Monday, May 3, 2021
Thursday, April 8, 2021
He broke his stride for me
He threw me a rope
threw a rock
at his head
He was generous
It was his nature
I pushed (ahead)
that was arranged hair by hair for me
at the clothes
so precisely sewn-
the fabric of life
I tore out
I gouged them my doll
I ran, I ran,
and then I ran far away
and then I
when he went right
I was taken aback
would He do it?
(For the likes
…I behold once more
My beloved’s twisted hands held me
as I sat perched
upon the long thick gnarled tree
Its limb a bench
a niche of quiet
A place of rest
10 or so
It was any hour
50 years later
I go there in my mind
and to ponder
what lies ahead
I examine dreams that are
me on the limb
I hold fast to
and it is mine
Monday, November 9, 2020
Monday, October 12, 2020
Don’t want to hang ’round these ghosts no more
as they moan and wander and pace this ol’ floor.
Don’t want to hang ’round the spirits of past, as
they linger and promise things that don’t last.
They slink through the hollow,
they hang at the door
their faces so sullen
that they lie on the floor.
They push wine and pastries
but deliver spoilt food and mush-
they coax me to stay
sitting alone on my tush
not lifting a pen
nor writing a stroke
and behind my back
they chide me, “Slow-poke.”
“L-a-z-y,” they say…
“She won’t make the cut.”
“Let’s hang ‘round until
she’s stuck deep in this rut.”
They mutter and clamor and they raise such a stink,
telling me “Consider our feelings...”
that I must “Stay put,” or “They’re leaving!”
Won’t listen to their chastisements—no, not even one
as they dangle carrots that vanish; that leave me undone.
"You could have been 'this…'” or “You’re over the hill.”
“Look over there--” “Now, try, if you will…”
“You won’t make the day,” “You haven’t come far,”
“You’ve frittered your chances and fallen short of the bar.”
Their obvious content at my own demise
should cause me to act out with an upheaval--
to shake them right off like the weevils they are!
These spirits that plague me are never content
’cept to harp on my obvious faults and my failings
leaving me on the ropes and the railings.
They weigh me down with concern for my plight,
yet they secretly cheer when I’m drifting…
poking holes in my sails all the time when
my spirit is lifting.
©K Annie Powell
Monday, April 20, 2020
Monday, March 16, 2020
Tuesday, November 26, 2019
The Little Match Girl (Hans Christian Andersen)
Shivering with cold and hunger, she crept along, a picture of misery, poor little girl! The snowflakes fell on her long fair hair, which hung in pretty curls over her neck. In all the windows lights were shining, and there was a wonderful smell of roast goose, for it was New Year's eve. Yes, she thought of that!
In a corner formed by two houses, one of which projected farther out into the street than the other, she sat down and drew up her little feet under her. She was getting colder and colder, but did not dare to go home, for she had sold no matches, nor earned a single cent, and her father would surely beat her. Besides, it was cold at home, for they had nothing over them but a roof through which the wind whistled even though the biggest cracks had been stuffed with straw and rags.
Her hands were almost dead with cold. Oh, how much one little match might warm her! If she could only take one from the box and rub it against the wall and warm her hands. She drew one out. R-r-ratch! How it sputtered and burned! It made a warm, bright flame, like a little candle, as she held her hands over it; but it gave a strange light! It really seemed to the little girl as if she were sitting before a great iron stove with shining brass knobs and a brass cover. How wonderfully the fire burned! How comfortable it was! The youngster stretched out her feet to warm them too; then the little flame went out, the stove vanished, and she had only the remains of the burnt match in her hand.
She struck another match against the wall. It burned brightly, and when the light fell upon the wall it became transparent like a thin veil, and she could see through it into a room. On the table a snow-white cloth was spread, and on it stood a shining dinner service. The roast goose steamed gloriously, stuffed with apples and prunes. And what was still better, the goose jumped down from the dish and waddled along the floor with a knife and fork in its breast, right over to the little girl. Then the match went out, and she could see only the thick, cold wall. She lighted another match. Then she was sitting under the most beautiful Christmas tree. It was much larger and much more beautiful than the one she had seen last Christmas through the glass door at the rich merchant's home. Thousands of candles burned on the green branches, and colored pictures like those in the printshops looked down at her. The little girl reached both her hands toward them. Then the match went out. But the Christmas lights mounted higher. She saw them now as bright stars in the sky. One of them fell down, forming a long line of fire.
"Now someone is dying," thought the little girl, for her old grandmother, the only person who had loved her, and who was now dead, had told her that when a star fell down a soul went up to God.
She rubbed another match against the wall. It became bright again, and in the glow the old grandmother stood clear and shining, kind and lovely.
"Grandmother!" cried the child. "Oh, take me with you! I know you will disappear when the match is burned out. You will vanish like the warm stove, the wonderful roast goose and the beautiful big Christmas tree!"
And she quickly struck the whole bundle of matches, for she wished to keep her grandmother with her. And the matches burned with such a glow that it became brighter than daylight. Grandmother had never been so grand and beautiful. She took the little girl in her arms, and both of them flew in brightness and joy above the earth, very, very high, and up there was neither cold, nor hunger, nor fear-they were with God.
But in the corner, leaning against the wall, sat the little girl with red cheeks and smiling mouth, frozen to death on the last evening of the old year. The New Year's sun rose upon a little pathetic figure. The child sat there, stiff and cold, holding the matches, of which one bundle was almost burned.
"She wanted to warm herself," the people said. No one imagined what beautiful things she had seen, and how happily she had gone with her old grandmother into the bright New Year.
Wednesday, July 3, 2019
all places we must go
Mountain beyond the one I'm climbing
preparing me, you know…
Mountain after mountain
each journey worth the climb
Mountain peak and mountain view
each one special, each one new
Horizon after horizon-
all calling me to push
venturing beyond what is safe
with limit after limit breached
and all upon this dusty foot…
Sunset after sunset
with color that never pales
Until I reach my resting place
pressing, I will prevail.
Mountain after mountain peak
and singing all the way
What I see from the valley fair
is calling out to me.
Mountains, limitless mountains
all standing in a row
Like soldiers they remind me of
places I have yet to go.
Glory upon glory
and wonders all around
I stand and gaze on mountain peaks
for this is hallowed ground.
Mountain after mountain peak
and pressing all the way
with story upon story to tell
I must be leaving-on my way.
Fair mountain you are a friend to me
I tuck you near my heart
Calling out to travelers everywhere
to up and run, to leave...depart!
Shake off the dust of yesteryear
And breath in something new
Fair mountain with one hid behind
is calling out to you...
So pack then, lightly friend-
brave travelers alike
And we will feast on mountain airs
on this, our lofty hike.
Soldier on, yes soldier on
and we will greet the day
Standing where our ancestry stood
stalwart, come what may.
Mountain fair, O Mountain friend
to you we rise and sing
all gathered 'round
as children clad
receive this-our offering.
Mountain looming, mountain next
to you we must away
and stand where our tomorrow shines
brighter than our yesterday.
Fair mountain on horizon, towering
you beckon and you call...
I will conquer and upon you stand
for you are fairest of them all!
Enter into your rest...
Banishing strife and your warring cease
to receive this-our Maker's very best...
For we each are gentle warriors
on this, our Earthly home;
each precious day a gift on display
to unwrap, to discover and to humbly hold.
And treat this one time journey
just like a loving child...
And with a lightness in your step
© K. Annie Powell
Sunday, April 21, 2019
Thursday, December 27, 2018
Did you ever see the trail of a (jet) plane left in the sky? Or ripples of water flowing out from one concentric 'plunk' of someth...