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.