EPISODES AND THE MUSE

Emily

One day

I wondered when

The tale would end

Or how it would beguile.

So I came

But then

I vanished

For yet, a little while.

〰©Nellieanna H. Hay

Do souls refuse their heirs, elect

Inherit, or but perish them?

Did Dickinson, her muse select

Or Browning's seed infuse?

Is trivial so small,

Profound so very vast

That neither seed nor seedling

Could ever hope to last?

Are roots so damned eternal,

Truth, such layers of veils,

That all else fades and fails

Till all can be dispelled?

Will then the truth be clear?

Will purpose blend with being?

Will all our heirs and muses

Become one final Seeing?

Do not despair from discontent;

It visits all who feel.

Disparage not your detours;

They ferret out what's real.

〰©Nellieanna H. Hay

From out of disuse

Come lamp and pen.

I push off the dust,

Awaken dreams within.

The time is nigh

When they've come true;

And so have I,

Because I trust.

'Put on these garments!',

'The ones of knowing!

Begin where I left off,

By showing what I knew.'

And so I do,

Because I must.

〰©Nellieanna H. Hay

Nao

'Twixt time and time

and times suppose

The truth's abode

Slips from silent lips,

Upon sleep's silent ships.

We toss.

We count the loss

Of yet another

Crime or crimes

In silent rhymes

Of timeless episodes.

Yet follow fitfully

Follow dutifully

Follow faithfully

These rugged roads,

Obscurely.

〰©Nellieanna H. Hay

This day's intense remembrance

Of those brittle times ~

The progress of a century

Defy appropriate rhymes.

Perception accounts for it,

As resonance mounts

Upon the vacant universe,

Still stumbling unattended,

While mortals prime

Their own inventions

With little sight or clarity.

I cannot conjecture how

Those lost days of Amherst were,

Without humiliation

For that vast unattended

Soul of it. . .

. . . . so much, the pity.

If I must go without

The perfect, fitting message

It is a century's loss.

I would to know their hearts

So clearly, so dearly

That I'd clarify their notes,

Their poems, their prose,

Their garden's daisy, rose, ~

The beauty of it all.

Which I could not envision;

Yet I do ~ compose.

〰©Nellieanna H. Hay

I looked on lavender and knew

What stars would never know:

The random bent,

The tenderest hue

Repeats itself eternally

Upon each flow'r below,

This air disturbed effusively

By subtle scent

Exclusive to its bloom,

While trudging mortal life

Is but briefly known

Betwixt its birth and tomb.

〰©Nellieanna H. Hay