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Capturing Fall: The Art of Painting Nature’s Beauty
Category: POEMS
POEM by a former resident of PERKINS, on SWAN ISLAND, MAINE
“SWANGO” (written about the saltbox house above where Swango Health Spa existed)
by MRS. M.C. PRIEST in 1905
There’s a spot by the banks of a river
Far away from all turmoil and strife,
By the banks of a swift-flowing River
Where one breathes in the meaning of LIFE.
And when turbid and slow runs the life-sap,
And a lash is stern duty’s command…
Come with me where eternal the tides lap
Soft caress to the deep-wooded land.
And the great vault of blue arching over
Swaying vistas of green reaching north…
Star-eyed daisies and sweet-scented clover,
Make a fragment of Heaven on earth.
O, ’tis Life just to bathe in the sunshine,
And ’tis living to feel yourself part
In this wonderful bit of creation.
Here’s to SWANGO…the Home of my Heart!
PLEASE TELL ME which paintings, stained glass windows, masks, stories or poems resonated with you. THANK YOU FOR YOUR TIME! Check back regularly, as I post my latest stained glass window or painting monthly!
PERENNIAL CHEER
JUNE 2, 2023 – FRIDAY 89* AT 2:30 PM by T. Blen Parker
Bright crimson, coral & sunny yellow tulips emerge
amidst purple crocus, yellow daffodils, and showy white narcissus.
Lemony blossoms plant buttery little kisses covering
the forsythia bush, tall and full.
Raspberry pink bleeding hearts wilt in the hot sun.
Lilacs bloom white and light purple until turning toasty brown.
Iris bloom into grape or yellow bearded flags.
Fiery poppies pop out with toasted edges from the hot spring sun.
Allium wave their spiny orbs in the wind.
Lemon lilies emerge from a bed of lilies of the valley,
scenting air sweetly, brightening up the peace garden.
Anticipating lupine blossoms, sometimes Easter lilies turned red in nitrogen-rich compost…..
always left wondering what color they will be
if only Mr. Woodchuck will allow them.
Happiness representatives appear as Johnny Jump Ups appear.
Coils of ferns open to wave in the breeze, stirring Solomon Seal to wag
their delicate white bellflowers, as maple trees release fairy wings
to helicopter down like soft raindrops, covering the first spears of
deep green grass emerging from the brown winter floor
where cheery buttercups glow hello.
SOUNDS of a MAINE WINTER
by T. Blen Parker
WINTER BOTANICALS
Meteorologists make their repeated vociferous predictions,
Sounding the impending doom.
A storm approaches! Be prepared! Don’t get caught!
Residents scribble market lists of storm-survival items.
Lines at supermarket doors grow longer as
Customers scramble to clear necessities from shelves,
Forming a shopping cart race, a cacophonous event.
Cars line up at traffic lights, horns honking, anxiously
Attempting to hurry home before the storm “hits” their town.
Local chatter commences, just before intense cold brings on
Eerie quietude when the first flakes begin to accumulate.
Songbirds silently peck seeds below the birdfeeders,
Frantically gorging themselves to last for days.
Only the river ice groans and snaps, echoing
Throughout the forest where the creatures
Step lightly to find a warm burrow. The wind picks up, gusting
Over 50 MPH creating snowy tornadoes around houses,
Garages, barns, or in the middle of empty snow-covered fields.
Windows rattle, storm doors bang open,
Frigid flakes blow sideways, tap, tap, tapping on windowpanes.
Wooden beams snap and crack suddenly and loudly
Creaking under below zero temperatures.
Heating, clinking silver spoon to stir,
I clutch with both hands a mug of steaming hot chocolate.
Intermittently turning crisp pages until writing calls me
To scratch ideas out with a fountain pen on paper.
The world drops away as I slip on a knitted
Wool beanie cap, settling into warm thoughts, sitting in
My favorite chair against a heated rice bag.
Ahhhhh, the sounds of satisfaction,
Or have I woken to the sounds of my own snoring?
PLEASE TELL ME which paintings, stained glass windows, masks, stories or poems resonated with you. THANK YOU FOR YOUR TIME! Check back regularly, as I post my latest stained glass window or painting monthly!
DAWNING FOG PODS
Arising at four a.m.
I witness the flash of dawn,
a ritual these days.
Teacup warming my hand,
I raise the porcelain cup
from my grandmother’s tea set
treasured, passed on to me,
perfect for celebrating each new day
on Mother Earth’s green earth.
A hearty hooty-hoot-hoot
echoes through the tall trees
as the repetitious call
interrupts my focus on the
silver flash of dawn
and the sun breaking
over the treetops across the Kennebec.
Sliding glass doors
allow a vast view
of steaming fog-pods
rising from the forest floor
out of the lush garden;
a thick carpet filled with
varieties of green ferns.
Secrets and worries whispered
evaporate away,
silently upward
into the Universe
safe
forever
more.
