It is morning;
clouded and still, the air,
threaded with glimmering wings,
hushes the garden, soft in its beds.
The blessed green angel
has touched the new and eager plants
now arising in the light,
each color a fresh flowering of love's intention,
as if it were the first day of the world.
Inside, we are quiet,
murmuring what might be a melody
so softly, the air is not disturbed,
but slows to listen yet a while.
Soon, we too will rise,
walk out into the reverent air
so tenderly moving among the plants,
so gently upholding the winged,
so generously enfolding our murmuring notes,
offering them to the emergent symphony of the day.
-- Sherri Rose-Walker
When I Published My Poetry Collection
Wordsworth confessed his chagrin.
To call such jottings poetry ranks with the profane.
A poem first must lift us to a higher plane.
Mary Oliver suggested I should honor nature more.
To watch a great heron soar up from the swamp
on an early morning walk along the shore.
The bard remarked,
This writing does not sing and heaven knows
what is not lyrical must be prose
On the other hand, Michael Palmer insisted
Make the reader work for it.
To just give your ideas away is passé.
Dante gave this advice:
Do a little chapbook of elegies and dirges.
As for the rest, forget paradise.
Emily Dickinson said my poems failed
to take off the top of her head
she wondered too about my inner life.
But Keats found my book full
of truth and beauty and that
is all I need to know.
-- Phyllis Teplitz