The Second First Poem

Long ago, the first poem was put forth on Carmina. Many, many decades have passed (all right, maybe a little more than a year) and many things changed. My poems have changed; I'm sure Camille's have as well. A delightful new member has joined our adventure. It's our hope that things will be more exciting (certainly more active) around here.

Thus we begin.

I, Allison, wrote this several months ago and, not able to arrange it all perfectly to my satisfaction, I stuck it away in a file and forgot about it. Later, and more recently, I got over the imperfect lines and stuck it on my personal blog, where it was well received by an extremely small audience. With perfect timing came the re-starting of Carmina. So, here you are. Feel free to throw in title suggestions (or any other remarks) in the comments.

A pale sphere hangs in star-flecked night

An incandescent sapphire light

Hung by an unseen silken strand

Held by an unseen steady hand

Never swerving, ever true

Swirled by clouds of white and blue

Finer gears than any clock

Finer pins than any lock

They ever turn behind sight’s veil

Steadying a perfect scale

Every motion aptly made

Not a balance ever swayed

This sapphire hangs detached, alone

Rarely thought but ever known

Whirling, yet serenely still

Bustling, silent, thriving, chill

Who could form this cloud-swirled ball

Its workings, orchestrate them all

What man could hang it by its line

Its flawless midnight course align

What hand could bear its unthought weight

Or dare to hold the threads of fate

How could a humble man believe

That chance perfection could achieve

How dare the ones beneath the sky

Convince themselves of such a lie

A silent sapphire screams the truth

Look anywhere and see the proof

And still we turn our heads away

Refuse to hear the words they say

The heavens never hide their dance

We’ve eyes to see the night’s expanse

To gaze and see what has been made

A Maker’s glory is displayed

Can we deny this perfect jewel

Is under high and perfect rule

There it hangs for all to see

Accusing us eternally.

Allison Young, 2013

That's Beautiful

When I come across an iris on my walk across the grass,
when a rose catches my vision with its brightness as I pass,
that's beautiful.


When I sit down with biology and finally get it done,
when my math sticks in my brain and it's somewhere close to fun,
that's beautiful.


When I groan about the morning, then realize it's Saturday,
when I complain about tomorrow, then remember yesterday,
that's beautiful.


When I'm crying and my glasses keep on getting in the way,
when someone's throwing up and the sky is gloomy gray,
when my skirt is ripped, my drink is spilled and much to my dismay
I'm irritated at my siblings, who just won't go away,


That's ... beautiful?


My tears will dry, the sickness ease, the sun will shine again
I'll mend my skirt and wipe the wet and won't I realize then
these troubles are so very small, and even were they not,
God's grace is on and in me, and His will He has well wrought.


And that's beautiful.


Allison Young, 2012

Bubbles

This is a conglomeration of thoughts and happenings of various spring afternoons of my life, and proof that being a big sister is worthwhile.

Bubbles

Blowing bubbles on the porch ...
Ava! Where do you think you're going?
Little darling.
Chasing circles of rainbow light,
my camera never quite catching them ...
a blur here,
a gust there,
and why do they always vanish as soon as I click the button?
Putting the camera down, scooping Ava up
and blowing a slow bubble.
Angie squeals at the size,
Ava reaches and daintily pops it with her baby-finger,
and laughs.
Grinning back, sitting down on the step
getting chalk on my jeans ...
She squirms out of my lap and points to a ladybug 
in excitement.
Bright black dots on shiny red ...
as Angie blows bubbles that float up
and are lost in so much sky.


Allison Young, 2012

The Grandmother

 Please excuse our mutual lack of postings last week. We were clobbered by life.

The Grandmother

Why, hello, dear! Are you all right?

No room for weariness tonight.

How would you like to rest with me

and watch them all dance merrily?

I’ll tell you something you won’t believe.

(My dear, you’ve crumbs upon your sleeve.)

I was once a bright young girl

who joined the dancers in their whirl

of silks, of laces, of perfumes

and glittered, flashing feather-plumes…

now, don’t you laugh, my graceful dear!

I’d say, ‘It’s getting warm in here,’

to make my partner look aghast

and soon suggest a slight repast.

I’d laugh and let him give me cake

and happily his heart I’d break.

My dear, don’t be as I once was;

when you dance, and when you pause,

be kind to those who give you cake

and don’t delight in what is fake.

Now, off you go, miss mademoiselle—

yes, of course, you look quite well.

Ah, what a sight she is out there,

with happy eyes and flying hair!

I hope she has with pleasure learned

the lesson I so badly earned.

If I have helped her just this time,

the trade of my own youthful prime

will be well worth these silver locks

and all the hours of all the clocks.

Allison Young, 2012

Lessons from a Bee

I, Allison Young, am pleased to bring you Carmina's very first post. We are now officially commencing our weekly poems! For most of you, this is your first time to visit, so please explore! There's not much to see yet, but read all about us and link back if you like what you read.


And now for the first poem.

Lessons from a Bee


Walking by an apple tree, 

I came upon a honey bee.

She rubbed her legs and flicked her wings

with the charm of all small things,

then drank the nectar of a bloom

within its airy petal-room.

I bent and watched, beneath the tree,

my happy black and yellow bee,

until she fell up to the air

and floated off without a care.

I thought about her for a while,

wand’ring down a grassy aisle.

I should have pondered on my ills—
on burning hearts and clashing wills;

yet I could not rid my mind

of this small bee and of her kind.

If I could be as meek as they,

I’d drink from flowers every day;

and men perhaps would learn from me

what I’ve learned from this little bee.

Allison Young, 2012