Pink Moon at Dawn
Pink Moon
An eclipse of the pink moon
heralds flowering of new life.
Melt water streams into lake;
ice retreats from shoreline.
Transparent surface teems
with newly hatched fry of fish,
who frantically feed near edge.
Shadows of cumulus clouds
dapple lingering cover of ice.
Lainie Senechal
Beyond the Fence
Prenatal voyage shelless,
wombless, without shelter.
The human that bore me
a passage way, a conduit
to world of woods and thickets.
Fragment of primal essence
set free for a time, a journey.
First memories of Grandmother:
fleshy, round and delicious;
I wanted her to know
fierceness of my love;
I bit her as hard as
new teeth would allow.
I wished to devour her
so intense my devotion.
I wandered among hills
and copses, a return home,
to the place my mother dwells;
rise and dip of terrain
outline her tender bosom;
pound of waves, heart’s rhythm;
vagrant breeze her breath
against my face.
Since childhood I have run,
from dwelling place of men,
into her welcoming arms
to sleep contented nights
upon her warm earth,
to wander fields and thickets
on winter’s clear, crisp days.
Her many moods reflect my own.
Always concerns, controversies:
their little girl, first born,
so aloof from convention.
A child who spends spans
in forest; returns dirty,
scratched, clutching latest
treasure for growing menagerie.
If I had been the original,
on first rumor of the tree
it would become my quest;
I would not require
temptation of a snake.
The judge, Charlie Whinney wrote about the poem: “My first short-listed piece is the one I enjoyed reading the most. It is a high-quality poem that tackles the title in a brilliant, imaginative and unlikely way. ‘Genesis of a Dryad ‘ draws seamlessly on mythology, fantastical anecdote and biblical themes to build a complete narrative that is both descriptive of nature and also a life story with tenuous but tantalising analogies. I might be reading too much into this, but I liked the use of myth for this title as for young children ‘Mom’ or ‘Mummy’ is a concept bigger than the mere practical and physical; ‘Mother’ is the solid unmoveable reference around which the rest of life revolves, a force in nature like gravity. The mythical Dryad in this poem has many of these qualities, but also has its own life, rhythms and agenda described that children could never perceive, and the Dryad becomes more and more ‘human’ as the poem progresses.”
Full Moon Caught in BranchesFrom parents, a gift,
small cottage beside
shore of alluring lake,
where winter wends to an end.
Spring arises beneath snow
as bulbs surge from slumber.
Lake stays silent;
cover of ice stills surface.
Fishermen spend milder hours
near holes drilled into shell;
lazily lounging as dawn’s light
spreads its soft blush
across a blank canvas and
morning’s moon is caught,
in web of bare branches.
Birds twitter and tweet
fresh tunes to set territories;
serene season nears its conclusion.
Soon, ice will crack and moan;
teeth of wind-driven waves
will gnaw at its edges.
Mergansers will paddle between
floes, a respite on journey north.
Breezes will birth a constant murmur
where noisy gulls and silent falcons
will search for sustenance.
The cycle continues, handed down
to former and recent residents
from the native dwellers
who camped along these shores.
Tete-a-tete
Infatuation
On this harsh, blustery day
heart holds only spring.
Sun will not be halted
in its march to rule the hours.
Spirits lift up to the light;
we hear a new tune
trilled in morning’s twilight;
evening’s glimmer lingers
along horizon, competes
with the rising moon.
Storms do not defeat us;
their bellows have
a distant, hollow tone.
We are already infatuated
with the romance of spring;
like lovers in a trance,
no vagrancies of weather
will distract us from
the rapture of life’s renewal.
Lainie Senechal
Ruler of the Wind
Eagle Sleeps
Low on horizon full moon sends
swirl of sparks along the waves.
An eagle sleeps in tall pine
digesting recent meal.
Light sifts softly through
dark green needles;
creates a rich landscape,
otherworldly and imaginative,
where new life forms could arise
and unexpected changes may occur.
Lainie Senechal
This poem was a winning entry in the Eagle Festival Poetry Contest, Joppa Flats Education Center, Newburyport, MA
January Morning
Moon Patiently Waits
Wind Speed
Storm commences quietly
with flakes which twirl
like fleece of dandelion
in a vernal breeze.
Gusts suddenly swell;
snow begins to wheel,
eradicates view of lake;
white becomes singular scene.
Drifts mound their mantels
over every form, like furniture
shrouded in wait for relocation.
Flakes dissolve into streams
that seem to fly at speed of light.
Blizzard whips around corners;
a fuming fiend, howling ferociously.
Huddled in house, near hearth,
with hope the tempest
will soon subside.
Lainie Senechal
Who’s There!
My Resolutions
To never neglect nuances
of various seasons:
first snowdrop to
don its ivory bell;
song sparrow’s sweet trill
in morning’s twilight;
sun’s shimmer on summer sand;
sea’s warm, salty embrace;
a yellow leaf that lands blithely,
ragged calligraphy of cormorants
across autumn’s dome;
solitary flake silently drifting
in brittle air of a frigid night;
frolic of flames in hearth.
These matters I will regard.
To exist in the twinkling of time;
cease memory’s constant churning;
abandon tomorrow’s anxious hours;
be mindful each minute
of every golden hour.
This poem was chosen has the featured entry (1 of 2 chosen) in January 2015 on the website hourofwrites.com. The judge, poet Mark Ward, says, “The standout line for me is ‘calligraphy of cormorants’ which is a wonderfully evocative image. I also liked the use of alliteration throughout the poem.”
10th Anniversary
Fairy Lights Galaxy
From the Cold
From the cold comes
solemn clouds whose
heavy burden is released;
snowflakes sneak in slowly
then whirl in wild winds,
swirling like a galaxy of stars.
From the cold comes
the great, white owls
of the North who sit
silently in marshes and fields;
their large yellow eyes
scan for rodents in barren lands.
From the cold comes
mornings as crisp as cookies
dipped into hot tea
as we sit by the fireside
waiting for the sun.
From the cold comes
days hard as ice
that now covers the lake;
stills the waves;
quiets the flotillas of ducks.
From the cold comes
fishermen who drill
through frozen surface;
wait patiently in frigid breeze
for a tug on their line.
From the cold comes
long nights near the hearth
in patient contemplation
of our particular place
in the omnipresent joy.
Lainie Senechal
