Poetry

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Bird In Flight

Flying high,
A soprano in disguise,
Soaring,
She flew, a proud bird.

Winged arms waved in salute,
In tribute,
In prayer,
Humble homage
Paid to the heavens.

Higher, higher, higher
She flew, a brown-eyed bird on a swing,
Soaring,
High up to God’s playground.

She was five,
Free,
Fearless,
The wind in song, softly stinging her face.

She was awake,
Alive,
Anew,
Soaring.

Honeyed-hair tangled
In the warm wind,
The tree tops,
High about the ground.

She was the earth child,
The queen mother,
The alpha,
And the omega,
Soaring,
The universe under her silent command.

The treetops, blistered by the sun’s hot breath,
The sky branded forever blue,
Bigger than Montana,
The white powdered clouds
That hung within her reach,
All to her liking.

And for a moment, one glorious instant
On a hot afternoon in June,
Soaring,
Steam rising from the brown earth below her feet,
She was five again.

Sun-drenched hair in braids,
Flying, a golden tail behind her.
On the playground,
Her universe,
God’s answer.

Lisa G. Froman

America the Beautiful

Prisoners patrol this patch of highway in herds,
Picking up cola cans and cigarette butts
Tossed from speeding Fords and Lincolns.
It’s all part of the landscape,
Here in America, the Beautiful.

Suited in ugly orange,
They’re hard to ignore,
Even in technicolor.
But we’ll try anyway, Mother,drive on.
This is America, the Beautiful.

But the wild-eyed patrol,
Still litter the highway.
Bitter-eyed and black-balled,
They’re invisible in open ditches,
Sick from fumes from passerby’s,
Intoxicated
By the scent of life without walls,
Here in America, the Beautiful,
Home of the free.

Run, rabbit, run, the silent mantra of all,
But take two steps to the left
And the green Chevy might hold the answer.
So most yield to a practical fate–
And to oncoming traffic,
Tamed to life
Bound by walls.
What’s my motivation, they ask?
It’s not so bad,
Not so bad.
It’s a habit now,
Here in America, the Beautiful.

Lisa G. Froman

The End of Day

At the end of the day,
The sun, alone in the faded sky,
Surrenders its radiant power,
Its warm eye,
Its life force,
To its bright-eyed sister,
To be overshadowed
By the purity of her gilded kingdom;
The night stars,
The lucid light,
The brilliant glow
Of a far-away frontier.
She was a sorceress, a seductress, a night nymph,
This mystical morphemic moon,
Framed by the dark sky,
The white light of scattered stars.
Oh how he hated his nighttime rival, his own sibling;
He hated the pale glow of her soothing face,
That ever-changing face,
Its light soft, yet strong enough to inspire
Poets and lovers of all sorts.
He could hear her honeyed voice as night approached,
Like a lullaby it sang out to him with undisguised glee,
“Behold the glory of my light!”
And so, with a jealous eye,
He settled into his dark, cold, wretched spot,
Alone, but only for the night,
Knowing he would reign again in tomorrow’s light.

She watched the faded flickering light turn into shadows,
Spent and gloryless,
Succumb to God’s universe,
To nature, to its proper end,
Dying,
As darkness overcame it.
Finally, it was her turn to shine,
To take shape, to be alone in the black sky that was her stage,
The universe now to be humbled by her glory.
Her brother got too much attention she thought;
Too much depended on his fickle will,
His power, his whim of heart.
“Shall I come out today? she would hear him ask scornfully,
“Or play peek-a-boo once again behind the gray clouds?”
Games to illustrate his power, she thought,
Before illuminating the sky with his pulsating, vibrating rays of light,
His solar smile.
Oh, he was a temperamental one,
No routine, he could come out and play,
Always at will, on center stage,
Bright and beaming like majesty,
So grand, so powerful none was privileged
To even look him directly in the eye;
Always the arrogant big brother,
Stealing her day.

Lisa G. Froman

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