The Web Poetry Corner
The Web Poetry Corner
Peekskill, NY, US
If you have comments or suggestions for Geneva Edwards, you can contact this author at:
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The Bird Sanctuary
No birds, only a few
Tweets promising a bird somewhere.
A five-needle pine (learned that
From the tree tag)
Stands looking over the swamp.
It's green and vital.
The other trees look sleepy and still.
On the Highway - Wednesday 6 a.m.
The 'possum lay with head on paws
As if asleep. But it was on
The highway, Wednesday 6 a.m.
I knew it'd never wake to do
Whatever 'possums do on Wednesday.
It sits alone
In an overgrown field
At the side of the road.
Ignored by the speeding traffic,
It marks a site of death.
Faded to colorlessness,
The artificial-flower cross,
Now many months old, leans against
A vigil light, long dark.
A plastic toy -
The one lost here was a child.
It marks a place of sorrow.
Hearts were marked here.
The broken hearts of the
For lunch that afternoon, a treat,
Not food; at least not food to eat,
But food for soul, whose sustenance
Is beauty and those things of life
That, like a flower, serve it up.
For nodding, bowing in the breeze,
Outside the window standing tall,
Cyclopic black eye framed in red
And newly burst upon the scene
A poppy, Eye of God it seemed,
Stared in at me as if to say
In language unmistakable:
I bring another spring. Enjoy.
Who feeds my soul,
Who hears my prayers,
Who fails me not,
Who stands with me,
Who waits for me,
Giver of Life,
Lover of all,
Haven in storms,
Healer of ills,
Blesser of good,
The Re-burial of President Lincoln
The slowly moving train had brought him back
From Washington. Back home to Illinois;
Back to his city on the Sangamon.
His mourners lined the long, meandering route.
Full circle he had come in four short years.
When he took leave of neighbors and his friends
To assume to himself his awesome task
He said, " I leave you now, not knowing when
Or if ever I may return to you.
Trusting in God who can go with me and
Remain here with you and be everywhere
For good, I bid you all a fond farewell."
They sent him off with cheers, and "God speed, Abe."
Now they greeted him with tears and reverence.
Four years of war they watched; great trials of spirit,
Defeat following defeat. Yet somehow
Final victory, the union preserved.
An actor had decided that, war lost,
Lincoln should not live to see the nation
Bind wounds, and offer charity for all.
On leaving, he said he might not return.
Return he did, but not to honored rest,
And family, but to a martyrís grave.
Grand plans for a tall, stately monument,
Recounting his life in statuary
And chiseled memories of his rhetoric.
Decades passed. The monument inched its way
Skyward, while Lincolnís remains rested in
A tomb awaiting final interment.
Men, bent on freeing a gang friend from jail
Stole the casket and body of Lincoln,
In hopes of ransoming their friendís release.
They soon were caught and the body recovered.
Plans were made now to foil, for all time,
Any more attempts at desecration.
Lincolnís final resting place is in a
Steel coffin, surrounded by a steel cage
All encased in tons and tons of concrete.
No more will grave robbers disturb his sleep.
Watched over by a towering column,
Doing him the honor he well deserves,
He rests in the silence of silences
Awaiting the final trumpetís calling.
Whitman put it on the poetic map;
This bush with its "heart-shaped leaves of rich green".
And who is to complain to the lilac
About its outlandish perfumery?
Un-coddled, it grows without apparent
Difficulty, resting most of the year,
Bursting forth in spring, in demure colors,
Some blossomed purple, others garbed in white.
From the Kitchen Window
A fleet of robins in the grass
Finding things to eat; pecking the
Goodies out from under last Fall's
Leaves and this Spring's dusting of snow.