Counting Out Rhyme

Violins of robin, swallow,
Lark flutes, rippling-clear and mellow
In the willow!

Bunting clarinets in maple,
Goldfinch saxophones in apple,
White birch supple!

Oriole trumpets in the alder!
Magpie zithers in boxelder
Echo bolder!

The American Bard

Eagle Wings

I would be an eagle
Soaring,
Exploring
High, wide immensity.

But time's merciless scissors
Clipped my pinions:
The ancient raven
Craven,
Perching on the rim of desire,
Mocked me,
Shocked me
With its hollow "Nevermore!"

With the first wailing of my "swan song",
A lotus-pool
Still, cool,
Drew my far eyes--
In its crystal depths
Was cloud-high sky ...
And eagle wings.

As Robin Lyrist

O master Poet, help me sing
My song, whose offering
Will light dull eyes,
Still cries
Of pain
In soul terrain.
Let me call blithe and free
As lyrist in my willow tree.

Lark-Flute

    I hear a lark!
How drab the blackbird symphony!
    I hear a lark...
    A splash of stars illumes the dark.
A flute that spills a rhapsody
Awakes the dormant joy in me.
    I hear a lark!

Chromatones
First in Rondelet Contest

Would I Find Bluebirds

If on some clear spring morning I should wake
To greet the dawn in that Far Empery,
Would I find bluebirds in a willow brake,
Or hear a lark-flute in a symphony?
Would Heavenly skies wearing a copper veil
Announce the drama of the thrilling story
Of loved Apollo coming up the trail
Driving his chariot with blinding glory?
Would bees sip nectar from each fragile cup
Of Mountain Bluebells on a greening hill;
Or jeweled silver wings poised lifted up
Adorn the bonnet of a daffodil?
If I would not find beauty such as this
Let me awaken to my earthly bliss.

Chromatones

Song of the Lark

Song that echoes and calls and rings,
Of what brave hope do you chant today?
The lilting melody trills and swings.
Lark, how modest your brown and gray?

Of what brave hope do you chant today?
What is the message your glad heart sings?
Is it of nesting in meadow-hay,
Or baby larks with their untried wings?

The lilting melody trills and swings,
Happily-joyous and full of play.
Ripplingly-clear on the breeze it flings
Courage and hope in a roundelay.

Lark, how modest your brown and gray!
Love and hope that your message brings,
The joy of life that your songs portray,
How they echo on taut heart-strings.
        Song of the lark!

Notebook

Day Is Done

When the flames of life are embered

Slowly, one by one,

Let me hear a robin-bugle

Calling, "Day is done!"

Relief Society Magazine

With Circling Wings

Dark echelons of wild geese race the wind.
In answer to a mute yet urgent call
They seek a warmer marshland, disciplined
By more than earth. Unerringly in fall,
Germ-knowledged, they rise lazily and climb
In ever widening circles till they reach
The fringe of Heaven; then in pantomime
They form in place--no need for sound or speech.
Give me their pinioned faith, an anadem
Of clouds and stars. A far horizon's height
Is beckoning with circling wings. With them
I spiral upward, know the feel of flight.
How fragile are the chains of earth when I
See wild geese rising, touch October sky.