Everyday I like to learn as well as write. I have been studying 19th century woman poets. I look at them with an open eye to feminist perspectives. Today I read a few poems by Marianne Moore. She inspired me to write "POETRY".


Marianne Craig Moore (November 15, 1887 – February 5, 1972) was an American modernist poet, critic, translator, and editor. Her poetry is noted for formal innovation, precise diction, irony, and wit.




An settled doubt

A knowledge of my mortality

Vocabulary so limited

Or without genuine sadness


But there is discovery

As I play this instrument

As, with a hole in my head

And hands waving about


Is my hair rising

Or palms asweat

Looking over these lines

Plagiarism of previous madness


organization so lacking

But does this matter

In allowing me some liberty

And the freedom of my doubt


interpretation beyond meaning

From those who simply are

Not sure of where they come

Not knowing what they read


some say I am holding a bat

Others, brushing a feather

Others still; making love

Where is my foolish heart


the continuous chain

From laugh to cry

Is an anecdote: child to adult

And back again, my guilt is fed


there comes before my eyes

A collage of recurrence

Without previous caution

In the hope that I do part


am I a critic

Angry because I do not understand

Lazy and pompous

Thinking I am first


Oh, I am plagiarism’s friend

I should continually laugh

But my poem is me

And that should be the road


Thou friend and gallery

Of my words so long

Do not expect to learn

Or satisfy your peculiar thirst


Just ponder for a moment

Then say “This is what he wrote”

It is simply that

My past forever towed

DeaBeePea 1-17-19

Inspired by the work of Laura Riding. 

Laura Riding Jackson (January 16, 1901 – September 2, 1991) was an American poet, critic, novelist, essayist and short story writer. 

The excitement stirred by Laura Riding's poems is hinted at in Sonia Raiziss' later description: "When The Fugitive (1922–1925) flashed down the new sky of American poetry, it left a brilliant scatter of names: Ransom, Tate, Warren, Riding, Crane.... Among them, the inner circle and those tangent to it as contributors, there was no one quite like Laura Riding."




This is not exactly what I mean

Because of knowledge

And suspect attachments

And thoughts wayward path


Yes, the sun is the sun

But our labels suspicious

Do I intend more closely

With my perception of shine


This awkwardness

It shall be the protagonist

Defining itself

In its contaminated bath


But there is levity

Self-effacing stumbles

Slapstick noises splashing

Where the waters dine


The world and I

In a brotherly feud

Respect and love

But so doubtful and sour


Searching for whereness

As I become an eye

Finding my bearings

And the earth’s wobbly compass


Do we ever meet

This spacious void and I

The first move in question

As the wind starts to scour


My vulnerability beckoning

As my heart opens wide

And my mind is rattled

In its armourless rumpus


What is this literary sword

Filling in for fear?

I suppose this admittance

Is honesty’s mouth


With this maturity, comers a draw

No winner arrives

But a contented sweat

Trickles down my chest


There is advice

From those of inclination

And I absorb this voice

In my wisdom’s drouth


Motivation found

In immortality’s cry

A perilous journey

To this unreachable quest

DeaBeePea 1-20-19



Where is this day

As my breath expects

Freshness and a heavenly reach

Am I despondent in this awe


Like love

An unwillingness to venture

My arms petrified

Unable my vision to draw


Are the rays of the sun

So delicate in their passion

Or blinding my joy

With piercing shafts of light


My thoughts allow me

To warm in time

The tempestuousness saying goodbye

Restoring a dreaming sight


Yes, this is my place

In fragrant air

Losing months and days

But immediate time is blessed


Where has discontent gone

Or is it just hiding

Enveloping this mirage

In its all-encompassing jest


In the explanation present

In long and fustian prose

Or quiet words

Of romantic poetic flow


I dare say,

It is everywhere

Landing on my heart

My thoughts a tempered glow


My soul interpreting, enduring

A dedicated embodiment

Working forever

Despite its dying vitality


Is there victory

Can this river be crossed

The rapids feeding life

In their current modality


in this forever sphere

of gravity’s relied-upon hold

there is a seed

ready for water’s spoon


this is a rebirth

no more troubling rest

accepting my body as home

cynicism so calmly hewn


DeaBeePea 1-25-18

Inspired by the work of Marya Zaturenska


Marya Zaturenska (September 12, 1902 – January 19, 1982) was an American lyric poet, winner of the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1938.

No Intent


A trickle of blood

Through air did seep

From rapier-like anger

Of humiliation’s bed


But was it of making

Or a social frame

Disposing their insecurity

Into what was said


Where did this blade

Have the courage

Etching through humour

Making an evil phrase


Now there is silence

And stale greeting

But the same room stands

In this refracted glaze


When venturing on

The walk will be slow

Cautious and pensive

In possibility’s know


There will be a Samaritan

In their roadside path

With a simple inducement

Of warming glow


Embarrassment and humility

Will heal the discord

And a heartfelt wish

For goodwill’s hold


Why is soon forgotten

And guilt is now born

Then revelation

A wise story told

DeaBeePea 1-24-19

Today I was looking through the poetry of Vita Sackville-West. Her poem Days I Enjoy inspired me, although mine took on a more positive tone. Victoria Mary Sackville-West, Lady Nicolson, CH (9 March 1892 – 2 June 1962), usually known as Vita Sackville-West, was an English poet, novelist, and garden designer. She was a successful novelist, poet, and journalist, as well as a prolific letter writer and diarist. She published more than a dozen collections of poetry during her lifetime and 13 novels. She was twice awarded the Hawthornden Prize for Imaginative Literature: in 1927 for her pastoral epic, The Land, and in 1933 for her Collected Poems. She was the inspiration for the androgynous protagonist of Orlando: A Biography, by her famous friend and lover, Virginia Woolf.


Nothing happening 
oh what joy
my inner self rests
no jury as a pest

yawns and burps
inclined towards indignity
bohemian thoughts
no connection of dots

just a whirlwind
in my room
an indistinct clutter
and no corrective stutter

there is laughter missed
but loneliness rides
on my magic floor
a carpet where I pour

ideas and restless feet
sheets aflutter
ne’er crumpled notes
of sinking boats

a growing freedom
of satirical nakedness
my head no longer turning
to ears so burning

no order of things
a stew before the cereal
wine and coffee amix
and performing chaotic tricks

no engagements
by disturbances withdrawn
I am stuck in myself
And my jig-saw shelf

Life is too short
To avoid this magic connection
Affording this sacred time
Remaining so sublime

But I dare say,
This brings no awkwardness
In knowledge of being
To put forth to others seeing

It ignites my soul’s belief
My colours now so bright
the image no facade
as words are stylishly clad

There is such praise
Bestowed towards my friends
Accepting this amateur scribe
In my searching poetic imbibe

DeaBeePea 1-23-19



a master's art

this blanket of mist

winter's claim

to heaven's hold


caught in time

a motionless sky

of blinding beauty

as infinity dies


the trees appear

as tattered lines

mysterious sticks

in flickering cold


no space defined

nor distance known

closed in this wall

of a prisoned guise


our helplessness engulfed

no doors to find

as we cross our arms

with staring awe


the magic is here

within our soul

we now humble our hearts

and bow to the storm


how long it lasts

is memory's creation

as we look for a path

like a struggling claw


this sheet of peace

declares our place

bereft of supremacy

as our life transforms


DeaBeePea 2-1-19



Yes indeed

A topic

Of extreme expanse

I must say


But every morning

It is

The first word

Of mental interplay


Am I an example

Of this thing called “life”

Now that’s pretty scary

I think, so stupefied


Being imperfect

A part of our blessing

So I shouldn’t feel bad

With so little rectified


Trying to console

I smile in the mirror

And say to myself

“You’re a miracle”


Well, my friends

There are better examples

But here I am

Something empirical


But the great creator

Isn’t done

He’s still stirring his elixir

To fix the mistake


I guess that means

That I’m not done

Waiting for that next

Test tube quake


Whether that’s before

I quietly (or not) pass

Or if it’s after

I do not know


But what is this change

I am still waiting

But holding my breath

Might be wastefully slow


So I’ll go on

With this silly act

But having a ball

In my ramblings and rhymes


Trying to define

What life is

And getting nowhere

Committing literary crimes

DeaBeePea 2-4-19

The Great Thaw


oh so frozen

a compromising block

full of respect

down the widest path


little inklings

of knawing pain

I blamed myself

with my tunnelled eyes


cautious steps

with occasional stupors

dusting myself off

guarding my wrath


the years did quicken

in family ways

and my busied patterns

among little white lies


but the ice was strong

holding me in place

a cubish impede

from freedom's dreams


my heart was split

in guilty splinters

I needed the sun

to devise its plan


I beached myself

in rays of simmering fervour

anxious in sweat

and its soothing streams


there was a corner

in the isotropic distance

beckoning to my soul

for my view to scan


the next day I woke

from beneath an arctic

my blood was warm

and head was spinning


awakening to hope

and a many-forked trail

mesmerized in choice

in a larger world


dispersing the twinge

that stabbed my brain

to new cluster of illusion

and potential beginnings


it is now my season

when I see myself

and recognize the birth

of a life unfurled

DeaBeePea 2-2-19



I am getting old(er)

and yet

youth springs

within me


my skin is funny

hair is grey

memory shakey

and bones do creak


but in relative terms

I have a long way to go

as I dust off my snowshoes

and look out with glee


I still love snow

despite its occasional trap

with its banks of scowl

and fields so bleak


it's nature's call

a determined cry

of chilling rest

before re-birth sighs


so it's just a cycle

round and round we go

with tears and laughter

hopes and fears


but the numbers mean nothing

just mathematical jargon

as we sprout our thoughts

with fewer lies


wisdom and tolerance

testing our patient pull

not sure of which path

will provide our cheers


so, I snap my suspenders

in comical jest

a self-effacing gesture

for my endless quest


to be something

I know not what

but an arthritic friend

with a hearing loss


so, you might have to yell

and I'll yell back

and I'll take your order

as a cocktail guest


we can laugh together

about things of past

childhood pranks

and MS-DOS

DeaBeePea 2-3-19



the endless journey

for this peaceful rest

sitting back

with a kitten on lap


a loss of anger

and endless smile

love for all

and a modest nod


being thankful

for a being state

and a self-directed pat

for missing the trap


building your floor

from what you are

and padding your feet

with a fluffy sod


not having answers

no longer a care

enjoying the search

with a wardrobe so fit


passion and love

stirring the broth

that is subtle in flavour

seasoned with reason


I don't think I'm there

and may never it be

as I ponder my words

in my restless sit


if I give in

there will be shame in my heart

for slowing in mind

committing soulful treason


DeaBeePea 2-1-19



As I ponder my view

I think of white

Its adhering stripes

So bold and high


And the fluffy blanket

Stretching so far

A velvet ocean

A brand new sky


We dance in the clouds

And feel the flakes

Brushing our memories

As snowmen appear


We hear the bells

From days gone by

And look in the woods

For fanciful deer


Our minds are steered

To images pure

Peace and goodwill

And quiet nights


The fallen crystals

Decorate our monuments

Keeping the shape

In its cooperative flight


No resistance

To our questionable ways

It’s a happy touch

In its startling glow


The opposite of black

This rolling scene

Challenging the sun

To end the show


And if there’s goodbye

We do not worry

The cast is set

And prepared to sequel


With season’s passion

We wait again

For the blizzard of mist

We cannot equal


This spiritual lust

To teach us our humility

Blinding our distrust

Clearing our unfaith


As the trees do sway

In the warning wind

I nod my head

To this glorious wraith


DeaBeePea 2-15-19

The Creeper


I am the vine

In moral dictation

But living by rules

Pleasing a selfish head


A globe of the past

Looking back

Not explaining

Unforgotten dread


But the sprawling branches

Breed my courage

My petioles aspiring

To faceless walls


But oaks and maples

Invite the search

My pinnation broken

In hesitant crawl


Do I look for light

Fashioning like a periwinkle

Boasting success

In rotting truth


Or is my path

Directing me astray

On skotopropism’s way

As a bitter gourds sleuth


There should be a mission

In my running chalice

Enlightened tendrils

In optimistic embrace


I must hide my thorns

In pacifist smiles

Forming a helix

With widening face


In my rooting betel

My foundation is found

In curiosity’s mound

And unsoiled airy berth


My grapes are sweeter

And when I cry

The wine is also laughter

In fascinated mirth


My sinister inclinations

A bindweeds story

Are an invasive imposition

That my new heart leaves


My honeysuckle rose

Is kindly exposed

And is a hummingbird song

That love believes


DeaBeePea 2-13-19

Where Did She Go


I see her arms

Pointing to the sky

Each branch, free advise

To conquer my soul


I see her eyes

Spinning their act

A river of no tears

Under my crumbling bridge


I see her hair

Blossoming vines of love

Dancing on the streets

Where I’m seen in lonely stroll


I hear her gentle feet

A pendulum’s taunting stroke

Saying goodbye

From twilight’s dying ridge


I see her doubtful lips

In horizon’s sunset image

Waiting for tomorrow

When hope regains its guile


I see those frantic legs

Taking me everywhere

The knees in flailing balance

Steady, in confusions path


I swallow her imagination

The stories casting shadows

Her past and future melded

In protagonists happy smile


I feel her fever

In the morning window’s glare

Pushing out the walls

In their anxious steaming bath


I listen to her words

Curt and simply honest

Looking at myself

My head ashake with shame


I breathe her tranquil mist

Cautious of its power

Knowing it’s my world

The perfect place to be


I listen to her heart

And its steady eager beat

Improvising in its journey

Through the crippled world’s flame


I’m thankful for her love

From wherever it may be

My thoughts in poetic heaven

Dancing out to sea


DeaBeePea 2-11-19

Nonsense 4


pizza, the works and football jerks

soggy lasagna, and a movie with Fonda

watery beer, and little cheer

belching and burping and constant chirping


this world abuzz, it's an image 'cause

I've been there before, and know the score

my basic opinion, about the dominion

nightmares and dreams, of volatile screams


right wing and left, no arguments bereft

pretzels and chips, and stupid quips

there is no answer, and I am no dancer

but dodging I do, correctness in lieu


sporadic appetite, with an impulsive bite

crunching and grinding, with a result that is binding

in political strain, I use my brain

but it seems to skitter, overcome and bitter


problems persist, on my growing list

pork and beans, and dirty blue jeans

factored reality, and visionary duality

the dessert bowl empty, and face unkempty


socialisms future, implemented in suture

my conservative side, an enemy to abide

down with fobby slobs, with frothy gobs

a profusion of lies, and orange dyes


it's time for a burger, my stomach in verger

crisp onion mustard, and tomato custard

fluffy buns, and juice that runs

a liberal diet to keep me quiet


I seem to be askew, a theory I blew

hypotheses shrouded, and details clouded

profound I am, but at times a sham

quite a confession, from a poetry session


elections and primaries, no bowl of cherries

pits and bytes, while flying kites

let go of the string, it's just a fling

there's no direction, in oblique reflection


the court has ruled, opinions pooled

the verdict is chaos, full of dross

as Dorothy Parker fussed, excuse my dust

something to ponder, as I look over yonder


the rent is high, as my money dies

severely taxed, no longer faxed

logging in to my name, it's me I claim

a complex world, my patience unfurled


hanging in so far, entering a bar

with a funny joke, and a teasing poke

but sitting here, with my open ear

and running fingers, as sanity lingers


DeaBeePea 2-8-19

Nonsense 3

The head was bald, spinning in scald
And the hands were weak, unable to speak
Nervous as hell, in a steel-trap shell
Aimlessly stuttering, while the rest were muttering

The chili splashed, and his hopes were dashes
With too-spicy thoughts, and vomiting tots
Pots and pans and waving fans
The heat was wicked and the flavor insipid

White beans and ground pork, inefficient with a fork
With a crock-pot attitude, sky-rocketing his latitude
Unreliable measurement, and fuming temperament
No matter I guess, there’s always chess

The TV was on, but Leave it to Beaver was gone
A bygone time, of sparing a dime
Melamine laminate, poppytail plates
Stainless steel banding, and father downstairs sanding

The place I’m at, where I previously spat
Angry at nothing, while angrily cuthing
Cutlery clanking, and I am banking
The wine will be good, which certainly it should

My reading behind, and the book is signed
A reputed author, who’s someone’s father
Chapters and pages, and mental cages
It’s only a book, why such a hook?

This common blur, like international stew
So many ingredients, I can’t be expedient
The heat is on, particles are on
My sweating skin, and natural sin

The laughter rises, and my mind surmises
There’s a comical tint, to my creative splint
But I have no idea, or any criteria
For this silly path, and my rubber-duck bath

They shout hurry hard, missing the guard
The inturn approach, the house to encroach
Like watching paint dry, some do imply
As I calculate delivery, during my misplaced shivaree

The coffee is stale, so it’s time for ale
And the clock is ticking, while the town is slicking
I’m confused and scratching, my ideas unthatching
Maybe dozing, will be my day closing

But it’s afternoon, as I seek a balloon
To burst my bubble, and get out of trouble
Baking bread, until I’m dead
Sipping my wine, so grapey fine

My schedule full, and so is my bull
Nonsensical chatter, thinking what is the matter
There are four seasons, for many reasons
Now fancy that, she swallowed a cat

DeaBeePea 2-8-19




my head turns

even before

I hear the name


why would it be me

am I guilty

of playing

some silly game


using words

to twist and turn

making ears

twitch and squirm


it's only poetry

of a primitive form

describing blasts

in eloquent terms


jazzy bops

and Gershwin lyrics

and laughter

the best of din


tears, well

they beckon concern

but be wary of

privacy's violin


and winds that seem

to frighten us

a voice from Gods

of unfamiliar kin


Thunder answers

when we think we own

this delicate world

in which we sin


barking dogs

and screaming kids

seem to take us back

in sentiment's place


the noise of crowds

assimilating little

except bright anticipation

for a change of face


what I ask

will propel our spirit

yes, it takes an effort

to achieve this diet


but, in respect for peace

and thoughtful ponder

the ultimate melody

to hear is quiet


DeaBeePea 2-5-19

So Jejune


I taste a liquor never brewed,

Of love's sweet magical potion

An inebriate of your kiss

And my naïve romantic notion


The air forever a perfume

And dew, such sweet wine

As spring is just a warning

As we swim in summers brine


If I turn a drunken lover

Let me out of the Inn’s door

To join the pollinating bees

As I stumble over Nature’s floor,


Am I such a seraph

So empty-headed and numb

In the bliss that has me stupored

As I drink to beauty’s rum


DeaBeePea 3-29-19


The first line of the poem is the title of o poem by Emily Dickinson



There is doubt and fear in March’s song

The winds of the North singing

We ponder our breaths future

And what thou yonder is bringing


But alas we see the buds

In April’s balmy verse

As it prints among our memories

Of summer’s coming purse


The rain at first our tears

Then hopeful dancing rivers

The thawing of winter’s bitter dreams

And future’s cynical shivers


The flowers sit in darkness

Still talking to the moon

Their petals teasing our beach-laid thoughts

Writing their April tune


The earth so worried from its burden

Now accountable for our smiles

Carrying its shining message

As we consider playful whiles


Should we carry such a fantasy

Is our wisdom so secure

Or is magic pending our surprise

For new vision to endure


Does the vast grey tragedy of man

Shroud this blue-sky illusion

Are we laughable in our selfishness

For the arrogant thoughtless collusion


With evil manifestations

We welcome nature’s anger

As it hold on to exquisite honour

In its blooming radiant clangour


Do I dare speak of sadness

In this spring of coming days

Seeing in the horizon

Our futility as it preys


The air of mouldy pungence

Speaks life in foul words

A language of rotting seasons

And the boastful coming of birds

The immaculate conception

Perfect winds in sail

Touching what it needs to waft

As roots conceive their trail


What will be the news

Before June’s humid lesson

Announcing its decision

Before we bath in bountiful cresson


DeaBeePea 3-28-19

The Muse


Waking to a special magic

Not really in need


But enjoying the anxiousness

in a surge of inspirational deed


is it laziness

to carry a poet’s ball


or grasp an author’s theme

and twist it into my call


do I need a Dickensonian character

as jovial and foppish as Fezziwig


or such one as Madame Defarge

the screaming and vengeful prig


alas, my racing thoughts to offer

an array of crazy misfits


but there lies within me

an impulsive turning-back desire


hence; how can I compete

with Miss Scarlett’s self-indulgent flight


Chandler’s Philip Marlowe

Or Carmen Sternwood’s spite


This muse a fairy

That dances all around


Quickly changing colours

And wardrobe in each bound


In wildly amusing acts

Of hard-to swallow dictum


Imposing in poetic mind

Writing as confusion’s victim


This strange source of garble

Of which I self-define


Somehow spread by genius

Found in history’s brine

So as the pages turn

And the chapters are consumed


This all-encompassing medium

Creatives a chronic spume


DeaBeePea 3-25-19



If I only knew

The shape of my mind


In this polygonic world

Of distorted signs


If the idea is triangular

Is the bottom right


Especially under isoscelean

Views in the light


Refracted notions

Some square in scope


From rectangular vision

Lacking in hope


As I ponder my spinning rhombus

I see its distortion


As homeomorphism

Elongates my threat of inproportion


I see the drum

Both convex and concave


The pounding music

In a tribal crave


Creating a complex plane of disunity

In the cyclic currents


The geons traveling

Within my ideological torrent


The painful trapezoid

Is its stubborn pride


Spurning the ninety-degree reality

Structuring the tide


But we must uphold

The congruent possibilities


Striving for a realization

Of our cognosciblilities


What is this mirror image

That questions our individuality


Making us equations

Of criss-crossing morality


My circumference is greying

And my mind a steep declivity


But the perimeters of my anger

Deny my passivity


DeaBeePea 3-25-19

The Story


Years of tale


As if in a tomb


There was no glory


In a lidless coffin


There was gloom

No cedar

But no tears did loom


Just mystic silence


Trumpet blasts so often


This was sacred


Of coming miracle


How was there, this hopeful reign


in dumbfounded fear


Eyes and ears

Not buried

In my mind so spherical


A failure to be hidden


Of surrounding cheer


This numbing ambiguity


For something more


I was unaware


Of freedom’s search


Shackled in ignorance


What was I to pour


My rhythmic anxiety


An aimless and sudden lurch


Now a cluttered mess


And the joy of congregation


Now, no life or death


In amazements song


Shaking my head


Sorrow wrapped in elation


Now there is infinite love


Knowing where to belong


DeaBeePea 3-24-19

Untied Lace


A loving voice

In a world of disdain

A bright shell

On a decaying beach


A white rose

Amidst the black brambles

Budding branches

In a hopeless reach


A little chaffinch

Alone in the night

Blue jays and hawks

In contested flight


A golden silence

In a wild black eve

Tentative streets

Where dreams conceive


Bold white doors

Behind stubborn hedges

Solemn lanes

With withering edges


Invisible pain

Of stimulating force

A delay of grief

Confidence enforced


I smell the fire

A burning protest

Hordes of ideas

For futures best


Calamity’s upheaval

Amidst humours nod

Hopeful portent

For impending Gods


A family’s unity

Confesses this storm

Aware of the attacks

On this holy form


Calloused hand

With good work done

Contented smiles

In late afternoon’s sun


Where are the ashes

Of this lengthy endeavor

Searching for nothing

With multitudes forever


Peace and goodwill

A precarious path

But the castle waits

In its moated bath


DeaBeePea 3-23-19



The wind is determined

My window unsure

Its frames yielding

To insistent squalls


A paranoid fear

Am I being punished

As stubbornly wait

For my brand new season


These blasting servings

A mockery

Testing an angered patience

As my aging skin crawls


But there is a journey

Through love

That calls out to me

In its fanciful reason


Allowing me to weep

With a strange invisible hope

Giving my tired legs

An impulse to walk


But there are words

Of boundless foolish energy

That are blind and unfeeling

But are freedom’s wake


The darkest day is lit

And as I move forward

Somethings comes toward me

In its stiff and breezeless frock


Coming from far away

Not in taunting

But in welcoming silence

Interpreting my words in slake


Yes, this is my place

So my waiting secures

An individual home

Clad in my decorative confusion


The sounds and echoes of death

Sit and rock with a smile

While this strange infinity

Devours my creative soul


There is no fear

Because I am ignorant of such things

Looking into emptiness

As I peer into the illusion


The street of time seems meaningless

But what I find

Might be a treasure

Of a faithful trusting parole


DeaBeePea 3-20-19

Lá Fhéile Pádraig


The zephyrs show their wings

Blowing festive smiles

Setting the emerald aglow

starting a fire of glorious whims


This long-cherished morning

A whispering spirit of home

My heart and soul of Erin’s green sod

As I hum those Celtic hymns


A youthful blood plays within

Enlivening dreams

Throwing about the wiles and woes

As dew-drops in my eyes do sparkle


A full chord of an Irishman’s heart

Yo’ I do hear the music

Dancing over the Burren

From valleys hidden darkle


Those little green fairies

Picking the Armagh blossoms

Up to no-good prankery

In their gold-buckled mended shoes


What is their silent laughter?

Is it a point of mockery

From those ancient treasure-crocks

And escape from legends muse


But alas, we see the dancing

And merriment of lore

The happy red breeches

And cheerily ruffled frieze


We see the butterfly orchids

And lady’s tresses aspread

And scatterings of maidenhead fern

Irish eyebright in the breeze


The bur-thistle stands,

And looks around

Do you dare to meddle with me?

In stern demand of victory’s beam


And in amidst the céilithe

My romantic heart is throbbing

For my beautiful mavourneen

And her vivacious and impish gleam

On St. Paddy’s holy trinity

Lies a map of future’s light

Holding up our shamrock

Proudly shadowing our earth


St. Patrick’s Day! St. Patrick’s Day!

Oh! thou tormenting Irish lay—

Let merriment be our incantation

For love’s forever birth


DeaBeePea 3-17-19

Tribute to International Women's Day

Profound Lips


the strongest voice

is from the heart

of affirmative timber

and knowing truth


the cries and whispers

while holding hands

marching in harmony

in the spirit of youth


the message is forever

it is not new

but neither is the injustice

that has reigned eternal


we have been so blind

in the act of deprivation

our ears unlistening

to wisdom's journal


looking at power

so ill-defined

avoiding respect

for our inherited affection


it is in the clutch

of forgiveness and strength

the combination of honesty

and understanding's perfection


we must open the door

with the brightest smile

welcoming this friend

as our special essence


it isn't too late

for equality's tide

to sweep us ashore

in this joyous coalescence


DeaBeePea 3-8-19


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