(Originally posted on LiveJournal)
So, I was going through some more papers in preparation of either putting them in an accessible file, or boxing them up to go to the storage unit. This particular collection turned out to date from when I was in grad school. And amongst them were a couple of poetry fragments.
The first one here, I don’t know what I was intending to do with it. It seems to have been heading somewhere. But all that’s there now is the imagery. And I had to laugh as “high-piled clouds” is something of a private cliche for me – it crops up in my writing from time to time. Heh.
It doesn’t have a title attached to it, though —-
From waking sunlit hours of childhood’s days
Where breezes held a secret —
No idle or imagined comfort-friend,
But rather the Lord racing with my play–
From days of sighting high-piled mounds of clouds,
Their builded whiteness flaming with the sun,
and fingers of that glory shot to earth,
falling through the shadows of the sky-thrones –
for there, in fancy, I would seat the Lord,
his feet upon the clouds, his face behind the sun-
From winter’s snow-falls in the night
the midnight blue and silver a cloak upon the world
And silence swept the rounded snow-clad shapes….
FRIVOLOUS FRIDAY VERSE
Of all the trials of our times
the worst are Friday’s final hours,
when each dull moment drags its feet,
reluctant to approach the end.
And we who travel on time’s stream
are prisoners of its sluggish flow,
so fellow filers in this boat
pass the supplies and let’s get low.
(I was supervising some clerical workers at the time, hence the “filers” reference.
Not perfect — “filers” in a “boat”… and “let’s get low”? What was I thinking with that?
Still, amusing to run across ancient fragments.
