No Trespassing

If I could
find wildflower seeds
nodding at the evening breeze

If I could
wade in streams
so sparkling clear
that you know man
has not ventured here,

sit beneath tall,
sheltering trees,
hear the stirring
of the leaves,

watch the sun
turn red at dusk,
be in touch
with wooded musk,

inhale the scent
of Spring's perfume
bathe in splendor
of full moon,

I'd forge a gate
with heavy lock,
then write upon it --

God made this place,
touch it not.

Too Little Time

I laugh and call you Hemmingway
you claim his lonely muse.
Each year I'm here when you return
It is what I choose.

Summer blisters final fling
late summer sings me bitter song.
I've no control of shortened days
too soon you will be gone.

You show me in tender ways
how it is you feel
you write me paper words of love
you're my achilles' heel.

You pick me violets from the grass
and put them in my hair
they are temporary things
and all we really share.

You bring to me sweet offerings
purple grapes from latticed vine
a purple harbored gift to me
and all that's really mine.

I would have said forever
the kind from storybooks and rhymes
the summer months are not enough
it is too little time.

The old owl takes his watchman's stand
the night train whistles low
I lack a song of love to sing
I tire of thin veneer.

When you return to claim your muse
his voice is all you'll hear.

Spring Will Sing Her Song

Spring will sing her song again
when I have accepted
there were never any promises
and I can breathe the April
air without thinking of you.
Spring will sing her song again
when the words I put to pen
are not always about you
and I can savor the blazing Fall
without falling apart.

Spring will sing her song again
when violets are only
purple flowers I'll pass by
and soft Spring rain won't make me
cry and I can chase the fireflies alone.

I have stopped listening for the phone
to ring. Today, I heard a robin sing.

Cinderella Syndrome

The Cinderella syndrome is prowling here today
everyone needs something done
I'm pulled in countless ways.

The dishes they are stacking
clear up to the sky,
the laundry runs in second place
as to which stack is most high.

The vacumn sweeper's overstuffed
and burping blobs of dust
that go dancing in the air
all filled with wanderlust.

The refrigerator is taking
a most needed rest
and I will be two hours
just cleaning up that mess.

Three teen-agers back and forth
make a steady path
consuming food and beverages
like this meal is their last.

I'm fighting crowds of yellow bees
that are striped with black
they've taken harbor in my house,
the dog he needs a bath.

My also single sister
has a beau at her beck and call
for me there's no Prince Charming
and I think I missed the ball.

She says he's always at her side
I guess I have to laugh,
me, I'm followed by my indoor bees
and the dog that needs a bath.

Boudoir Error

You climb into bed without a care
turn on your back like I'm not there.
The wall feels cold against my skin
my mind goes back to when
on lumpy springs you'd roll towards me
(it was Newton's law of gravity)
and I would sleep most peacefully.
I know our passion has not cooled
it's just the distance has us fooled.
I know you're someplace overthere
it's just that I'm not sure just where.
I know this night I will not rest
because I'll miss your garlic breath.
The heck with boudoir savoir-faire
of decorating with a flair.
I'll take your elbowing instead
I'm throwing out this king-sized bed. 

Remembered Scents

The scent
of her roses
bloom pink in warm June breeze
Judy sleeps beneath soft brown earth

You shouldered your way
through clumps of frozen earth
with strength of a tigress.
Tsar Egotist

Smooth as grandmother's
cornstarch pudding
you gobble egos
by the spoonful.
Your words
toast the souls
that soak up
your energy.
Words that
stir sugar
into bitter
cups of tea.
You offer each
her star/scar.
You are a
soothing anodyne
for hungry minds.
Too late,
they taste
the lemon slice.
The bard that knifed
a trusting heart.
When you are sated
you wait awhile,
then with
knowing smile
you take
your silver spoon
and taste again.
A cold December
the sun runs paths of yellow
over pristine snow
and her purple poems
bloom wild and sweet beneath the
arching rainbow bend

You were not invited, Mr. Daniels.
Jack, I believe?
Still you came
with bruising fists
soaking my soul
with reign of rage.
Your sour stench
precedes your step.
I hold my breath
praying you will collapse
before you reach
our bedroom door.
I detest
your cowering scowl.
you will bring me
impish grin that says
I'm sorry
knowing I will dissolve
like the sugar in your
coffee cup.
Last night
you broke a decade of marriage vows
and grandma's crystal vase.
It can't be mended.

Lost in
this fierce frenzy
of a lover's quarrel
thoughts of strawberried fingertips
last night.
Sunshine Cinquain

The sun
peeked out today
brushed a buttercup ray
across your shoulder while you read
to me.
Where Kelly Was

My heart's been displaced
only memory's face
where Kelly was.
Her gingerbread bear
has a wistful stare
the bed now is bare
where Kelly was.
The garden's in bloom
with promise of June
I cherish her grin
my rainbows all end
where Kelly was.
She's the sky full of stars,
fireflies in a jar,
a cup full of laughter,
that moment just after
you hug someone you love.
She's the windchimes prelude
was nothing subdued
where Kelly was.
There's a place by the creek
where always she'd sneak
to pick the wildflowers
dance summer showers
sing songs by the hours.
Now there is left
only soft violets
where Kelly was.
Lydia Knew

I didn't mean for it to upset anyone.
Grandpa's antique smoking stand
with its ornate feet
here amid this Martha Stewart decor.
It was hardly noticed behind the Study door.

My son whispered, "really mom,
you should have asked".
Ah, I had caused a rift
between my son and his wife.
I was sorry for that,

but since when did one have to ask
to give a gift, and one of such worth too.
I thought it looked grand
here amid the shelves of books.

It gave the room some class
complimented all that crystal glass.
Oh well, I'll take it home again.
Never mind that it's worth twice
the price, and another penny or two,
of anything here that is mod-awful new.

Ah, but Lydia knew. Her little hands
followed the curve of the mahogany wood.
Up and down she fingered the lines
of its hand-carved design.
Something in that little face
loved the feel of mahogany, smoothed.
Lydia, great-grandmother's namesake.
Little Lydia knew.

Who Knew?

Who knew when you waved good-bye
I would find my wings and fly
all your things are neatly packed
guess who won't be coming back?

(c) 2005
The Poetry
Doris C. Swearingen
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