Roll On Then, Small Pebble

in a pilgrim's
   tattered boot, guarantee
of greater grace for blood
you cause to flow.
discarded at the altar
your sacred chore complete,
a hallowed space in heaven
poor wretched pilgrim won.

in a pudgy toddlers hand, brown
and sweet as honey
from days of summer sun.
sleep by his feather pillow
safe in a treasure box
found again in twenty years
your meaning not quite lost.

in a limping, stallion hoof
of warring generals horse,
panting in a mire of pain
stumbling on the enemy,
surrounded by the foe.
strategic battle almost won
was counted as a draw.

in a pocket deep and empty
but for you, last minute thought
plucked from harbour's gritty pier,
a touch stone to remember home.
fair wind sighs a great adventure
to the disenfranchised throng
sailing in titanic hold.


Big Bay Mood

mid-summer days on the bay
water as smooth as a
    cerulean silk sheet
rolls with a strange
    wind that passes beneath.
it moves in long, low bands
from some mysterious point
forever beyond eyesight.
hot sun presses the edges off
as it grows up the beach
just there then gone
silent, imperceptible
just there then gone.
you toss a rock
click, clatter down the shore,
you have to,
to check for sound.


Caged Buffalo

stoic, curly clumps
square and squat
heads butt up against
pelting white squalls,
unmoved.

animate boulders
part the streams of snow,
dream of sweet wild grass,
miles unrun.


A Cabin Fevered Prayer

oh god!
send me water
wet,
not white. 
scent of sweet brown earth,
squirrels making aerobatice love
among oaks, hemlocks.

yes,  geese
dark sky-filling V's
of wild canada geese
to stir my being 
with their fanfare of return.

warm, whimsical, breezes
that tousle, caress,
gentle rub of pebbles
moved by the rise and fall
of a breathing bay.

send me Spring! 


Frog Opera      

every night,
now snows have departed
earth begun to warm,
my ears lie in wait
to hear the voices
of those horny frogs
in the pond, in the woods,
behind the house.
every night they sing for love
sing for love, sing for love.

my god!
if I had to sing for love,
off tune, a wandering voice,
what manner of mate
     would I attract,
If I had to sing for love?


Early Sunday Morning
The end of a Twelve Hour Shift

Rosewood is old
in this winter cold
her bones snap, shudder.

All of those she shelters
are deep in sleep
save, the counselor.

At 6a.m. sleep teases
edges of my mind
adds weight to heavy lids.

Oh, to be Helios
that I might pull the errant sun
above east horizon.

The last two hours
shuffle more slowly
as each minute passes,
only myself and
evangelistis are awake.


Connie    

smiles, bubbles of mirth,
a gentle thrill of breeze
upon my fevered searchers brow.
water witch of ocean mother
conjures hopes of peace,
then feasts of laughter.
warmth against the frosts of doubt
joyful harbour, rest at last,
within the love of Connie


Survival Of The Witless

Summer steals my wits away
lost in a hot and wilted daze,
not coming up for hours.

While others brown and worship sol
I seek the cool and shaded place.
Bereft of bay and peace filled wood
I hibernate 'til labour day.


Anesthetized

I wonder where I go
when I'm anesthetized?
Limbo most likely,
as dreams are falling,
going over Niagara Falls
in a barrel without ends.

Walking to a light
that never makes you blink.
Blinking at life,
I made you blink first,
you lose, staring through
a plate glass window
at invisibility.


Death

Death would not steal the blush away
from ripened apple or poppy blood,
nor drain the stream in overflow,
nor prick love in its fullest flood.

Death seeks not lauds or festival,
to curry favour, from the masses,
or suffers fools their warring lust,
but quiet benediction passes.

Death comes not as a figure feared
to wretched souls upon their cot,
more welcome celebration brings,
she comes as balm to ease their lot.

 
Cat On The Cover

bought a book of poetry Saturday,
Marge Piercy's.
read one,
closed my eyes
holding words captive.
they drifted to my heart,
I loved that poem.
it continued to drift
fed my cravings
sweets, sours
smiles, scowls
then moved on.
wished I could write like that
taking simple words
to shape great meanings.

I bought a book of poetry,
read it right there
standing in the book store.
the cat called me over
with aggie green eyes
and Cheshire grin.

Knit

silver needles fly
clouded eyes dream
time is the garment

Interlude 2

What sound is it
that pulls me
from my place of dreams
back to our bed?

Soft rumbles of laughter.
I peer at you
through the night
sleeping, deeply.

My curiosity goads me,
I move to your side
whisper gently
into your ear,
"Why do you laugh my love?"

Chuckles,in a voice
of immeasurable distance,
from your place of dreams
you softly reply,
"Dancing bats."


Interlude 4

your footfall wakens me
dancing across my roof,
tin softly reverberates.

soothing, delicate, muffled,
tappings, fairy ciphers,
for my ears alone.

so deep into the night
have you waited
to call your companions.

far into my ancestry
you came to remind
with gifts of water music.

night is blackest velvet
scented with newness
It is you, Sulis!

to your liquescent lullaby
I close my glamoured eyes
with dreams of Spring.


Dream     

I am your wallpaper
woven of hareem silk,
as soulful music seeps
languidly into scented air.

A scarlet lipstick plant
which blooms in an open window,
as you kiss the woman
and pleasure swoons
throughout the room.

Aladdin's fired lamp
that lights your heaven
when she whispers 'yes'
in glorious abandon.

I am your nest,
your haven,
a place to star,
an ancient cave,
all setting for your plays.


Promises To Keep       

puzzled, you promised.
disbelief,  you promised.
 
staring at dancing
     permutations of flame,
eyes reluctantly stray to
     the window
there plays behind the glass
a briefest glance of
     moonless sky.

while chilled artic gusts
     batter the door
sparks in pyrotecnic
     groups fly free
wend their way up the chimney
to sail across the whitened night.

I disappear further into
    my quilts
trying desparately to dream
    a garden plot
of warm ,rich, black earth
to dig, to plant my vegetables.

"It is supposed to be spring",
    I cry,
"You promised you goofy gopher."




Moon Maid

I saw the Moon Maid, late last night,
a'peeping through my tree.
Her face was fair, and bright it shone,
I think she winked at me..

I called to her then danced outside
she followed on with glee.
Perhaps, I thought, she wants to play
here in my yard with me.

I beckoned with a friendly wave
and on her moonbeam sled,
we sat and talked the longest while
until the night had fled.

I saw the Maid again tonight
a'peeping through the trees.
I can't go out  and talk with her
I caught this naughty sneeze.

My mother tucked me into bed
and warned me not to stray.
The Maid will have to come to me
or wait another day.


The Storyteller

he is always there, in
          those glamoured,
dream soaked, holy days
etched keenly into my memory.
a fixture of the summers
that flowed then melted
         into one another
to eddy around the stone bench
at noon, in the park of Ave Lyon.

faithfully he appeared at the
        clock's twelfth stroke
elegant fingers pulled humbugs
from intriguing paper packets,
white hair tamed beneath
        a silken cap,
beard tumbled softly across
        his chest,
eyes at once here and far away.

long drowsy afternoons we sat,
shaded beneath the water tower,
slipped through the cracks of time
caught within the golden words of
that ancient apothecary of dreams.

our willing guide, to
        worlds unknown,
could captivate our school
        freed, minds
with chance for magic carpet rides,
quests for golden sheep skin prize,
knights and  fiery dragon's lives.
my eyes, I believe, would
      see him still
should I chance to
      pass that green oasis
in summer's never, never land.

 
Cats     

big cats
brawny, tawny, lion cats.
kitten cats
and cats with kittens in them.
mother cats
gentle, raspy tongued,
milky, mother cats.
black and slinky
panther cats.
tiger mats
an absurd flat cat.
world wide disappearing cats.

pride in cats and cats in prides.
lolling cats
and lazing cats
amazing cats that run with the wind.
spotted, striped, snow white cats
wild cats, mild cats
ancient egyptian tiled cats.
brave cats, slave cats
pacing behind bars.
were there cats on mars?
 

About the Author

Patricia Cresswell is a poet who has just begun writing again after a twelve year hiatus. She has had two poems published in the Canadian Women's Studies/les cahiers de la femme, a York University publication, Toronto, Ontario Canada. Another recent endeavour was writing and compiling a sixty-seven page book caled "Breaking The Silence," about spousal abuse. More recently a piece of her poetry called "Sky View From The QE II" was used on the cover of the February 2002 Kudzu Monthly.

Images:
Top: "The Photographer's Visit" Ivan A. Vladimirov, 1919
Right column: "Woman Dressing Her Hair" Pablo Picasso, 1840
Cover: "Flaming June" Lord Leighton, 1895