Susan Noyes Anderson » General Poetry

The Word Nymph Talks on Water

admin — Sun, 15 Jan 2012 16:14:21 +0000

Even turned to stone,

I can't stop talking.

Water-logged (and -lunged)

I burble on, blow

bubbles with my words

and watch them rising…

till every bit of heat

and hope is gone.

When I run out of air,

I bide my time.

But groups of letters still

clique in my brain.

They gather there,

await the resurrection…

ensure this drowning, too,

shall be in vain.

Graves and Chairities

admin — Fri, 18 Nov 2011 22:30:05 +0000

What does it mean?

I am part of a scene,

and the chairs are filled

with ghosts.

If no more alive,

I would rather arrive

in a field graced by

heav’nly hosts.

Angels with wings

sing and strum at harp-strings;

a ghost is unshriven

and moans.

Unholy, it seems,

to surrender my dreams

in a graveyard whilst flesh

coats my bones.

Chairs to the right

and the left as the night

inches into me. Nay,

let me go.

I turn around,

seeking; but oh, the ground

pulls. It pulls…how it pulls

me below.

Climbing My Family Tree

admin — Mon, 24 Oct 2011 22:07:08 +0000

Climbing My Family Tree

When life is less than kind to me,

I climb right up my family tree.

Stout branches turn to arms of grace

and lift me to a lofty place.

As brightness shines through every leaf,

my sunlit soul finds sweet relief.

Their foliage enfolds my heart

and shelters every sacred part.

Embraced, protected, raised by love,

I like the view from up above.

And oh, how clearly I can see,

high in the nest of my family tree.

My greatest joy comes from my family.

Because of them, I plant my roots deep.

And that makes me strong.

The Story Seed

admin — Mon, 24 Oct 2011 21:58:36 +0000

I planted a little story seed,

just placed it deeply in the ground

and, fertilizing carefully,

spread all the dirt and mulch around.

My eager hands caressed the soil,

as earth returned my soft embrace.

A tender reed peeked through one morn.

I blessed the sun, knew water's grace.

Resolved to tend my seedling well,

I watched it with a loving eye.

The weeds I saw were quickly pulled;

my heart was happy to comply.

Fruition came in leaves and buds;

a flower raised her lovely head.

The story seed had done its work,

but it had grown a poem instead.

Finding Brillig

admin — Wed, 05 Oct 2011 20:47:50 +0000

AKA Rocking the Jabberwock

We all step through the looking glass,

but each one takes a different ride.

Some fall head-first like Alice did,

while others choose a measured stride.

Who trusts enough to nibble life

will grow or shrink accordingly.

Who waits and watches from afar,

will likely find herself at sea.

Beware the Jabberwock, indeed,

but neither yield nor disappear.

Just glance back through the looking glass

and wave and whisper, "I'm still here!"

∞§∞

"Begin at the beginning and go on till you come to the end: then stop."

–The King, Alice In Wonderland, Lewis Carroll

A Child’s View of 9/11

admin — Tue, 20 Sep 2011 21:46:52 +0000

9/11: A Child’s View

Mother, may I ask why God allows such awful things?

Surely His hand could stay the devastation terror brings.

He made the mighty waters and the vast, eternal skies;

no living creature falls to earth unseen before His eyes.

His hand has power to heal and bless and save, then why the pain?

How could a Lord who loves His children let this evil reign?

If God can save us all, why did 3,000 die in vain?

***

All men are free to choose, and choose they must for good or ill,

yet consequence leaves ripples that extend beyond our will.

God’s power to save is limitless, in heaven and on earth;

through Him, each living thing fulfills the measure of its birth.

The victory Christ won for us transcends this world of tears

and raises us beyond the reach of present foes and fears.

Trust Him, my child; all things will be restored when Christ appears.

Disapproval

admin — Tue, 28 Jun 2011 06:10:10 +0000

The old regard the new

with disapproving view,

resentful of the day

ebullience slips away.

A dreadful thing, it seems

to let go of one’s dreams.

A pity too, for age

is just a stage.

Rebirth

admin — Tue, 21 Jun 2011 15:56:12 +0000

Within the stone-cold reaches of his heart,

a red-hot revolution had begun.

The feeblest of stirrings was its start,

mere embers, kindled by another’s sun.

She tasted sweet as honey, deftly spun

his head around; oh yes, this was her art.

Her magic crept into that inner part,

where secrets hide and old wounds cut and run.

He was undone. She was Diantha’s wine,

the flower of heaven; no man could resist.

Such grapes as hers grew on no earthly vine;

her lips were petals, pleading to be kissed.

He sipped, drank deeply, knelt before her shrine…

surrendered darkness to the morning mist.

A Song for my Mother

admin — Sun, 08 May 2011 17:01:48 +0000

What song shall I sing for my mother? What key?

Which chords own the notes that will set her joy free?

Was psalm ever born that could raise her hopes high

as the million bright stars she has hung in my sky?

Might one interval be so deep and so wide

that the dreams of her heart could rest safely inside?

Which chorus would ring through her soul like a bell,

proclaiming in cadence what words cannot tell…

that she is a mother of infinite worth,

whose opus has played since the day of my birth?

What song shall I sing for my mother? What key?

Which chords own the notes that will set her joy free?

∞∞∞

One melody answers, in strains weak and strong.

Its verses are mine, every line, right or wrong.

I sing for my mother…I’ve sung all along.

My life is the song.

Happy Mother’s Day to my mom…and to every mom.

May the lives of your children be the sweetest songs of your heart.

My Mother Taught Me

admin — Wed, 04 May 2011 15:27:32 +0000

My mother taught me how to play

each note to form a song.

She showed me how to hold the bow

and keep my down stroke strong.

I learned from her instruction:

Push your wrist back. Elbow under.

She coaxed the music through her hands

and brought forth strains of wonder.

Mom taught me much of living

in those early childhood days…

of violins, of artistry,

and of a mother’s ways.