Post 4
In today’s post, I share work by D. Diamond. A retired freelance writer, Ms. Diamond earned a B.A. in Anthropology at Northern Illinois University and is a member of the Stateline Nightwriters at the Beloit Public Library where she shares her past and current work—always powerful and evocative. Enjoy and share!
Wild-maned Horse
I see you walking by the river
your wild-maned horse is trailing slow
the grey horse dappled in the sunlight
your grey eyes laughing through the snow.
Your kiss is sweet when you come to me
your touch as tender as the dawn
but when I wake, my arms are empty
your wild-maned horse now walks alone.
I see your face in summer moonlight
the wild-maned horse blows soft and low
your hair is silky through my fingers
your hands are gentle, soft and slow.
The picture changes and I’m weeping
you’re lying still and cold as stone
And when I wake, my arms are empty
Your wild-maned horse now walks alone.
And I don’t know if I can bear it
Your wild-maned horse is all that’s left
I know that he too will be leaving
like you, his presence is a gift.
In dreams we’re walking by the river
between us lovelight shimmers gold
but when I wake, my arms are empty
Your wild-maned horse still walks alone.
(A song written in 1993 which placed 4th in the 100 winners that were published in Writers’ Digest’s “Rhyming Poem” contest in 2011.)
June 25, 2017
My bouquet, today,
is one slim stem:
one stem of clover —
the fat, bright-pink clover
my Dad said was “sweet clover.”
I never knew if “sweet”
referred to the scent, or
the taste of the nectar
he said was in the
dainty tubular petals.
Either way… I was one
with the bees.
I hope they won’t miss
my bouquet, today.
Sept. 17, 2017
My bouquet —today—
is a fantastical, pale greeny-white
turning to dusty-rose,
multi-blossomed, quadruple handful
on a single stem.
Far more dramatic than my beloved clover stem…
but, oh!! Hydrangea !!!
Meteor Watch (3:45 a.m. 8-14-00)
A thousand voices greet me– night-singing
as, alarm-waked, I step barefoot
to the east door at moonset.
Tiny voices, to be sure,
but no less welcoming.
I gaze northeast.
The old mulberry and the younger green ash,
too close together, block most of the view.
But I watch, expectant…
desirous of the tiny thrill
fleeing across the pre-dawn sky.
The voices continue, ceaseless–
a creatures-orchestra of the night–
accompanying Cricket, lead singer-soloist.
But I’m too sleepy to listen long
or stare, patient for the flash.
The fireflies are out in full–
tiny meteors, to be sure–
but much closer to home.
Yes.
© D. Diamond