Turnwhipple! (A Blog)

She is so wise, I wish I knew her.
I talk to her but she speaks too softly to hear.
What she has seen in her lifetime is indescribable.
I touch her, but she is cold like the air.

Looking at her I am deeply saddened,
Because nobody has taken care of her.
Even though she is humble as stone,
And warmed those around her with love.

What a journey she has made in her lifetime!
Uprooted from her home across the ocean,
She traveled thousands of miles
And never complained, until now.

With all the grace of her creator,
She displays the elegance of the past.
She remembers the days of medieval hearth,
And will tell her tales to anyone who looks her way.

She will tell you stories of birds,
And mystical tales of leaves and vines
Columns and crowns and everything you thought
She would never be able to tell you.

Look at her, and you will see
The things she has seen and you will understand
The life she has led and the story she tells
Ad you will be amazed at what you see.

Because without love she withers
She looks out into a room so empty
And so beautiful, and so neglected
That even the plaster falls from the ceiling.

Her best friend was never far from her
And she will tell you stories too.
They look at each other with kindly eyes,
And though from different worlds, they are the same.

But her light is finally fading now.
Time has worn her through.
Her friend is suffering just as badly,
Even with angels on her side.

The ceiling weeps tears of rain,
Each drop echoing in this cavernous chamber,
While a pool of water glimmers on the floor
And shivers because it doesn’t belong there.

She looks into the water and remembers
When she has a view of the ocean
Because the trees were only little saplings then,
Instead of the majestic wonders time has made them.

She looks into the water and remembers
When daily breakfasts were served here.
She remembers the billiard room it once was, too.
And now he sees a wasteland of decay.

The gray sky is her bleak future.
Why would anyone let her beauty be lost?
All that she has loved was taken from her.
Soon her tears will extinguish her last fire.

M.K. June 4, 2003

I hear the sound of nothing ringing
Except the line of passing car
And though I sit so still at this moment
I am nothing, and all is lost.

My nose is there and my fingers weak
Sting my eyes, a pain in my jaw
A sore in my mouth and numb hands
Where am I going? Footsteps, doors below.

Sleepiness is where I am now.
Awake am I no more.
Into the vast wasteland of dreams,
A green field, the blue shore.

Clothing I bought now sits on my bed,
Setting sun and pink-blue sky.
Headache is all I know
And the tingle in my nose.

M.K. April 2003

Complete serenity is accompanied by violes–
While the evening sun streams into the windows,
And across the desk upon my hand,
Warming it.
The lute plays now, and the lilacs wilt nearby, softly,
Though still their scent
Lies in the air.
And there is Peace.
The sun, so concentrated on my belongings–
On the cup
And the picture frame,
Highlights every speck of dust reminding me
That I must clean.
What life have I where this is
Real–
Real enough to write about, yet
Unreal–
Unreal enough to understand.
So I continue,
The sun keeps its warmth in the air
As the lilacs,
On my hand
As it was,
And the violes play on.

M.K. May 19, 2003

How mists of fog like pulsing waves
Lay far below upon the sea
And shroud with vengeance, gray and grave
A rusted lighthouse silently.

Like hills, soft hills, that ripple on
And on and on,
And on and on,
The swirling, heaving fog did claim
The rusted lighthouse silently.

The storm grew fierce and bright the light–
A Fresnel hope, the weary beam,
The jeweled torch, the Northern star,
Heard rusting lighthouse silently.

A captain’s call on creaking wood
To save the ship,
To save the ship,
Could scarce be heard through thick’ning wind
Saw rusting lighthouse silently.

And though not seen by those scared men,
Thank God above; but then the sea
Sent soaring wave to lay its claim
Wept rusting lighthouse silently.

And though no more are voices heard,
No single sound save gulls at sea,
The ocean plays its sunken tune,
While rusts the lighthouse silently.

M.K. March 2003

Hush, ’tis dusk here
Come away from worries.
Leave those tantalizing jewels of uncertainty
And find a place for quiet now.

Here things to begin to end.
With brilliant colors sets the sun
The festival reds and sorbet yellows…
Yes, dusk is beginning to cast its spell.

Shh…in the distance…an insect’s violin–
Hear it! Now there are many more.
The setting sun cues this invisible symphony
The orchestra plays its well known tune.

The water, once blue, then green,
Now dark, soon black.
Splash, splash, spilled the water,
Echoing laughter fills the air with a loud silence.

A filled stomach, a sumptuous dinner gone.
Sitting on the wicker chair, rocking, listening,
Watching the moon victorious over sun
Claim its spot in the evening sky.

Ah, ’tis dusk that weaves a spell like this,
Magical muse come and play,
Here is your Eden, leave your worries behind,
Let them be with the dying sun.

M.K. June 9, 2002

Ice.
Blue.
What do we think about when we think of cold?
The steam from our breath?
Shallow despair?
A turned shoulder?
An evil stare?
Perhaps cold is more than ice.
A drafty window,
the frosted glass,
the smell of snow,
the freezing grass.
The longing for a blanket–
the fire’s died,
the barren trees,
the snowing sky?
What is cold that we all should feel?
The arctic world is so surreal.
Yet then again, it seems so real,
in the Ice?
In the Blue?
It thrives in the palaces of insufficient warmth
and delves into the places it needs to be;
Without concern,
not without contempt,
it shakes and stirs and
Belittles
–plays it game,
it wins, victorious,
for though the heat may make its claim,
the arctic lands
are still the same.

M.K. June 10, 2002

Miss Lucy stood with poise and grace.
But then she fell flat on her face.

The manor house was full of guests
Who Percy called “a bunch of pests!”

Lynn’s prize goat, the first-place winner,
Served up quite a tasty dinner.