Category: Poetry

LODESTAR

     LODESTAR

What is best in us
Lies in that quiet curving line
From the head to the heart,
Embracing the spirit of love,
Strong enough to reach
Into the darkness,
Yet understanding we are
Made of stars.

                              ©2019 Gwen Grant

 DANDELION IN WINTER 

          DANDELION IN WINTER 

That frozen nub of dandelion
Pushing up through grass and old lavender
Surprised the frosted rose,
Astonished the white rimed garden.
Its tiny yellow filaments
Creating a raggy halo,
Promising a dot of sunshine,
Sometime in the near future.

                          ©2019 Gwen Grant

RAIN BEETLE

When I was a child, I used to watch rain beetles struggling across puddles of water left after the rain. It would take ages for a beetle to get back to dry land. Sometimes, one or the other of us would drop a blade of grass into the water and the beetle would instantly seize upon it and use it but blade of grass or no blade of grass, they never gave up.  Their hard shell like backs were this most beautiful glittering blue.

          RAIN BEETLE

Like a blue iridescent rain beetle
Struggling across a puddle of water,
They tried to set up camp
In the middle of an ocean.

Storms battered them,
Winds drowned them,
Sweeping their tent onto the sand
Where they huddled, trembling,
Watching silent movies of people hurrying
Across the canvas.

Sometimes reaching out a hand
To grab an elbow.  And missing.
Sometimes sticking out a foot
To trip the hurrying image up,
Meaning to catch them.  But failing.

Yet the sea was always singing
Of the sunsets it had seen,
Of moonlight glittering,
Of all the places it had been visiting,
But, especially, of how the cold, clear water
Was perfect for paddling.

Until, tiny splash by tiny splash,
Like little iridescent rain beetles
Fearlessly crossing a puddle of water,
They were, at the last, swimming.

                                        © 2018 Gwen Grant

SPRING

           SPRING

The wind is bustling around
the house tonight,
Sweeping away the little sparkling cobwebs
Clinging to the walls,
Whistling twigs down the guttering
So that some bird will have to start
Again in the Spring.

Then the snow came.

And the outside cat,
Who came out of nowhere,
Padded across the white grass,
Into the greenhouse,
For his portion of biscuits.

To curl up in the cardboard box
On the old cover set in a warm corner,
And dream of Spring,
When little fat birds would fall
Out of their windswept nests
Right in front of him.

                             ©2019 Gwen Grant

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