Three excellent poems from Joy: one about Spring, one about the gun and one about Charlotte Bronte.
An ethereal curtain rises,
a feathered chorus orchestrates -
enter Spring: her grand debut,
veiled by dew-dropped, cob-webbed lace.
Crowned with gold forsythia;
yellow trumpets show respect;
earth's treasure-chest is opening -
all creatures genuflect.
Each Spring I have a love affair,
and at her feet I leave a prayer
for all the beauty dwelling there.
THE GUN IS KING
They've forsaken the plough, the saw and the pen;
those lawless 'excuses;' those uncaring men.
When did their hearts freeze: turn to stone – when?
What flawed ideology led them to hate,
to pick up the gun, decide others fate?
In twisted thinking insatiate.
for those murdered children in an Afghanistan town.
Oh, how many siblings marble-cold cheeks did she kiss
before her sweet, neglected lips felt their time, so brief, of bliss?
How many days and nights did her heart mourn
for happier times, so people-filled,
replaced by lonely, empty dawns?
And yet, unless contrarily, her own words could impart,
perhaps her own creations filled a vacuum in her heart?
Did 'Jane' replace her sisters –
did she play that crucial part?
In literary history 'Jane' sits upon a throne –
created by more than ink and quill:
a revered imagination, diligence:
a will of steel.
Currer Bell or Charlotte –
encouraged by her faith and flair –
claimed, repudiating other works,
her masterpiece, 'JANE EYRE!'