Comfort Them with Stories

Comfort them with stories
of once upon a time
where wicked witches
melt in water
and runaways
find happiness.

Lull them with softer lullabies
of babies rocking in the trees
where breezes there are gentle
and infants do not fall.

Riddle them a rhyme
where a poor woman
living in a shoe
with many needy children
can feed and watch them all.

Use caring enchantments
to shield them for a time
for dangers in non-fiction
will soon enough appear.

Bonnie Marshall

grand old flag

grand old flag

old glory
star-spangled banner
stars and stripes
in need of conservation
its fabric weakens
though not everywhere
patches here and there
some places show fading
borders tear
gaps open between stripes
a few stars dim to shadow
smell of encroaching mildew
permeates the air
yet it’s a grand old flag
it’s a high-flying flag
keep your eye on
the grand old flag

Bonnie Marshall

Ascension

Ascension

“I’m starting now,”
announced to herself
more than to others,
she escapes upward
into a free climb
of verticality.

The motions of her ascent
are Tai Chi against the sheerness,
as she surrounds herself
with presence in the moment.
See the line…see two moves.
See the line…see two moves.

Bones…more than muscle…
elevate her body higher
equilibrium and balance
of chalk-caked fingers
in narrow fissures
and brief toe thrusts
against stone sills.

Steady rising… minutes blend
time-stilled into hours…
where granite…mottled gray,
faint smell of concrete-after-rain,
crystal flecked, sun warmed,
has become her ally.

Then letdown at the summit
for joy is in ascension
and not in the acceptance of
“It’s ended now.”

Bonnie Marshall

Crayola Pathways

 

She felt strange perceptions
when she touched old crayons
from her childhood.
Lettering…strong and bright
on the battered box…
crossed sensations
in a most unusual way.

A 6 emerged timberwolf gray,
and 4 was antique brass.
The C flipped greasy salmon pink,
while R throbbed auro metal saurus.
A spun electric blue in circles,
and bitter Y stretched inchworm green.
O smoked acrid burnt sienna,
while N dripped arsenic black.
Then S slid hissing into silver.

She blinked her eyes.
The crossed sensations faded.
It could mean migraine onset …
hereditary in her family…
or imagination tricked
back to remembered pathways.

Bonnie Marshall

We Shall Gather at the Seashore

We Shall Gather at the Seashore

At first he seemed a divine
blessing the low tide
back and forth with a metal detector
braced upon his arm.
With beeps and pops and whistles
it guided him to castaways.
Then bending on one knee
he sieved mostly pennies…quarters
some crosses lost from necklaces.
The pouch around his waist
had three pockets
one for trash to be discarded later…
keys, bottle caps, false teeth
one for coins…
sandy and salt eroded
one for rare finds…
such as engagement rings
and a medallion on a thick gold chain.
Solitary upon that shore
he took the collection
of a careless congregation.

Bonnie Marshall