A Philosophical Reflection

History is the nagging hand of the past
pulling at the sleeve of our reality
To keep us in perspective
And remove the common notion
We are gods.

AT NISQUALLY WILDLIFE REFUGE (1988)

TO THE NORTH AND EAST A HIGH PEAK STANDS

WHOSE FLANKS ARE BLANKETED IN ICE,

AND WHOSE MEADOWS, OFFERED MOMENTARY SUMMERS

BLOOM BENEATH A SKY THE EARTH THERE TRIES TO REACH.

BENIGN SUN DOES NOT PREVAIL FOR LONG,

AND SO A LITTLE TRICKLET SLIPS AWAY

AND SLIPS AWAY ANOTHER,

UNTIL ALL TOGETHER TUMBLING DOWN

THEY FORM A HURRYING CASCADE;

DOWN THROUGH VALLEYS RUSHING, GROWING

INTO A RIVER THERE COMES RUNNING

A KISS FROM THE MOUNTAIN

DEPOSITED WITH LOVE

UPON THE SOUND.

GERALDINE BYRNE PORTER

(Good Saturday afternoon...Here is another poem, not written elsewhere  except on a scrap of   paper, and had it not been saved by Dave, could have disappeared.  Here goes before I lose it again.   8/28/09)

Beatrice

Her whiskers are wider by far than her face,

Antenna, I guess,  to measure her space.

Her tail is as long as her body it seems, 

And can fly up like a flag,

Or wrap round her for dreams .

Her almond eyes gaze into mine

Serene in her sense

That together  we’re fine

2009

Day on the Deck

I thought someone was humming,

A plaintive sort of tune,

And briefly wondered, who?

The voice  seemed strong

And carried through  green leaves,

And fir and pine surrounding

My retreat.

Subsequent, my curious ear

Recognized what I did hear.

Twas tire -whine  on dampened  street

Where those who hurry, rush by

Impelled by feet attached to levers

Reaching engines using fuel to turn their wheels.

How kind, if life would let them sing a tune along the way

And bless the  air with music and

Relax with me some day.

    

Geraldine Byrne                                                 

DAYCARE

Everything is lit by fluorescent light

Which seems quite bright,

And you can see the outdoors

On the windowed side

Where glass doors slide.

Playground (fenced)

Calls cheerfully enough

And teachers’ smiles

Are warm to doubting hearts.

They reassure the fears 

Of those whose ears hear mother’s feet retreat.

So why worry, grandmother,

That it is not the same as you remember?

Shining  morning hours with little ones

Whose every  breath and want you knew,

Watched grow and bloom….

Ah, grandmother  

Are you so old, so soon?

COAST RANGE (Written at Yachats)

Conversation ripples
Down the hall,
rushing here, bubbling there
Like coastal mountain streams.
I chance to hear musical
Names like Alsea, Tillamook,Shasta, Rogue.
Somewhere in the misty hills
The firs brush the wind along
Singing a sighing song,
Yakona, Sixes.Twenty miles by ninety long.
This part's for you said Boston men.
(The first 100 years, Lincoln County.
Little log church by the sea.)
Like restive children
They were gathered in
And taught to farm,
To live in houses, and
Their children sent to school,
Were on the way to being "civilized".
But we're here now,
Walking down the hall
Saying where we're from
Or where we've been
And on Portland's crowded streets
Far from the sea and the forest
Walk strangers named only Indians.

On Reading the Book Beth Gave Me

9/01/08

What great gifts have been to me
Given.
What love abounds, what part of
Heaven
Has been bestowed by Grace and
Care
Upon my soul, God’s love
To share
From others, surely, God’s good
Friends
Bestow on me, and for my
Lack
Make amends and hasten me
Back.
Amen.

Though more than a writer...

This blog has been created for Geraldine Byrne Porter, woman, mother, grandmother, great grandmother, writer, poet, pageant producer, world traveler. Mostly the purpose of the blog is to allow her to share some of her work.