Category Archives: Poetry

Blue Moon

Blue MoonBlue Moon

Attitash Blue II

A desire to be the color

of the lake, tonight,

after the sun has set:

a deep blue leaning

so very slightly to purple,

blue of blueberries,

the blueberry blue
of Lake Attitash,

the lake of blueberries.

City days leave me scattered,

as autumn leaves depart

in every direction,

a need to gather myself,

a desire to be one color,

the color blue,

the color of blueberries,

the color of Lake Attitash

after the sun has set

into the lake of blueberries,

the blueberry blue

of Lake Attitash.
Lainie Senechal
,

 

Black-Eyed Susans

Black-Eyed SusansBlack-Eyed Susans

The Sirens of Route 101

(From news report – Epping, NH: Plantings in

median of Highway 101 snarls traffic.)

In between eastbound

and westbound we flourish.

As traffic whizzes by,

we take life in slow motion,

imperceptibly follow the sun

across the late summer sky;

festooned with brilliant petals

that surround our dark hearts

where seeds slowly ripen.

We entice the bees

then lure chickadees

and finches with our bounty.

However, here on Highway 101

drivers, mesmerized by

our seductive beauty,

abandon their commutes

to commune with blossoms

as if some old song,

barely remembered, has called

them home, again.

Lainie Senechal

This poem was published in the journal Ibbetson Street  #35, Spring 2014.

“Tanabata” The Star Festival

TANABATA   THE STAR FESTIVAL   July 11 – August 8, 2015

Lainie is a participating artist in The Star Festival, celebrating the Japanese legend of Tanabata, at the Kaji Aso Studio, Boston, MA.  She will present new paintings and poems based on the theme.

Opening: Saturday, July 11th  7-9PM.    Performances and poetry reading at 8PM.

Kaji Aso Studio, Gallery Nature and Temptation

Gallery Hours:
Tuesday 7pm -9pm; Friday 1pm -5 pm and by appointment.  

Address: 40 St. Stephen Street, Boston, MA    617-247-1719     kajiasostudio.com

Emotions Swirl As Orihime Approaches

Emotions Swirl As Orihime Approaches

Orihime’s Question

Mosquitos swarm in soft night air

where she wanders alone;

observes, with the awe of a child,

stars as bright as flowers

glowing in silent space:

Cassiopeia’s Chair, the Great Bear

and path of Silver River traversing heaven.

Her heart is light as reunion nears;

she wonders, “Where is he tonight?”

“Does he also yearn for

their awaited rendezvous?”

Lainie Senechal

 

 

Indigo Gate

Indigo bunting Waits for His Mate

Indigo Bunting Waits for His Mate

Indigo Gate

I begin a rise above marshes;

a canopy of gray darkens to indigo,

sky thickened with ashen quilt

of smoke from incense burning.

Sea’s indigo depths broken

only with white wavelets,

lotuses against kimono blue.

Climb hill in solitude and silence,

park deserted on this solemn, peaceful day.

Suddenly, two large drops of sunlight

weave and bob in meadow,

diving in and out of grasses

lined with lacy weed and

rotund hips of wild rose.

A pair of goldfinches feed in field;

a slight squabble over seed

sends them into a whirl of wings,

swirl of melted butter.

I pass under the arch

of a gate to sacred space

where separations blur

and, like a primitive or a child,

I am lost in the moment

of this delight.

Lainie Senechal

 First published in Dasoku, Kaji Aso Institute for the Arts, Spring 2001

Watercolor based on photo by Nancy Smith, nature photographer and fellow birder.

On Plum Island

02Surf, Plum Island

On Plum Island

Over the tidal river,
along border of Great Marsh,
raspy rattle of redwing blackbirds
newly arrived from south
to establish territories in reeds.
An ascent up tall dunes
of this extensive barrier island
that secures the coast
from full assault launched
by fierce Atlantic storms.
Beach is nearly deserted
on a balmy spring day;
empty strand a protection
for piping plovers who strut
along edge of surf to search
for morsels left by tide.
Set up chair to relax
beside boundary of refuge;
a chain of clouds like
puffs from passing train
hover above the coast.
Gulls gather to squabble
over scraps deposited on sand.
A steady procession of vessels
enter and exit distant harbor.
Waves murmur mysteries
heard in distant realms.
Nothing perturbs the peace
of an April afternoon
and one’s thoughts are lost
in the reverie of sea, sky and shore.

Lainie Senechal

Moving Into the Green

aTulips

Moving Into the Green

Green above, green below;

green runs around and beyond.

Grass shoots up a carpet of green,

tender leaves open into green,

branches drip tassels of green:

bright, brilliant emerald green;

dark, secretive hidden green.

Before dawn singing of green

that flies away at first light;

at night, scent of green

which inhabits our dreams.

Lainie Senechal

 

 

Invitation

img-929020107-0001Primrose

Invitation

What will I write you about May?
I will tell of red-winged blackbirds
defending their territories in reeds
with a raucous refrain.

Or, I may attempt to explain
intense yellow hue worn
by wild mustard blooms
against grasses’ fresh green.

Or, maybe, I will describe
scent of lilacs which
arrive at senses though
blossoms are beyond sight.

Evening’s ocean breezes
loosen petals of cherry
which flutter through air,
land on path, as if strewn
by a flower girl.

Spring is hosting a wedding
which all are invited to attend.

Lainie Senechal

Genesis of a Dryad

03302015-0001Beyond the Fence
Genesis of a Dryad

 

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.

Lainie Senechal
 This poem was one( of two) featured entries for the week of March 16th on the website hourofwrites.com. 

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.”

 

A Spring Poem

img-929020107-0002Full Moon Caught in Branches
Inheritance

From 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.