Opal Reflections
Perspectives through Prose, Poetry and Photography
Emergence
Another week, a Wednesday-weather day,
Wave on white-out wave coats bark and bough,
But something’s different, something in the way
the sound of spring thaw drowns away the plow.
My soul needs but take pause, renew my vow
to smell a rose or two, to note the hint
of yellow-green on weeping willow, bowed
As melted tears linger and imprint.
The unfroze pond, reveals red-bud imprints
on bushes straining to emerge, full bloom,
While gentle cygnets glide, reflections glint
Presaging broad-cast sun to banish gloom.
It snowed last night ‘top tender daffodils,
Spring is here, unstopped by last-gasp chills.
Photo Friday:#Spring 2018
Alone
ALONE: written after stopping by a sculpture of this retriever, that was hidden in the bramble bushes along a path at the Buttermilk Inn in Milton, NY. It reminded me of my grandsons’ beloved golden retrievers, Bogie and Madison.
A ncient wisdom from his ink black eyes,
L ofty stature speaks without a sound,
O nly scarcely seen, as brambles do disguise,
N ever ceasing to protect his ground,
E ver keeping watch, loyalty unbound.
photo Friday; #alone
Beyond the Blind
Cliff rises, shear and sharply, up from earth,
O’er glacier lake so still and icy sheen,
whilst whistling winds, faint whisper of new birth,
Alive and teeming, wild, beyond tree-green.
There, Wolf’s demeanor, practiced, hiding girth,
With patience practiced (spy his piercing eyes),
Cajoling, mean, inspiring cringe (not mirth),
His presence poised to pounce; his prey’s demise.
Why heap such fear, it’s surely not his size,
But rather, it’s his cunning, quiet, still,
that lures, entraps; so if we’re called, be wise!
Close and latch the doors and window sills.
He’s awesome, not a blight, he and his kind,
Small miracles live large, beyond our blind.
The Gift
Now stormy days subside, suspended sense
inevitable silence, once the winds abate,
As snow melts deep beneath the thaw-starved dense,
and branch-strewn turf, I breath a sigh and wait.
What am I waiting for? A wiped-clean slate,
As Mother Earth, from sunlight, bright, restored,
And all life great and small can germinate,
Each small-fry seedling strains to pierce the sod.
Can innocence charge forth where guilt has trod?
Can once-marred sands, by sweeping waves be saved?
Can drafts from distant stars affect seedpods?
The world return to manners, pure and brave?
We’re wired, each uniquely, each untamed,
The gift is ours to treasure or defame.
https://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com
Happy Birthday, Lenny!
Today, after a season of rehearsals and an especially tricky rehearsal schedule (thanks to Mother Nature and several Nor’easters that descended upon our area) we in the Masterwork Chorus, under the direction of Chris Shepard, are primed to wish Leonard Bernstein a Happy 100th Birthday, by presenting selections from his vast catalogue of diverse works.
I am always nervous with anticipation on the day of a performance, and with music firmly embedded in my brain, I hang my choral dress on the bedroom hook, buff my black shoes, and ensure that my music is place, in proper concert order, in my black folder.
I invite you to share in the concert and the post-performance “Birthday” celebration. Enjoy!
Click Bernstein Centenary Celebration for tickets.
Blurred Images
While in Alexandria a few weekends ago, I snapped this photo with my iPhone, through the rain-slicked window of a moving bus. I almost discarded this frame, until I looked beyond the droplets, to the hustling bustling masses descending from the King Street Station in the downpour, to waiting transportation. Each person had somewhere to go, somewhere to be and for some, nowhere they would rather be. The poem that follows, attempts to convey the notion that though raindrops may drench the foreground, the background tells the real story.
Written for “A Face in The Crowd”, the Weekly Photo Challenge.
Rain, on cold, grey mornings, moves and stirs,
Pervades my psyche, shakes the paradigm,
Rain, distorts and warps, illuminates and blurs.
I faced the day ahead, no plan preferred,
As window water droplets framed the rhyme,
Rain, on cold grey mornings, moved and stirred.
Without intending, glanced beyond my tears,
And taking notice of the bustling times,
Rain, distorts and warps, illuminates and blurs.
The station just outside – Mesdames et Messieurs,
All hurrying about, despite the clime,
Rain, on cold, grey mornings, moves and stirs.
Busses, trams and taxis, fares transferred
from metro DC train, as trolly chimed
Rain, distorts and warps, illuminates and blurs.
Between the droplets, vision reoccurs,
A gay melange, cacophony sublime,
Rain, on cold, grey mornings, moves and stirs,
Rain, distorts and warps, illuminates and blurs.
PAT-TERN
I softly fold it, setting it aside,
A moment more to tag (To…From…),
A crocheted throw, (another one?) indeed,
But this was for the young man he’s become.
No more the baby blues of soft layettes,
No more the booties, hats and mitten sets,
No more the teddy bears so neatly pressed
on play-togs, made for finding birdies’ nests.
This time I chose the colors of his team,
This time he’ll toss it, near his new earplugs,
On tip-toes now, to see his eyes agleam,
His arms atop my shoulders, as he hugs.
I’ll never cease the knitting and crochet,
I make these gifts to grace his “Aidan’s Place”,
So, baby books of patterns stowed away,
While folios of afghans take their place.
Wistful, toddler years have flown away,
My love for him grows stronger with each day,
This tall, young man has deftly taught me how
to be a grandma, with his winning ways.
This sonnet-like poem commemorates my #1 grandson’s 15th birthday. I’d spent most of the weekend (and trip to DC) finishing this afghan: a simple pattern, nested from the center and working outward, each round adding to the one before, as the square grows larger and larger – like my love for my grandson grows day by day, year by year; building on the year before and increasing with each repeat. Finally, I finished the never-ending edge, just in time to present it to him. He loved it, just as he loves his Patriots, even when they don’t win, unconditionally!
Photo Friday #pattern
Home (Revisited)
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.
Weekly Photo Challenge:Tour Guide
I repost this today (originally published in September of 2012), in response to the Weekly Photo Challenge. 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.
Invitation
Come with me across the bridge! We’ve time,
On mainland shore we linger and opine,
A picnic just for two, we’ve brought the wine,
A solitary respite, sure we’ll find,
And then, perhaps, I’ll ask you to “be mine”,
Come, take my hand, across the bridge we’ll climb.
Photo Friday: #Bridge
Happy Birthday, Bandit!
This irresistible face is matched only by his exuberant personality. Bandit, is indeed, beloved!
Weekly photo challenge: Beloved…This week, share a photo of something that is dearly loved.
Subjective Perspective
The point of one’s perspective may be blind,
(I mused) when spying gay-adorned displays,
For deep within the recess of my mind,
The mimeographed script again replayed.
We children, both, role-playing on that day
so long ago, he was the soldier boy,
And I, a mere rag doll, in tattered frays,
While others dressed as pretty, French doll-toys.
And white-beard judge at midnight would employ
A list of traits, against which we’d all vie,
Rag Doll knew she’d neither flirt nor cloy,
And when the prize announced, she’d just stand by.
Her prize instead was gift from heaven blest,
He chose her hand, she won his heart instead.
Daily Post Weekly Photo Challenge: Variations on a Theme
This holiday display, reminded me of that day long ago, when practicing for a 4th grade Christmas play, we read our lines from the mimeographed script that Sister had prepared for us.
I was given the part of the “Rag Doll” (presumably because of my red hair) and he was the tall and handsome “Chauffeur”. We were inanimate dolls who came to life on Christmas Eve, at the stroke of midnight: waiting for Santa to arrive. Rag Doll knew she’d never win the beauty contest, standing next to all the pretty “French” dolls. Then he came to her rescue and beautifully uttered his line: “…if I were the judge you would!”, instantly winning her heart.
Last August, we celebrated our 50th wedding anniversary.
The Morning After
I woke up this morning and the first thought that crossed my mind was “It’s over”! The many weeks spent in preparation, rehearsal and anticipation, mixed with a healthy pinch of performance anxiety, had come to a satisfying conclusion.
Yesterday’s Choral Art Society concert (under the direction of Martin A. Sedek) was an artistic success and, as always after my concerts, today I’ll carefully remove the music from my black folder and file the scores away for another day (for these pieces deserve to be reprieved). Concert garb will be carefully cleaned and hung in the closet, until the next ‘event’.
Today, there will be the anticlimactic drop in my spirits that usually accompanies the conclusion of a performance; but this time, because I had the privilege of being the Soprano in the Palestrina, Missa Brevis, Benedictus trio, I am particularly pleased. I’m grateful for having had the opportunity to grow (as a vocalist with a passion for music) and pleased that I was able to rise to this welcomed challenge.
Tomorrow, I’ll insert, into my folder, the new pieces currently in preparation with the The Masterwork Chorus (under the direction of Chris Shepard) the music of Leonard Bernstein; quite a change from Palestrina, Monteverdi and Durufle, but reflecting genius, none the less.
It’s all good and I’m ever thankful for the gift of music, and my faithful husband (the world’s best groupie) who sits for hours in empty churches and venue parking lots and, of course, every concert in which I sing; who, on every concert day, presents me with flowers, candy and cannolis. This time, it was a single rose in honor of my “featured” performance.
Truly, it’s all good!
Lighthouse in the Mist, Cape May, NJ
Bandit
Festive View from the Pub, Peddler’s Village – Lahaska, PA.
Home Sweet Home
Opal Reflections 