pin back the curtains of twilight
On the sky with a broach of pale gold.

The breezes are quietly strumming
Tree harps, while a killdeer's far cry
Tunes the heart to the peace of contentment,
To the cricket's lullaby.

Father calls all the family together
To kneel round the hearthstone in prayer.
The harps of the aspens cease strumming
As he talks to God listening there.

His Gnarled Old Hands

HIS hands were sure as they toiled each day,
GNARLED and knotted as ancient oak,
OLD and bleached as the autumn hay,
HANDS at last idle in silence spoke.

GNARLED and knotted as ancient oak;
Strong yet gentle where love held sway;
Working each hour with an aiming stroke;
Hardened and scarred but an ashen gray ...

OLD and bleached as the autumn hay--
His sons and daughters and neighbor folk,
Friends and kindred from far away
Pressed those hands while their voices broke.

HANDS at last idle in silence spoke:
"Joy is found hidden in work's array.
Love makes easy the heavy yoke."
Hands that were clasped as he knelt to pray--
       HIS GNARLED OLD HANDS!