stones in the web - A Selection of Poetry

		by: James Robert Snyder
RETURN TO THE: Site Contents		CONTENTS: Sorcery Northern Lights Bump and Thump in the Night - for my daughters. Transit The Prayer Most Easily Answered - in memory of Aunt Lois. Hen Pecked Four Quatrains Just By Chance Concreation Dedication An Explaination: of the Frost comment.
RETURN TO THE: Site Contents RETURN TO THE: Poetry Contents		Sorcery A wizardly oak waves his wand at the wind To conjure a cloak, a deep chill to suspend; It appears out of nowhere, a shower of white That shines in the moon's crystal ball glowing light Like a dusting of diamonds, or sprinkling of stars, Or powders poured out of old alchemy jars. As the sun steps through time to equate night and day, The wizard waves twice, and the cloak fades away; By enchantment transformed to a mantle of green That springs from his fingers, and spreads out between. With lichens for slippers on carpets of moss, In magical realms that we too seldom cross, He moves through the ages while casting his spell For the children to notice, and poets to tell. Previously published in "Reflect" magazine, Spring 1994.
RETURN TO THE: Site Contents RETURN TO THE: Poetry Contents		Northern Lights Surprised by Borealis, By how brief his patterns last; By the swishing of her satins As Aurora wanders past; By remarkably how little Of what's real fits on the page; By gestalts of solar ions Pacing Earth's magnetic cage, Like a waltz of watercolors That are smudged by midnight rain, Or reflections in a puddle's Oily film of shifting stain; By this awesome silent wonder That no photograph can frame; I'm reminded just how rarely That things ever stay the same. Previously published in "Amelia" magazine volume #26, 1994.
RETURN TO THE: Site Contents RETURN TO THE: Poetry Contents		Bump and Thump in the Night for Kirstin and Erin Bump and Thump live under my bed, And play while I'm asleep. They wander through my room at night, And what they find they keep. Each morning when I look for them I can't see where they went; They must be made of kitten hair, And bits of dust and lint. They scare my little sister so She shakes in bed with fear, But Bump and Thump are not so brave - They never do appear. They just make noises in the dark That sound like creaking doors, Or windy sounds like swoosh and swish While sliding 'cross the floors. Previously published in "The Acorn" magazine, August 1994.
RETURN TO THE: Site Contents RETURN TO THE: Poetry Contents		Transit The uneven quilt squares of Summer are gone, Their green all exploded, their ash on the lawn - Like jumbles of jigsaws that never were made One side full of colors, one just a brown shade - And over it all drifts an ocean of snow With bare masts above, and near-death down below. Buds wait in their hulls, until Life can renew Its vigorous splashing of colors onto A limitless canvas of unpainted white, They rest on the waves of the frost and the night. Then Spring, like the port that will welcome them home, Relieves all the stress of the cold and the foam; And leaves rejoice loudly like shouts from a pier, "The uneven quilt squares of Summer are here!" Previously published in "Reflect" magazine, Spring 1994.
RETURN TO THE: Site Contents RETURN TO THE: Poetry Contents		The Prayer Most Easily Answered In memory of my aunt: Lois Elizabeth (Anderson) Johnson When my flesh lies weak and broken, When the pain becomes too much, Then I pray to have my Father Come and soothe me with His touch; That He let my body slumber, And my soul know peace sublime, That my wants may be His wishes, For only He may choose the time - When His fingers close my eylids To shut out whatever harms, And He carries me to Heaven Cradled in His loving arms. Previously published in "The Minden Courier" newspaper, Minden, Nebraska, June 28, 1994.
RETURN TO THE: Site Contents RETURN TO THE: Poetry Contents		Hen Pecked "Wash the dishes, scrub the floors," That's what my lovely wife implores! While she thinks of other things I'm tied to my own apron strings. "Nano-seconds, do it now!" And I'm required to stoop and bow; "Do not whimper, do not pout, Just rinse this dirty diaper out, And when you're done come kill this bug, And don't get polish on my rug!" For all my labor and my time She lets me up in a downward climb; Still I love her (this is true) And yet I wonder, "Am I through?"
RETURN TO THE: Site Contents RETURN TO THE: Poetry Contents		It Was Just a Yellow Leaf The way it fluttered in the wind, Ignoring gravitation's bend Of time and space as it flew by, It could have been a butterfly. Gone The dream, too intense, (Like) a cat rose up - Stretched the tension out And softly slipped away. Snow There is within a snowflake something awf'lly rare, A drop of velvet water, spawned in icy air; Patterned after wonder, but never two a pair, Yet gathered rather common in likenesses they share. Where's the Water? Webbed-footed, cold, on a wind polished plane, Pendulum-necked - look, looking again, Slow to respond to a call from the south, Two geese search in vain, their "honks" freeze in their mouths.
RETURN TO THE: Site Contents RETURN TO THE: Poetry Contents		Just By Chance My mind was looking inward As my soul was looking out; Just by chance they saw each other, What they saw without a doubt Was a universe of splendor, Not obliged to any law, Rather, patterned after wonder And diversified by awe - Like the presence of a flower That no human eye will see, Where its blooming never noticed, Yet, affects all destiny; Like two trees, at "peak", one autumn That amazed my Mom and I In a hyper-natural instant Which transcended asking, "why?"; Like the seamless reaching ocean Underneath a starry sky, When I shrank almost to nothing, And its beauty made me cry; Just by chance - their glances meeting, What is felt, and what is known, Has created understanding Which exists, but can't be shown.
RETURN TO THE: Site Contents RETURN TO THE: Poetry Contents		Concreation Like a young boy untouched By what he can't do, Who discovers the world While retying his shoe, He picks up a stone; Holds it up to his eye; Sees it now as a planet He's plucked from the sky. He imagines some seas, And breathes on some air; Pretends grass and trees, And some animals there. He adds a few people To see what he's done. He believes it's all good; Holds it up to the sun; And with confident hope, That his world will not die, Like a pitcher rears back And lets the stone fly.
RETURN TO THE: Site Contents RETURN TO THE: Poetry Contents		Dedication Yet when these pages are tattered and torn, - And lay on dusty shelves through eons worn, - May they slowly dry and crumble, lost in time, To build a thicker mat of fertile dust From which will spring a newer, fresher rhyme, A far more glorious and deeper trust Between the man who writes his thoughts in verse, And He, who created the universe. Previously published in part in Images, Iliad Press, 1990.
RETURN TO THE: Site Contents RETURN TO THE: Poetry Contents		Explanation "...Robert Frost ... said he would rather play tennis without a net than compose free verse. Ever since, some people have seized on that analogy to argue that free verse really isn't poetry. That's not the case, and that's not what Frost meant. In an interview on Meet the Press, he elaborated on the remark. Asked why he took so many images and metaphors from the world of games, Frost replied, "I don't think anyone could think right in this world who didn't play games sometime in his life. I'd as soon write free verse as play tennis with the net down..." The Art and Craft of Poetry, Michael J. Bugeja, Writer's Digest Books, Cincinnati, Ohio, 1994, page 270.
		©1997 Snyder Web Productions snyderweb@nti.net Jim Snyder, Websmith These are the touch-stones in the web of my life.