Two May poems by Mary Lou Meyers

These two poems by my classmate cover two May topics: Spring in the East & Mental Health Month
NOTE: I am purposely posting this as a follow-up to my brother’s pictures of Spring in Japan.
Mary Lou expresses in words what my brother does in pictures.
Sky Born
May finally opened its flowery gate for me,
the grass stirred after days of rain, verdant
given to a kind of sweet fragrance.
Yet my body harbored so much pain,
my mind inundated until I heard the broad flapping of wings,
startled to see a distinctive white head with a yellow beak,
and white tail feathers beneath,
not the turkey vulture I had grown accustomed to.
Its wings beating dread in the shadow that spread,
squirrels and chipmunks fled,
even our tuxedo cat scurried under the cabin.
But his magnificence buoyed me up,
wings beating to the drumbeat of my heart,
my breath soared as he crisscrossed the pond,
the tingle I felt in my limbs was sky-born wings
giving me me the floating support of a poet again,
so long subdued by the chains that bind the aged and infirm,
lost in the blue of his airy home
or left earth-bound would “sing” my profound appeal.

But I saw his cold fierce eye,
and remembered nothing gold can stay,
and knew somehow there would be lackluster days,
but I was otherwise engaged
for to see an eagle soar is more
than I can endure.


The Helper
Spring escaped her: the daffodils rose
unbidden in the patches of snow
changing the monotone to a bright golden haze;
the lilacs’ scent augmented in the breeze drew
not even a slight comment in the overlapping gray
that studded the landscape.
Everything was colorless,
opaque and tasteless like flat ginger ale
while a barrage of dead space unified,
the requirements of her life,
her shroud was stillborn in the night.
It is only the human eye
that creates clear color
out of transparency,
a reflection of the sky
in the bluebird, not really blue
but a colorless hue.
Only the very young come unencumbered
when hungry and wet cry out,
and yet how many as they grow older
fail to connect?
Our pond lilies like children popping up,
beyond the water line,
fail to progress beyond “possibilities,”
remain forever exiled,
their blooms never fully actualized.
What manner of foe recoils
from the creeping beauty
that surrounds our lives?
What manner of rainbows pass us by,
merely piercing the sky.
It is the weight of the day that is overpowering,
each step bogs us down until we are floundering.
We are reduced to patterns that repeat themselves
over and over again until we invite a “Helper” to step
into our perceptual world, a lightening rod absorbing the pain,
hearing the resonating echo, the reverberating chord,
entering our “Island Home” like a catalyst
attuned to our need not their own.
We emerge when our island is shore-born,
eradicate all those gray innuendos,
reduce the inventory,
turn to a new aspect, view,
remind ourselves anew, starting fresh
using an uninhibited precept:
we can change what was once preconceived,
it is only belief that makes us toxic possessors of grief,
rainbows never undermine nor do they cease.

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