ladygwen123 Poetry (72)

Freedom's Illusion

Freedom conjures sight of wings
but illusion traps us all.
Geese that fly fall behind
from shots by hunters in their blind.
The geese southern flight
is a constant risk,
no more freedom than a fish
swimming freely in the sea
till net or hook their freedom steal.
Oceans favor blue skies mirth
their preference kissing sandy shore
wallowing in ancient lore,
yet loose control of "White Squall's birth,
it's tidal flow
at mercy
of "Moody Moon's Turf.
And so in a trap is all of Man,
it nests within his soul.
And he feels the rakish lust
from the tines of lying myths
that he and he alone is blessed
with freedoms bliss,
until he tries to fly,
and feels the weight of gravity's drag.
So now he sits upon the sand,
watching black fish die on land
while juggling tar balls in his hands.
His only freedoms are his thoughts.
And maybe that's enough.

Twenty days since the pall bearers passed
twenty days she wore the hat.
It sat on her head lie a mushroom on stem.
And all who glimpsed could readily see
the hat was smaller than ought to be.
The man in the market hollered "ship ahoy",
remembering the smile of the little boy
wo saluted him daily in the grocery store.

Like theatre curtain raised with a tragedy
below her eyelids raised in a sad hello
like ancient parchment ready to crumble in unversed hands
her face, once warmed by the laughter of a child
Now shivered in pain, loosing what expression of life that remained'.
The hat so engored with the glutton of pain,
so weighed her head that her eyes did rain.
on the arrival of fdusk on the twenty first day
that time that seduces the darkness to stay
her heart, loosing rhythm shed layers of hurt,
And her spirit gave way to the hungers of earth.

A Cabin boy, at fourteen years,
who never felt a mother's tears,
a home did search upon the sea.
"No one ever saw me leave."

The sea, at calm, a mirror clear,
reflected life and bits of tear.
"I am but a lad of fourteen years."

The wild sea, with cold salt spray,
churning and turning in a watery grave,
tried whipping up pictures of what was to come.
But the boy only saw feathered orbits spun.
And only the screech of gulls in his ears.
"I am but a lad of fourteen years.

Red, setting suns bled into his soul,
his spiritual journey now taking hold.
And the months wove a year,
while far off pealing bells did tell
of floating boys in a watery well,
"We are but lads of fourteen years."

Then in a wild storm with slapping gale and wind
there flashed a thought of hearth and home
and a feeling he was never alone.

Away with the vanishing storm
the wind did pocket his fears.
And then it was he began to feel
the pain of a mother's tears.
And the words rang in his ears.
"I left the lad in the raging Sea,
along with all my fears.
And here I stand upon the deck
a man of fourteen years."

f Grief

If, in a moment of time you think you don't matter, think about this single leaf.

At my wake, in Autumn,
I become carpet of the mountains
kindling sparks of fire,
setting the hills ablaze,
a contorted body,
lusting the land.
I cling to withering bark.
But hired Autumn breezes pluck me from the teeming branch:
And I duel gravity's drag
until the hardening earth
and I collide.
With twisted, upright, scabrous palm
I scratch at healing air
yet crumble into ash
as round a grave I swirl.
Bits of yesterday scattered.
Who I was
not mattered.

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Moments by the Sea

For my Son Osvle, who, at three, helped me make a necklace out of sea-weed at the shore.
He placed it around my neck and I thought:


"Little one upon the shore,
tomato trunks, butter hair,
toddle on the moving sand.
Snatch a seagull if you can.
Let your ear kiss the shell
for within its walls,
the ageless sea you'll hear.
Peek at chubby prints your feet have made
like symbols left by running Wren.
Little one upon the shore
look to sea and feel the lore
of ancient tales and caverns deep
where dragons round their rooms do creep.
See the Clipper stuffed with wind?
It sails beyond where the land does end.
Feel how sleek the Ocean's weed?
A necklace made for you and me.
Little one upon the shore
hoard these treasures evermore.
For the future drags a heavy wind,
hiring ambush as its friend."

Copyright: Barbara Walsh Tatro May/2003

These Men of Berkshire

Dedicated to all my hunting and fishing buddies in Berkshire Massachusetts. I hope you can all still lift the fishing pole and haul the fish home to mama. The only deer you bagging now is probably already home. Miss you guys.


Blustery winds howl as snow jets to earth.
The land freezes.
Deep Winter sets in.
The only language spoken now? "Berkshire."
From rusted hook and even nail
hats of wool and Mackinaw appear
as though from fairies in the night.
Sticks, with orange flags rise up.
Bait is at the ready.
Men who speak "Berkshire" will walk on water.
They will catch the noon meal before the sun opens its eye.
On the ice they will whisper the ancient words,
the language of the fish and ponds.
And in a huddle, by a fire on the shore,
they will sing it in a silent song.
And in their silence
they are one.

Copyright: Barbara Walsh Tatro May/2008

A Tear for Haughmond Hill

Haughmond Hill is in England. It was a quarry. Its rock used for hunting lodges and the Abby of monks and grave stones.


I was a work of wonder
created for man's mirth,
not just a thoughtless belch
from an angry gaseous earth.
I remember my moss-green cape
spreading far over land in my care.
A pavilion for life unseen
and home of the Kestrels and Hare.

The dragon of flies hovered high
on up-drafts of a springtime breeze.
And horsetails softened their spikes
near a river flowing with ease.
The gold-crest bird with long yellow stripe
hid not beneath a shrub.
But darted in air
and danced on my cape
his roll melodic and clear.

In the sun an emerald slide was I
each drop of rain a child
gliding with glee to the valley low,
with sunshine and warmth in tow.

With ravines, mistaken for smiles,
I glare at horizon's end.
I saw them come with their earth-rippers.
The ones they call "The Men."
They splayed me out like the hunter's game,
like surgeons with unversed hands,
flaying me lengthwise and breath,
greedy butchers of land.

They drilled deep into my core
the lavishing land-whores.
They punched my skin with holes
then chipped away at my soul.
For leaving me rocky and shallow
vandalized graves appeared,
most built with my soul,
slowly disappeared.

Now a blemish upon the earth,
my soul naked to all,
even with threads from a penitent heart
my scars are seen by all.

Making breakfast for the Wolves

We offer gall to sheep seeking clear brook water.
Brown fields have deputized themselves,
laying waste green pastures.
The sun is gorged with fire before
it peeks above the Eastern rim.
Autumn now bargains with passing artists
for their pallets.
Horse drawn sleighs that sliced through powdered snow,
that pealed hello, faces laughing
all aglow, now sink in mire,
the only sound, the chewing mud.
We are the Shylock artist stroking wide
a swath of paint on canvas, the color of lost.
And in our pretended effort we have become
breakfast for the wolves.
We have become the thirsty lamb.

Breaking Camp

Hell's terain was smoother than the soil when breaking camp.
The cauldron of a thousand meals lies empty.
A tent once risen to hold a world of laughter
now collapsed, shreaded from the tines of pain,
flaps in winter winds, cripling fingers scrawling
good-bys in the bitter snow.
The warmth of campfire is lost to memory
too far to be reached.
One dweller triped on seduction,
stumbling into pipe dreams.
The young one, with the sweet and smiliing face,
with eyes that watched the deer and squirrel run,
has become the ash of dying embers.
No love to feel.
No feel to love.
The remaining one walks round the camp
as though it were like it was.
Stakes stab heart instead of ground.
The only smoke, from dying embers.
And the cauldron's still empty lying sideways
frozen in the ground.

Song of the Elm

Standing tall next to brothers Ash and Birch
we feel as guardians of this silent church.
Soldiers of the land, watchers of the hills.
From tip of limb to tip of limb
our arms encircle valley low,
swaying in rhythm to river's flow.
Purple mountains undulate across the land
seducing a love affair with man.
The river's song is our lullaby.
And in the stillness of the night,
as the moon hangs her luminous smile over our charge,
our limbs that touch from tip to tip,
encircleing all that lies below,
embrace the tightening grip stick
waiting for the reaper: Man.

IRISH CRADLE
BY
BARBARA WALSH TATRO


It rocked us easy through the night
In comfort, warmth, and ancient sight,
Giving us dreams of parents flight
Resting us till early light.

We grew on tea and soda bread,
Colcanon at times the nightly spread.
Table talk of troubled times
That mom and dad left behind.

With them came their lullaby's
Their lilting voice in whisper size
Telling us of our Irish pride.

Southie Town is where we grew
In-between the darkened hue
And creed and doctrine, as babies knew.

The grape and faith walked hand in hand,
Our thoughts and heart of a land
Carved deep within tradition's band,
While Erie's waters stained our hands.

Now in thought and memories past
We feel the cradle rocking fast,
It's easy sway so far behind
Our view muddled, peat bog blind.

But the lilting voice, in whisper sound,
That sheltered cradles in Southie town
Did not need and eye to hear
Just a heart free from fear
Planted and watered by Irish tears.

A November Conversation

"Leafless tree, gray and bare as your mood, you arms thin and frail,

somehow you manage a majestic stance in your loft, as you extend a

crooked limb to warn me of advancing snows.

And with a gust of wind, four limbs, a palm, brush across what seems

to be an ear.

Do you hear the crackle of the upcoming ice or the moaning of a pack

of wolves along a distant timber trail?

You hold no shelter now for your winged friends. Does this make you lonely?

No squirrel now to tickle your back, that scratch that makes you laugh

and shakes your leaves without a single breeze.

And that melody you sing, with your gold coin leaves as they shimmer

from Autumn's breeze, is silent now.

Soon I will see your coat, white, with sleeves of ice.

And I, shivering in the sleet, with skins to keep me warm, will wonder

as you do not make a sound

with your bare feet on the ground.

We speak of these November things, you and I, as each year

rolls around.

You learn of my attention to your roll upon this earth.

And I learn, of all the seasons,

November breeds your worth.