Dear Diary

usatoday.com

Dear Kitty,

In the attic, looking up 
through the window
at the blue sky and puffy clouds,
I dream of a peaceful tomorrow.
As I write, my sorrows disappear,
and my courage is reborn.

I don't think of all the misery,
but of the beauty that remains.

Look at how a single candle
can both defy and define the darkness.
I wish to be that candle.

Soon the war will end,
and, oh, how I dream of living!

In spite of everything,
I still believe
that people are really
good at heart.

Wait! I hear the siren.
I hold my breath
until it passes. 
But, this time, it is stopping 
at our door.
The heavy boots 
are tromping up the stairway.
My mother is weeping.
I turn to Peter for one last kiss.
I go to stand beside my father.
I watch the door and wait,
our lives suspended.

It is not the beginning of the end,
but the end of the beginning.
     and all I know is
I want to go on living,
even after my death.
love, Anne

for Susan's prompt at Mid Week Motiff: Diary Stories
I chose the best known diary in the world, The Diary of Anne Frank.
The italicized words are Anne's.

NEVER ALONE

Traveler has been traveling alone

for most of the journey.

Times, she sought a companion 

to help ease the passage

through difficult terrain.

But none could stay the course.

Each turned off at the nearest byway.

Traveler grew accustomed

to making her way alone.

A wolf companion stayed  by her side

for fourteen years,

the truest companionship

she had ever known.

His turning was involuntary;

they both mourned greatly.

Solitude was emptier once he had gone.

But in time, Traveler began to realize

she was never truly alone.

All around her was the ghost

of a big black wolf; he walked invisibly

by her side.

There were trees breathing peace to her,

birds on the wing

who companioned her eyes through the heavens,

reminding her to Keep Looking Up;

the moon bathed her in silver

and spread its canopy of stars

for her alone;

there were wind voices singing secret love-songs

just for her, and wave-tops lapping shores 

of forever beaches, where each one knew her name.

Alone is never lonely

as long as you love the wind,

Traveler says now, reflecting.

When you stand in an old growth forest,

when you watch the butterflies flutter by,

when you look into the knowing eye of a small red filly,

you are surrounded

by loving friends.

for Mary's prompt at Poetry Jam: Alone, a topic I must have my Masters in, by now :)

Blue Fire

colourbox.com

when things fall apart,

when the center cannot hold,

when the roof caves in

when the beloved is gone

that is when your soul becomes

blue fire,

when your eyes seek the heavens

because there are more answers there

when you walk hot coals

when your heart digs deep

when you feel you're being honed

from sorrow, flesh and bone

that's when you remember

that once there was a Camelot,

when all was shiny-beautiful,

and young and never-ending
all was grace

everything was shining golden

like the sun

and life and happiness had just begun.

Then, comes the work,

as we begin again.

though we start with empty hands,
our hearts are full,
grateful for everything
that brought us here

and we search our souls

and gather up our strength

until our courage and our vision clears

for Marina's prompt at dVerse: shattering and rebuilding

Felled by fatigue again, kids.........resting and trying to keep up, but far from inspired.

THE TERRA COTTA WARRIORS

The Long Lost Terra Cotta Warriors are Called to Battle
wodumedia.com

for Hannah's prompt at Real Toads: China: Tea Fields, Terra Cotta Warriors,  Pandas,all things Chinese. The Terra Cotta Warriors have always fascinated me, since I read Annie Dillard's description of her visit to see them, in For the Time Being.

nationalgeographic.com

Briefly, farmers digging for a well in China in 1974 uncovered a terra cotta face. On further investigation, an entire underground army of life sized terra cotta figures has been discovered, surrounding the tomb of China's first Emperor, Qin She Huang, 260-210 BC, who became Emperor  at the age of thirteen. In 210-209 BC, they were buried with him as a type of funerary art, depicting his living army, each figure individually represented. 

absolutechinatours.com

Thousands of army figures,   both cavalry and infantrymen, along with horses and chariots, have been unearthed at a depth of 23 feet, surrounding the burial tomb as far away as a kilometer and a half outwards. It is as if they were placed around the tomb to protect the Emperor in death as their live counterparts did in life. As artisans brush away the surrounding clay, they free the figures, in amazingly pristine condition after more than two thousand years underground.

lycheetravel.com

age-of-the-sage.org

They swim up out of the earth, clay warriors, 

terra cotta faces peering from red dirt,

faces astonished upon seeing light, the spark,

after centuries of living in the dark.

Terra cotta faces peering from red dirt,

a man, a horse, swim upward through the clay,

After centuries of living in the dark,

emerging as if birthed into the light of day.

A man, a horse, swim upward through the clay,

full chariots, where men and horses ride,

emerging as if birthed into the light of day,

as the artist gently brushes the soft powdery dirt away.

Full chariots, where men and horses ride,

faces astonished upon seeing  light, the spark,

as the artist gently brushes the soft powdery dirt away,

they swim up out of the earth, clay warriors, escaping from the dark.

disclaimer: this is supposed to be a pantoum, but in order to make the last line have some relevance, 
I had to add a phrase. 

A Beautiful World

for Tony's prompt at dVerse - the repetition of a line in poetry

When sunrise reddens the morning sky,

in a sailor's warning,

do you see the mist wrapping breathtaking shawls

around the shoulders of the shivery hills?

Notice the cedar pointing poky heads through the clouds,

as if they are peering around

to see what kind of day it will be?

Hear the slap of a beaver's tail on the sleepy lagoon?

To creatures both rooted and rootless,

it must seem the most beautiful world.

When you think of red-robed monks,

walking prayerfully in the tracks of the snow leopard,

to hang prayer flags atop the snowy mountain peaks,

can you envision them gazing upwards towards heaven,

where their prayers are ascending,

then straight down to the valley floor,

where they bestow devout blessings?

Do you not agree that

it is a most beautiful world?

When noontime is lazy with the heat,

and bees buzz sleepily 

around the summer gardens,

when you bite into a ripe red strawberry

and juice drips down your chin and you laugh

as you catch the drops,

when the mourning doves call

from the top of the willow,

does it sound like they're singing:

it is the most beautiful world?

When sunset turns the horizon 

into a crimson canopy,

with accents of gold and purple,

to majestically close the curtain

on the dramatics of the day,

when the moon rises up in the indigo sky

and the stars come out winking 

like mysterious mystical messengers,

when the dark hills huddle like a sleepy giant

along the inner harbor,

and the fading song of the whippoorwill

echoes across the inlet,

is the song in your heart the same as sings in mine?

It truly is a most beautiful world!

LIGHT AND DARK

firstpeople.us

On the longest day, small wolf cubs

peek out of the den and wobble down the bank

on their unsteady legs,

to explore the Big World.

Mama watches, lying near on the riverbank,

alert to any danger lurking in the dark green

forest, unseen.

Mother Bear leads her gamboling cubs

into the river itself,

to paw for salmon.

They splash about like bumbling cartoon bears,

making Mother Bear smile.

On the longest day,

I walk by the river

with wolf howls in my heart.

I embrace the light 

that lasts long into evening,

and comes back at dawn 

after a too-short sleep.

Life is a valley we travel,

between light and dark.

We build our lives 

in the hours of daylight,

mourn our losses

when the stars come out.

Our hearts gauge the distance

we have traveled

at every sunset.

Every morning, our eyes go first

to the sky,

to calculate 

the level of the light.

Belatedly, for Susan's prompt at Mid-Week Motiff: Light and Dark

Wings

clipartbest.com

The cool thing about being a poet is

a single word, a passing thought,

a wondering,

can suddenly turn into a poem.

It's like, you're sitting at your desk,

sipping tea, so mundane, 

nothing at all going on,

and suddenly someone 

scotch-tapes 

some wings on you.