In Aeternam

This room, this space, this temporary place,
Awaiting and prepared for curtain call,
Two hundred voices sing, in hallowed space,
A timeless opus, swept up and enthralled.

“Libera me”, staves fly fast before my eyes,
Rising and descending hopes and fears,
Pleading desperation, truth belies,
accepts soul’s journey to eternal spheres.

No mortal may escape reality,
Yet calming thoughts and visions do sustain,
Through daily lives, we grow our family tree,
We’re born to life, when done, we’ll live again.

This music shared, inspires and uplifts,
That I am blessed to sing:  the rarest gift.

Today I am in room at Homewood Suites in Worcester, Massachusetts.   This afternoon, The Masterwork Chorus will join the Worcester Chorus, under the baton of Chris Shepard, to present the Verdi Requiem.  

As I review my score, don my concert dress and prepare to return to Mechanics’ Hall (a truly remarkable venue), I am filled with anticipation.  I am also filled with awe and gratefulness that I have the privilege of singing this work again and that I’ve been given the gift of music. 

Once again, I turn to poetry to express feelings that I rarely take time acknowledge.



A glimpse of  heaven in a drop rain,
Emerging spring buds straining to burst free,
At first, I only see the the snow’s remains,
Yet, as I think upon it, more I see.

A drop of rain, a grain of sand, a breeze,
We oft o’erlook the truth before our eyes,
Brushing past, intent on seeking ease,
And missing the profound truth, in disguise.

Delving deep beyond the dampened scene,
 As globules cling to branches, tenuously clear,
Reflection of our thin reality,
Magnified, surreal, contained in sphere.

It’s nearly Spring, red buds are straining free,
As nature turns, my thoughts return to thee.


The whine of tyke bikes, go-carts whirring by,
The block where long our house is standing tall,
The lawn of seven shades of bluegrass rye,
While I, from front-porch rocker, watch it all.

We pedal ’round the town, inhaling Fall
The nippy, clear, crisp air is cool and sweet,
With signs of autumn, vibrant leaves enthrall,
A pause at Vicki’s for a breakfast treat.

At crossroads, Broad and Elm, we meet and greet
our friends, both young and older, how d’ya do?
On to the ice cream shoppe, the next side street,
Our perfect autumn day is nearly through.

Returning as before, home fires warm,
Kick off our shoes, cocooned from worldly harm.

I repost this today (originally published in September of 2012), in response to the Dogwood Photo Challenge and the Photo Friday challenge: Downtown.

 The poem about my town, Westfield NJ, suits the theme perfectly and the photo of Vicki’s Diner calls to mind the decades of delicious breakfasts with friends and family, kids and grandkids; and sometimes just the two of us


Night breeze inhibits, warm hints that signal “spring”,
Night breeze inhibits, warm hints that signal “spring”,
Too long delayed, yet, hope is mine,
Too long delayed, yet, hope is mine
Warm spring breeze (yet mine delayed)
That Signal, inhibits hints of hope: Night is too long!

Shy, undaunted, buds by chilled earth peeking, 
Shy, undaunted, buds by chilled earth peeking,
Seeking sun, from seasons sitting dormant,
Seeking sun, from seasons sitting dormant,
Chilled earth sitting by sun-peeking buds, 
Undaunted, seeking, from shy, dormant season.

On trial, it seems, as winter’s raspy file,
On trial, it seems, as winter’s raspy file,
Despite attempts to swipe and chase away,
Despite attempts to swipe and chase away,
The trial as raspy filed and swipe away,
Despite (it seems) to winter’s chase attempts.

That spring breeze, is sitting too long, filed away, 
Delayed by winter’s raspy chill, Yet mine inhibits 
(it seems), despite shy buds’ warm attempts, 
From earth peeking, by sun seeking trial,
Hints of dormant hope, as signal undaunted, 
To swipe and chase the night season.
 Wordle 389E663969A-6B07-418E-A17F-A15EED769C19


The Paradelle…a French poetic form:

  • The paradelle is a 4-stanza poem.
  • Each stanza consists of 6 lines.
  • For the first 3 stanzas, the 1st and 2nd lines should be the same; the 3rd and 4th lines should also be the same; and the 5th and 6th lines should be composed of all the words from the 1st and 3rd lines and only the words from the 1st and 3rd lines.
  • The final stanza should be composed of all the words in the 5th and 6th lines of the first three stanzas and only the words from the 5th and 6th lines of the first three stanzas.

Morning Ritual

He wakes at dawn with lust for life and glee,
Shaking off the night shades, jingling tags
(the clinking of his collar) call to me:
“Wake up and join me, see my tail’s a wag.”

Bounding down the first flight, waits; while I
with sleepy eyes, near stumble out of bed,
He can’t contain his joy, so I comply,
In truth he leads me as if leashed, instead.

Racing out the back to homestead’s fence,
Sniffing, marking, chasing squirrels and doves,
‘Ere he returns to door ajar, for hence
he’ll be rewarded, that’s my chore of love.

A-sleeping dreams of pups and rabbits’ race
He’s on my lap again, he knows his place.


photo Friday:dog

Rocking Chair

There nothing quite alluring as that chair
So finely crafted, sanding-wheeled and glazed,
Hand-rubbed, enhancing grain and curves with care,
And waiting just for me to be amazed.

When placed with will, upon the porch so grand,
Two-storied decks of un-named mountain inn,
Aligned, boxed in, at edgeside lake’s expanse,
Each, side by side, each calling “settle in”.

One can’t resist the urge to sit and wait,
To snap some peanuts  o’er the white stone rail,
Framing scenes of fish race for the bait,
And distant, soaring hawks make known their wail. 

The rocking chair mystique depends, in main,
On lore, tradition; heirloom or carved new,
Rocking back and forth, in sun or rain,
And watching nature’s world, my soul’s renewed.


The Sunday Whirl, Official Dogwood Photography Challenge


It lay upon the crunchy winter sod,
It reaches far and wide ‘top wooden slats,
(a foot bridge o’er the icy cygnet pond),
And spreads its shivers ‘cross the barnyard grass.

The night before, while stoking coals in hearth,
Awaiting Father Winter’s bedtime tuck,
Sensing hint of droplets through the dark,
Just as the evening’s church bell chime had struck.

At morn be-robed and trotting to my pane,
To slide aside the drapes, enhance my view,
Perceived mine eyes the spinning weathervane
atop the barn, nor’easter winds did blew.

A silent, pure white cloak across the land,
This snowy morning’s peace, serene and grand.

Photo Friday:#snow

The Mind’s Eye

Wish for seasons past, the golden, olden days
of yore, a boy at heart bends low to peek
at village denizens, some worn with age,
Some opened new, and “Christmas Tree Shop” sleek.

Remembered flood of youth’s pure joy, he seeks,
Ride sugarplums of hope on HO trains,
Erasing all hypocrisy, he’s meek
and welcoming of quiet peace attained.

Before the tired world returns again,
Before he stands to take his ‘Grandpa’ place,
This momentary, poor man’s dream’s maintained
and savored, all the more, all risk abates.

“Youth’s wasted on the young” some have opined,
Yet time oft blurs the borders of the mind.


The Sunday Wordle:


I watch and wait, transfixed and terrified,
As roiling clouds forecast impending doom,
Suspended in this space, I’m satisfied.

This calm before the storm does serve to guide,
I’m doubtful, can survival be assumed?
I watch and wait, transfixed and terrified.

A metaphor for trials and ebbing tides,
Throughout the lows, wee buds of hope still bloom,
Suspended in this space, I’m satisfied.

Beauty washing o’er this coved seaside,
Reminds of man’s mere strand in nature’s loom,
I watch and wait, transfixed and terrified.

The palm tree sways, her rustling branches ride
the thermals, sweeping sand as with a broom,
Suspended in this space, I’m satisfied.

Clarity and fear do oft collide,
Yet, introspection washes out the gloom,
I watch and wait, transfixed, (still terrified),
Suspended in this space, I’m satisfied.

Photo Friday: Shadows

After the Storm

Dampened, drenched planks beneath my feet,
Each step unfolds reflected, unslaked scenes,
As steady waters flow, e’er silently, sedate,
At close of day, imbued with subtle gleam.

Perhaps they’re just mirages or conjured dreams,
But no, I’ve been here thousand times before,
And tho some oft remembered, it would seem
That memories and dreams shan’t be ignored.

Vivid, lucid dreams are unreal from the start,
Memories, though suppressed, will e’er remain
upon the psyche,  etched and ne’er forgot,
Consciously or not, replay again.

The tactile remnants of this evening’s rain
Refresh my mind’s eye, reminisced refrain.

Photo Friday: Clouds

Rule of Odds

A few days on Paradise Island last week, reawakened the senses and inspired some unusually beautiful shots. These three photos, are posted specifically in response to this week’s challenge.

Week 41 Composition: Rule of Odds …Compose an image highlighting an odd number of subjects; some see this as natural and more pleasing to the eye.”

Underwater at school…In search of Atlantis
Breezeway at the Cove
Cozy Cove at The Cove

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