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Poetry by Shigé Clark

"Let the battered heart rejoice"

Tag

growth

So Far, Yet Still

So Far

Growing in Graveyards

Growing in Graveyards

A Year’s Harvest

Happy New Year!

Excited to move forward with you into this misty space of unknown time. I can feel it like a tingle in the air… adventure awaits. Proud of all we have done, believing for all we will do!

The Willow and the Oak, remastered

Sometimes a poem can take years to complete. Sometimes it is never complete. This one I’ve just made a bit better.

The Willow and the Oak colored

Gold and Green

Gold from Green

Myself, Unapologetic.

Disclaimer: if you’re bothered by curse words, don’t read this, as I have quoted one.
Myself, Unapologetic.JPG

Wiser

Wiser

Theme Week: Spring and New Growth – 1

Emerging Spring

Old man Winter sat upon his stoop
Puffing frosty breath into the air,
Cracked his brittle knuckles as he gazed,
Brushed his icy slippers on the stair.
Looking back, he called into the house,
“Child, it is time to rise from bed.
My stay here is passed, and yours is nigh,
Wake, and shake the cold out from your head.
Earth awaits the sunshine of your smile,
For its warmth to melt the crystal snow,
And it craves the sweet scent of your breath
To expel the frigid winds that blow.
Come, dear, there are frozen trees and fields
Waiting for your touch to make them bloom.
You will bring no beauty to the world
Painting light into your silent room.”
As he sat with flowing beard and robes
Rolling full and white onto the floor,
Came a tiny head of floret hair
Bobbing up to hide against the door.
He raised up his hand and waved her on,
So with timid grin and swishing skirt,
Spring danced out to join him on the stoop,
Dainty feet and fingers dyed with dirt.
Laughing, she reached out her tiny arms
Greeting earth, and as her gladness spread,
So the warmth she held. Until at last,
Winter rose, and softly went to bed.

– s. Clark

Theme Week: Nature Personified – 3

The Loss of a Rose

The flower raised its little head
And grew up from the flower bed
To squint into the clouded sky
“How beautiful, Oh Lord, am I?”

“Sweet little rose bud that you are
You shall be lovelier by far.”

The rose then shook its pretty head
And tried to stretch its petals red,
But feared the wind and heat of day,
“No Lord, I shall remain this way.”

“Sweet little flower, do you see
How much more you can surely be?”

“I do not wish to take the chance!
Do I not, as I am, entrance?
I fear the pain my life could hold
If I should break out from this mold.”

“My rose, to bloom is why you live.
Why would you scorn the life I give?”

“I am afraid…” the flower cried,
“I will be safer if I hide.”
The flower then began to wilt…
Beneath the weight of fear and guilt.

“My beauty, every flower dies.
But not each lives… open your eyes.”

But ah, it closed itself within,
Enfolded by its silken skin,
And never its true beauty found
But ever gazed toward the ground

And the Creator, far above,
Mourned for the loss of life and love.

– s. Clark

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