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

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

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.

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!

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.

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

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.

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.

Upon Whose Altar

Love builds a heart-shrine

Upon whose altar candles

Of forgiveness glow.

Montana Poetry Quarterly

Harp in the Willow Tree

My love hung a harp in the willow tree
Saying, "Winds can strum it instead of me
When they tiptoe over the hill
When I am gone."

It seems he is playing each tender note
That curves on the breeze from the Southwind's throat
And my tremulous heart grows still
In the hush of dawn.

How wise was my love in his love for me
To hang his harp in the willow tree!

Reassurance

Death could not hold your love away from me.
Though it should close and bolt its heavy door,
You would come winging back, and joyously
Together--through the years--out hearts would soar.
Beside the moonlit river, I would hear
Your voice in words of love still speaking low;
Each winding country lane would bring you near;
Cicada call; the sunset's flaming glow;
Our garden where we dreamed at close of day;
Our path of stepping stones, a rainbowed sky;
The little church, the killdeer's plaintive lay;
The music of a new-born infant's cry.
So would you live and be with me each hour--
Upon love's memories, death can wield no power.

The Improvement Era

One Gift

"I can't see why Paul married Jane,"
My wife remarked to me.
"She has no talents; she is plain,
Yet everyone can see
He worships her." I said, "My dear,
She has one gift--a listening ear."

Where Dreams May Grow

Love keeps
A place apart
Where little dreams may grow--
A memory garden with a gate
Of tears.

Love Is Inviolate

The first white star! My dear one, still we travel
A love-illumined path as when we met,
For hand in hand we hear time's rhythmic gavel
Striking our twilight hour with no regret:

Remembering the larks in April fluting;                                          
The music of a new-born infant's cry;                                            
The joy of lusty, laughing boys saluting,
And gay starched little girlies skipping by ...

So many primrose hours--a touch of grieving--
And from them time unrolls a miracle,
For now we see, when viewing our years' weaving,
The pattern of the whole is beautiful.

The first white star ... and night ... dawn's opening gate--
Our lyric song, love is inviolate.

My Love Comes

Hush, for my love is coming!
His steed, the swift, starred wings of night.

Oh, rapture-light of the Pleiades,
Sing out in ecstasy!
Moon-Mother of magic,
Spin your mystical veil
To silver the pines, the sage,
And the sleeping village;                                                            
Thread-light the lyrical stream
He will pass on his way to me.

Night winds, blow wild and free,
Yet tenderly gentle,
For my love is gentle
In stalwart strength.
Sing my heart! Sing out with gladness!
For my love comes:
Exultant in song,
Clean in his virile manhood;                                                        
He hastens to me, his bride of the morrow.

Hush, for my love comes nearer!
I can hear his victory song.
Prepare a place for his resting:
A bed white with linens, and pure
As his love is pure.
Beautify with lilies
For his love is holy and beautiful.

Sing, O Priestess of Beauty!
Sing of a sacred Temple
Where forever-vows are spoken;                                                      
Sing of unending kingdoms;                                                          
Sing the song of eternal joy,
While I clothe myself to meet him:
Robed with fragrance and beauty
In virgin-white.

Hush, for my love is coming!
His steed, the swift, clean soul of night.

Coverlet of Love

Love is
The coverlet
A mother weaves
And wraps around her child
To shield when disappointment's
Chill winds blow.

Staff for the Aged

Love is
The staff on which
The aged lean to walk
The quiet, silver-shadowed path
To night.