Verdant branches, laden low
Drooping downward, sculpted snow
Layers laughing, hide and seek
Winter’s blanket, frigid, sleek
Penny L Kjelgaard copyright 2010
Friday, April 23, 2010
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Winter Wilds
Winter wilds, empty wood
Sites where only few have stood.
Trees are sleeping, smooth and deep,
Majestic, soundless vigils keep.
Racing rapids, rivers flow
Onward, downward through the snow.
Tumbling bubbles, waters sing
“Remember, O remember spring!”
Pond
Daybreak soggy
Lowland foggy
Water glowing
Cattails flowing
Verdant beaches
Muddy reaches
Dragons dancing
Ganders prancing
Peepers peeping
Willows weeping
Locusts singing
Solace bringing
Penny L Kjelgaard © 2010
Sunday, March 21, 2010
A Walk With Bob Hope
I strolled around the empty theatre with Bob Hope.
He smiled kindly and crooned, “Hi, Honey.”
I approached him and we began to walk,
comfortably,
behind the back row toward the wall.
“I saw you and Cagney tap dancing on a table last night.”
“I remember. He tried to out-dance me.”
“He did.” I smiled.
He rolled his eyes. “You’re funny.”
“You look healthy.”
“I’m feeling good, he said.
He reached the end of the row and descended toward the stage.
“Except this brain tumor.”
He tapped his crown. “They’re going to take it out.”
“I had a friend who had brain surgery,” I remarked.
We turned the corner in front of the first row and ambled back across the theatre.
“In fact, this is her daughter, Emily.” I gestured to the brunette teen sitting in the center aisle.
We reached her and he squatted to her level.
“Emily, this is Mr. Bob Hope.”
“Hi, Honey,” he crooned.
“Bob, this is Emily. Her mother had surgery because her brain was bleeding.”
“Are you her friend?” she asked Bob, pointing to me.
“You bet,” he replied, a dazzling smile.
“His only one,” I added.
“You’re funny,” he said.
Copyright © 2010 Penny L Kjelgaard
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Clover Scented Spring
If I stretch forth arms to spirit’s bliss
and sing the sudden places of the wild,
I would start and end on this one thing:
that clover scented spring
be joyous song of endless days so breathed.
Copyright © 2010 Penny L Kjelgaard
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
First Novel
I wrote a novel, years ago
Then put it safe away,
To take a little break from it,
Then edit it, someday.
But life got going here and there
And there and here again.
And so it sat, upon my shelf
An old, forgotten friend.
I question reading words I wrote
Some fourteen years ago.
Should I revise it as I planned,
Or shred and let it go?
Copyright 2009 Penny L Kjelgaard
Then put it safe away,
To take a little break from it,
Then edit it, someday.
But life got going here and there
And there and here again.
And so it sat, upon my shelf
An old, forgotten friend.
I question reading words I wrote
Some fourteen years ago.
Should I revise it as I planned,
Or shred and let it go?
Copyright 2009 Penny L Kjelgaard
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Summer Sorrow
I had that dream again last night, the one where autumn leaves are driven to the ground by a furious, forceful wind. And in it I watch, helpless and mourning, the summer die before my heart is ready to bid it farewell. Sometimes I have this dream in the springtime, and I wake with such sorrow I feel an oppressive load on my chest the day long. This time it is August, past mid-summer when the sun’s angle is waning toward the south again, back to where it dwelt in May, my great month of anticipation. And again, I feel the dreaded panic in my heart: summer is leaving me again.
I once raced headlong into autumn with full anticipation of school friends, holidays and color-bursting foliage. The clear October skies and sweet scents of decaying leaves held the greatest gift this earth could ever bestow upon me. But that is in the past. I still love autumn, but find it increasingly difficult to get over the last weeks of summer hump. I’d prefer to slide back down that hill and climb July all over.
I was not a fan of hot weather in my childhood. Indeed, until I left Upstate New York, I had no clue that summers could be anything but oppressive and downright unbearable. The rushing autumns of the northeast invigorated me, reviving me from the intense survival mode of the muggy summers. Puget Sound summers in Washington State, however, made me fall in love with torrid, baking days and chilly, refreshing nights. The difference is humidity. There is a rainy season and a dry season here. It rains in winter, all winter. Snow storms are infrequent and usually short and light. In summer, the opposite: hot dry weather with infrequent rain from June through September. The first summer I was here the sun shone every day for 60 uninterrupted days. It is this perfect summer I passionately cling to until the first chilly sniff of autumn air. It is this summer I dream about losing, sometimes before it starts.
I have never understood the sorrow, though I am familiar with its burden I carry in my heart. I sob in this recurring dream, knowing that summer is over before I can rejoice in it. In the dream, I have gone to sleep in the spring and awakened in the full throes of autumn, distraught, cheated and betrayed. When I wake in real life, I struggle the entire day to shake off the emotions; they are so deep. Last night I saw a steady shower of golden leaves dropping against a clear blue sky, the sun lighting their path to the ground. When I woke, I had to address the fact that summer is again waning and will be here only a few more precious weeks. Why is this my greatest fear?
Does summer represent the carefree days of childhood? But, childhood seems so long ago, and I was not a sun worshiper. Perhaps these are my carefree days of middle age: reading in the front yard, peeking at the birdfeeders, watching the hot air balloons at dusk. My mind argues with my heart, “The year has it order, a cycle of birth and sleep.” But in these middle years, I would vote for summer to follow summer, again and again and again.
Does summer represent Heaven, the great reward for a life well lived, the tranquility I long for? Some days, I admit, sitting in my yard, breathing the summer air and the music of wind tickled leaves, I think that Heaven must like this- but better than the best summer day. When autumn comes, it all dies and I reflect “will I feel this content again after I die?”
“Just move some place where it’s summer all the time,” I tell myself, impatient with emotion and wallowing. It could be that easy, I suppose. But where? The desert where life is desperate for water? Or make a compromise and stay temperate, but move to the high desert, where at least the sun shines more in the winter. Is it the cold or the clouds?
It has to be something deeper.
And so, in my desperation, I grieve, then realize that time does not stop, the summer does not linger, and to dwell on this self-indulgent dilemma is destructive. After all, I am a survivor, and so is summer. It comes year after year, fighting for birth some times, gliding on a breeze at others, but true to its return in some form when the sun is high in the sky. It is true that the earth, the seasons, even the hours of the day, contain more ‘in-between’ times than peaks and troughs. Perhaps people do as well. I smile because autumn is long here, as well as spring. Winter is short and gray compared to New York standards, and summer, well, summer is my great friend: a song in my heart.
And I will sing it while I live.
Penny L Kjelgaard copyright August 2009
I once raced headlong into autumn with full anticipation of school friends, holidays and color-bursting foliage. The clear October skies and sweet scents of decaying leaves held the greatest gift this earth could ever bestow upon me. But that is in the past. I still love autumn, but find it increasingly difficult to get over the last weeks of summer hump. I’d prefer to slide back down that hill and climb July all over.
I was not a fan of hot weather in my childhood. Indeed, until I left Upstate New York, I had no clue that summers could be anything but oppressive and downright unbearable. The rushing autumns of the northeast invigorated me, reviving me from the intense survival mode of the muggy summers. Puget Sound summers in Washington State, however, made me fall in love with torrid, baking days and chilly, refreshing nights. The difference is humidity. There is a rainy season and a dry season here. It rains in winter, all winter. Snow storms are infrequent and usually short and light. In summer, the opposite: hot dry weather with infrequent rain from June through September. The first summer I was here the sun shone every day for 60 uninterrupted days. It is this perfect summer I passionately cling to until the first chilly sniff of autumn air. It is this summer I dream about losing, sometimes before it starts.
I have never understood the sorrow, though I am familiar with its burden I carry in my heart. I sob in this recurring dream, knowing that summer is over before I can rejoice in it. In the dream, I have gone to sleep in the spring and awakened in the full throes of autumn, distraught, cheated and betrayed. When I wake in real life, I struggle the entire day to shake off the emotions; they are so deep. Last night I saw a steady shower of golden leaves dropping against a clear blue sky, the sun lighting their path to the ground. When I woke, I had to address the fact that summer is again waning and will be here only a few more precious weeks. Why is this my greatest fear?
Does summer represent the carefree days of childhood? But, childhood seems so long ago, and I was not a sun worshiper. Perhaps these are my carefree days of middle age: reading in the front yard, peeking at the birdfeeders, watching the hot air balloons at dusk. My mind argues with my heart, “The year has it order, a cycle of birth and sleep.” But in these middle years, I would vote for summer to follow summer, again and again and again.
Does summer represent Heaven, the great reward for a life well lived, the tranquility I long for? Some days, I admit, sitting in my yard, breathing the summer air and the music of wind tickled leaves, I think that Heaven must like this- but better than the best summer day. When autumn comes, it all dies and I reflect “will I feel this content again after I die?”
“Just move some place where it’s summer all the time,” I tell myself, impatient with emotion and wallowing. It could be that easy, I suppose. But where? The desert where life is desperate for water? Or make a compromise and stay temperate, but move to the high desert, where at least the sun shines more in the winter. Is it the cold or the clouds?
It has to be something deeper.
And so, in my desperation, I grieve, then realize that time does not stop, the summer does not linger, and to dwell on this self-indulgent dilemma is destructive. After all, I am a survivor, and so is summer. It comes year after year, fighting for birth some times, gliding on a breeze at others, but true to its return in some form when the sun is high in the sky. It is true that the earth, the seasons, even the hours of the day, contain more ‘in-between’ times than peaks and troughs. Perhaps people do as well. I smile because autumn is long here, as well as spring. Winter is short and gray compared to New York standards, and summer, well, summer is my great friend: a song in my heart.
And I will sing it while I live.
Penny L Kjelgaard copyright August 2009
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