Subscribe: Si Bheag, Si Mohr
Added By: Feedage Forager Feedage Grade B rated
Language: English
day  days  falls  hear  heart  life  light  mary  night  rain  rest  sleep sleep  sleep  song  sun  thousand  tired  window  world 
Rate this Feed
Rate this feedRate this feedRate this feedRate this feedRate this feed
Rate this feed 1 starRate this feed 2 starRate this feed 3 starRate this feed 4 starRate this feed 5 star

Comments (0)

Feed Details and Statistics Feed Statistics
Preview: Si Bheag, Si Mohr

Si Bheag, Si Mohr

So big, so small... Poetry from the heart about all things great and small.

Updated: 2014-10-06T22:31:23.871-07:00




I was dead tired last night
But somehow my mind hadn't gotten the memo,
11:45 and it's still going twelve directions a second
Going crazy, a kindergartener's coloring page
Mum will hang it on the refrigerater,
The world will smile. "She's crazy."
Tomorrow, sure, I can color in the lines, but tonight
I'm following the laws of Entropy.

"Lord, have mercy on me, I'm dead tired.
Let me sleep." My fervent prayer
Seems unanswered, I know He's up there listening,
But why I have to have these ideas tonight is beyond me.

At last, mercy is granted; received. It's after midnight.
I sleep, dreamlessly, soundly,
Wake up too early; wondering if I'd actually rested at all.
I know I have, I can actually move instead of staring blankly at the wall.

And still, I braid my hair in a tight braid
Fix it with a pink elastic
And my mind is just barely in the lines.
Tonight I'll rest--
My idea has been written.

Days Ahead


Days Ahead
I turned over the calendar on the first of June
And saw days numbered in front of me
Thirty days until my life changes--again.

Days ahead
Marching in orderly rows
As orderly as they'll ever be
Soon will become chaos
As they're lived, reused, milked for memories
Until, tired, they're thrown into the past

Thirty days becomes twenty-four
And twenty four will turn to ten
And ten to one,
And one to zero,
And then the memories will come
Hard and fast,
Two years' worth of days will be milked,
Sapped, until, dry and worthless,
They will be thrown away
While dim memories,
Wispy shades
Are all that's left.



Quiet ticking of the clock,
No chimes, just telling the time,
Early morning, before the sunrise.

Deep below the earth
Where the molten rock flows
A shifting ridge
And above where the cold river flows
A tremor starts--
It shakes the buffalo in their stalls
Shakes the house in the village
Shakes the apartment in the city
Shakes the beds and the clock
Ticking on.
The tremor starts, and still--
Quiet ticking of the clock,
no chimes, just telling the time,
Early morning before the sunrise.

But the doors still swing from the shaking.



I woke this morning to rain on my window
Two friends talking outside
Car trying to get past the dirt road
Churning up puddles in its wake.

Now the rain is a dull roar
And the friends are gone
And if the car isn't stuck in the mud, it's still going somewhere.

The river rushes by in an angry roar
But if you listen closely,
You may hear the lapping of waves on the shore.
The stream gurgles
Channeled into a ditch,
Into a hole.

Give Thanks


Give Thanks
Thanks for the trees, the hills, the clouds
The grass, the valleys, the sun--
Thanks for the world around me.

Thanks for the light, the interests, the people
The for the dark, the rest, the solitude--
Thanks for the day and night.

Thanks for the songs, the words, the dance
The speech, the silence, the quiet--
Thanks for the hush and the clamor.

Thanks for the sights and the sounds and the smells
The tears and the smiles, the places in my heart
Thanks for two homes, Father, I thank You
For giving me a world.



Association and memory go hand and hand
Down the path of life--
The sight of a plant
Is the story of a game;
The smell of rain
Is the time I watered and then it rained;
The touch of velvet or felt
Is riding in the car on Christmas Day;
The sound of a song
Recalls my heart to my dream world.

Walking down the path of life,
Association and Memory turn,
I run towards them--calling, "Wait!"

Out the Window


Out the Window
Mary, Mary, red-haired Mary,
Sitting at the window of your prison,
Embroidering on white linen
The emblem of Stuart;
What are you thinking, Mary?
What troubles your mind?
The misty rain falls over the land
Mary Seton lights a lamp.
Out the window it's free,
Out the window...

Mary, Mary, red-haired Mary,
Brave and strong until the end,
What's on your mind,
Lying on your bed awake?
Is there an unfinished task,
Could you rest?
The misty rain falls over the land
Mist of servant's tears.
Out the window is another place.
Out the window...

Wait for the Morning


Wait for the Morning
The day grows hard and long
Night settles in with opression
Ready to crush your life away
Wait for the monring's dew
It shall not be long in coming.

Wait for the morning
When the sun wakes up,
Fresh, with a scrubbed face
And the day is clean,

Wait for the morning
When the dew falls and washes the world

In the meantime, rest your head
The moon will soothe you to sleep.
Rest your weary head
Let the stars enter your eyes
To shine, even in day.

Goya's Secrets


Goya's Secrets
I never knew you
And I can never understand you.
You told the secrets of your heart
But you kept them veiled.

You must have known that none would understand.
What was the purpose? Tragedy, irony?

But your secrets are haunting me
Tragedy painted on a canvas
Blank as a baby's life
It could hold joy, or sorrow...
...but you took it and painted your secrets.



See the night falling deep
See the stars begin to shine
See the hills enfold you in a warm embrace
And sleep, little one, sleep.

The bus in front of us is full of caterpillars
Thrashing about in the deepest night.
Lie calm and cool, here, and rest your eyes,
And sleep, little one, sleep.

The bus behind us is full of people
Sitting up and trying to sleep at the same time
On no one's parched lips does a lullaby form
But sleep, little one, sleep.

Soon comes the dawning of the day
When the hills in quiet glory shine
Soon comes the dawning of the day--
Now, sleep, little one, sleep.



Sometime I see solitude
In the middle of a crowded street
When I can speak my thoughts aloud
And none will hear;
When I can hear voices accusing, laughing, joking, scolding--
But not at me.

Sometimes I see solitude
In an empty apartment
When I speak my thoughts aloud
And they echo through the empty room;
When I hear no voices but my own
Or what I choose to hear.

Heard Around the World


Heard Around the World
It's quiet here;
The sound of a voice
Heard around the world
And my fingers roving over computer keys.

Music carries such memories
I hear, I see the sun sink--
But it's the sun over Elliott Bay
Slanting in the windows and painting my bare feet...

...winter comes and rain beats down
Crow feathers on my windowsill
The furnace shudders as it heats
And I paint colors from a song... was a sunny day in another winter
And it was low in the west;
I heard the lullaby--
I'll never forget it.

...all over. I know.
I've sung the same song all over.
I loved it the best.

One of the many strings
Bound to my heart
Is song.

I'll sing.



I am tired.
The day presses down on my head, letting it sink down.
There's miles to go before evening.

I am tired.
The littlist thing takes the most effort,
Yet creates satisfaction.

I am tired.
Night cannot fall soon enough.
Yet, when morning dawns--
I'll be ready again.

Night Falling


Night Falling
Night falls.
The sun sets over the flag mountain
Glitters one last wink on the river.
A girl walks toward home
The puppy jumps about her legs.

Night falls.
The moon will rise.
Here am I, alone in this
Caressed by hills. The stars whisper
Clouds murmur.

Night falls.
It falls over home and away
It falls over the flag mountain,
Over the river, over green-choked hills.
It falls to be caught by us and lulled to sleep
'Til day comes, impatient,
Ready to wake us all
For to greet it properly.

Dancing Shadows


Dancing Shadows
The light shines down
On white tile--
The soft swish of everything from ballet slippers
To cotton socks
To bare feet
Moving to music--Tabula Rasa
Or is it? It's something,
A forest glade,
A princess--
Brought to life in enchanted minds
A ragged blue scarf; a light pink skirt...

...walking home in a rain,
The last time.
The bag bangs against my leg
It's time for rest, sleep--
The people rush by, don't you know that it's all changed?
The forest, the princess--it's all gone
They'll never meet by the light of the moon
When the earth is still
Except for the faint pluck of the strings
The wind whispers,
Whispers what I have said before:
Fare thee well...



It was a hot sultry night
In the month of July,
A mosquito bit my leg
But a tune swirled in my head
And burst from my lips
And all the way home I sang.

It was a cold rainy day
In January,
Worry pressed on my heart.
But a tune filled my soul
And burst from my lips
And with new-found peace, I sang.

It was a sunny day
In the bleak midwinter
And joy was mine again
A tune touched my lips
And flew from them laughing,
Chasing it, I sang.

It's a rainy day
In the month of April
The rain beats down with the wind.
But my soul is song,
It swirls through my heart, my mind--
And, following it, I sing.

The Mystery


The Mystery
Walking down the stairs
I pass a woman dabbing her eyes
Why is she crying?

Walking down the street,
Two grannies point--laugh
I smile back. What was so funny?

Walking along the path,
A couple argues
What's the matter?

Walking home,
I meet a friend.
Others see a mystery--

I can only see myself.

Rain on Culloden


Rain on Culloden
Soft pounding on my umbrella
Drumming, drumming--
Beating on green grass
Soaking in the turf
Like blood, so long ago--
On Culloden Moor

I hear the Highland pipers
I see the flashing blades
I hear the rallying war-cry
And I see the bodies of so many brave Scotsmen
Scattered on Culloden Moor

Bonnie Charlie's dead and gone
Grass covers the soldiers' graves
And rain darkens the stone cairn
Since raised on Culloden Moor.



He sat down with his harp
Unseeing, wrote a song
Lifted his face to the breeze
Plucked a string, sent a gift to the world.

Did you realize, blind harper
You gave a gift to us?
Did you know how many would know and love it?

The harp is lost,
The harper lies 'neath the green turf;
But his song lives forever
In the hearts of its lovers.

His song crossed the waters,
In the hearts of its lovers;
It found a place on paper--
And it found a place in my heart.

Did you know?

Did you know what you gave us?
Perhaps you did.



All is still.
Rain falls on thirsty ground
Gentle tapping.
Crowded buildings, full of noise
No one wants to be out in the rain.

I do.
It's quiet.
The rain is at peace,
And so am I.

After a Rain


After a Rain
Silk shaken over the hills
Is a mirror.

Pale, ugly dust
Is rich.

Wilting, drooping excuses for plants
Are real.

Ruthlessly clear windows
Are misted.

The House and Garden


The House and Garden
My father built his house
On the top of a high, high hill
From his window, he can see me.
I can't see through the glass.

My brother and I walk in the garden
He knows me better than I do myself.
He calls the garden desolate;
I've known no other.

The sun will set soon
Over yon high, high hill.
The dark will surround,
But in my father's house, it will be light.

So when the sun sets,
I'll go inside.

The Earth Weeps


The Earth Weeps
The earth weeps.
The strength of her sighs
Whips the dust off the ground
To be flattened by her tears.

She covers her head with gray
And hides her face from the sun.
"Let me cry in peace".

The sun tries to see her,
To pull away her veil.
Their child of color and light dances before her.

Still the earth weeps.
Her tears fall hard and fast.
Who is she weeping for?
Why is she crying?

The low keening wail of the wind
Asks a question.

A Thousand Flowers


A Thousand Flowers
There's a field of a thousand flowers
I cannot begin to know them all
But of these thousand flowers,
One is dead and gone.

And was it the rose of Sharon
That bloomed on the mountain path?
Or was it the speckled tiger-lily
Dancing in a gentle wind?

Was it the sweet little daisy
Turning its face to be washed in the sun?
Or was it the tall camellia
Grown in a shadow of ice?

There's a field of a thousand flowers
I cannot begin to know them all.
But of these thousand flowers
The forget-me-not is forgotten, gone.