Mother, Dear
I want to tell you
the lilies all bloomed
late this year
but you are not here,
not here
and nothing is left for me
but echoes and shadows
I want to show you
where a bird has nested
in the mouth of the sun
but you are not here,
not here
and nothing is left for me
but your echo, your shadow
I want to ask you
if you are the white butterfly
that flutters across the garden each afternoon?
or the mysterious repeating numbers on the digital clock?
are you 11:11 or 5:55? Are you 3:33?
Is there anything out there
beyond the echoes and shadows?
Are you there?
Are you there?
Speaking Volumes
There it is on the shelf across the room –
the familiar spine, the still-gilded edge,
tucked neatly amongst the others,
waiting quietly.
What a comfort you are! So much
like love! How often have I held you,
all those remembered emotions returning
with each turning of a page…
We each have one we cherish - for some
it’s always a romance – a dramatic, sweeping saga
rife with stormy vistas and infinite longing.
Maybe it’s an atlas of the world, brimming
with brightly tinted adventures and whistle-stops,
road trips to be caringly plotted - a journey, a voyage.
A treasured volume of prayer might be favored,
devotions, hymns and calming chants, or maybe
one filled with exotic invocations and mysteries.
For me, it’s poetry. Where each new contemplation
reveals fresh insight or a concept to ponder.
Timeless vernacular. Enduring ideals. Introspection.
Always sensitive to flame and flood,
impervious to little,
delicate, precious, irreplaceable,
one-of-a-kind, each is a rare find.
And if you wonder if
it is of books or of love that I write –
you are right.
Bonaventure Cemetery, Savannah
Shafts of diffused sunlight
slant through the October magnolias,
standing green and still in the autumn heat.
Massive oaks, their arms moss-draped,
reach out to enfold each spirit sleeping here,
beneath cold marble and moist earth.
Monuments of cloud drift silently and slow
over crypts and graves of soldiers and babes –
of the famous, the notorious, the unknown.
The hushed wings of pale yellow butterflies
open and close on upturned faces of angels.
A solitary cardinal - crimson as a blood drop –
appears suddenly, then is gone.
Between deep rows of palmetto and pine
the loved ones, still living,
return to this place of quiet peace.
They gently place pebbles
and tiny acorns
on slabs of hard granite.
They rake the earth.
They remember.
Deborah Wenzler has lived on a quiet, pine-studded acre south of Carmel, California, since age 5. Nurtured by nature and love, she has become a writer, an editor, and chef, energizing each endeavor with her own brand of creativity.
Deborah’s poems were included in the 2020 anthology, Second Wind, Words & Art of Hope & Resilience. Her poems have also appeared in The Atlanta Review, Song of the San Joaquin, and Immagine & Poesia’s Poets and Artists Around the World. In 2019, Deborah published Book I of her poetic trilogy titled, Well Beyond the Water. She has plans for Book II in 2021.
I want to tell you
the lilies all bloomed
late this year
but you are not here,
not here
and nothing is left for me
but echoes and shadows
I want to show you
where a bird has nested
in the mouth of the sun
but you are not here,
not here
and nothing is left for me
but your echo, your shadow
I want to ask you
if you are the white butterfly
that flutters across the garden each afternoon?
or the mysterious repeating numbers on the digital clock?
are you 11:11 or 5:55? Are you 3:33?
Is there anything out there
beyond the echoes and shadows?
Are you there?
Are you there?
Speaking Volumes
There it is on the shelf across the room –
the familiar spine, the still-gilded edge,
tucked neatly amongst the others,
waiting quietly.
What a comfort you are! So much
like love! How often have I held you,
all those remembered emotions returning
with each turning of a page…
We each have one we cherish - for some
it’s always a romance – a dramatic, sweeping saga
rife with stormy vistas and infinite longing.
Maybe it’s an atlas of the world, brimming
with brightly tinted adventures and whistle-stops,
road trips to be caringly plotted - a journey, a voyage.
A treasured volume of prayer might be favored,
devotions, hymns and calming chants, or maybe
one filled with exotic invocations and mysteries.
For me, it’s poetry. Where each new contemplation
reveals fresh insight or a concept to ponder.
Timeless vernacular. Enduring ideals. Introspection.
Always sensitive to flame and flood,
impervious to little,
delicate, precious, irreplaceable,
one-of-a-kind, each is a rare find.
And if you wonder if
it is of books or of love that I write –
you are right.
Bonaventure Cemetery, Savannah
Shafts of diffused sunlight
slant through the October magnolias,
standing green and still in the autumn heat.
Massive oaks, their arms moss-draped,
reach out to enfold each spirit sleeping here,
beneath cold marble and moist earth.
Monuments of cloud drift silently and slow
over crypts and graves of soldiers and babes –
of the famous, the notorious, the unknown.
The hushed wings of pale yellow butterflies
open and close on upturned faces of angels.
A solitary cardinal - crimson as a blood drop –
appears suddenly, then is gone.
Between deep rows of palmetto and pine
the loved ones, still living,
return to this place of quiet peace.
They gently place pebbles
and tiny acorns
on slabs of hard granite.
They rake the earth.
They remember.
Deborah Wenzler has lived on a quiet, pine-studded acre south of Carmel, California, since age 5. Nurtured by nature and love, she has become a writer, an editor, and chef, energizing each endeavor with her own brand of creativity.
Deborah’s poems were included in the 2020 anthology, Second Wind, Words & Art of Hope & Resilience. Her poems have also appeared in The Atlanta Review, Song of the San Joaquin, and Immagine & Poesia’s Poets and Artists Around the World. In 2019, Deborah published Book I of her poetic trilogy titled, Well Beyond the Water. She has plans for Book II in 2021.
