For My King

For My King

The Lion, lithe and regal…
I’ve heard it said his
steel claws lie in a bed of velvet,
ready to spring forth as needed.
I wouldn’t know of the necessity
for the closest I have gotten
to his majesty of the Savannah is you,
with your own tawny sleekness and a grace
in All things, more Royal than the cat.
A Strength to match with power proven
to be of intellect, kindness and gentility,
with a fine raw edge whose
Charisma draws me forth unbearably.
The Lion’s beauty is undeniable but cannot
Compare to yours among that long list of attributes
…so much to my liking.

Marsha Salerno
Valentine’s Day 2012

Waiting Room

Waiting Room

This is a place of equality
a place of expectation
where all who enter
hope for a quick and easy resolution.
Waiting on--
it could be anything--
innocuous reasons
or life and death.
But the waiting room
remains a place of expectation
where the result is unknown,
the future untold.
Resignation,
boredom,
protocol,
grief,
excitement
quiet whispering,
arguing siblings,
helpless bureaucrats following endless rules.
Overheard parts of conversation
are tantalizing and mysterious.
Guessing background and stories
can ease boredom and tension.
The longer the wait
the more impossible it seems
that an answer will be brought forth.
But all are eventually released
from the waiting room.

 Marsha Salerno 9-09

Overdrive

Overdrive

Driving at night

black road black night

headlights attempt illumination.

Is it enough light?

Drive on -- blindly.

My body feels frozen --disembodied—

I am alone, trying

to trust the other souls

driving this night-shrouded route.

My legs are gone.

Only the pressure of the pedal

and my hands on the wheel exist.

My companion stirs

"Are you ok?" I laugh,

paranoia ebbs. 

Daddy Sang That Song

Daddy Sang That Song

It is bittersweet
to have a memory
powerful and complete
that brings with it a strong emotion,
a good memory
that a smell or song evokes
but seeing it now
with the loved one gone
brings a deep sadness
which cannot be quenched with reason.
A reason which says
--Hey--
it's good to remember good times
and pleasant things.
But the sadness
oozes out with tears
even though it is a smile
that should come
and a thankfulness for the memory
not this overwhelming melancholy.

 Marsha Salerno

Introvert

Introvert

Don't worry about me
I am content to observe
I am peaceful
until you disturb me
with your efforts
of inclusion.
Persistence will not pay you this time--
you are pushing me away.
What you offer as a carrot
is a stick to me.
It does not bring me peace
or lead me to a good place.
Increasing my patience,
I wait you out
and gain freedom from anxiety.

July 2007

What is Real?

What is Real?

My perception is what I have.
Personal experience and worldly outlook
cause me to see a certain way.
I must live in myself
and activate my empathy
through observation,
conversation, and service.
If my reality is real,
I must strive to use
my own judgment
and see past
the affliction of television,
popular culture,
and envy.
I can not base my strength on
what I think
others love.
The answer lies
within me.

July 2009

Stimulation

Stimulation

I clear a blank area
in the room
with the intention
of workspace.
 It is restful-- empty
of things
a place to fill and create
sterile
no pictures
no clutter
no nothing
 Leaving it awhile
I return to find it
filled with my children
who have moved in
with their toy castles, soldiers, kings princesses, and trains.
 The space created for imagination and ideas
filled just right.

May 2009

Overgrowth

Overgrowth

The modern farmer
attempts the work of the Buffalos--
of lightning.
He clears the land
and keeps the prairie free
of extraneous growth
where he cultivates
his crops and allows his herds to graze.
But the plain misses the pound of bison hooves--
aches for the heat of the flame.
For the plow is not as discriminating as fire.

June 2009

Barked Shin

Barked Shin

Sudden Jolt
sparks through my shin
the electric intensity
of the pain disables.
I mute my obscenities--
expletive deleted.
Like in the comics,
I see stars.
I hobble
because it feels strangely better
to walk on the leg.
I examine my bruise,
poke at it
satisfied with the pain,
I return to my task,
a martyr.

June 2009

Herald of Summer

Herald of Summer

Plump green-filled leaves
like thousands of Elm flags
branch into infinite sun collecting parts.
The spring.
The beginning.
Anew the glorious sun-activated chlorophyll,
designed with solid roots in the ground
massive trunk branching
smaller and smaller
delicately ending in the waiving tips of the leaves. 

June 2009

Short Rest

Short Rest

Someone whistles
on tune
an old song,
but I cannot recall the words.
I stand to see who,
and that feels good.
I have been picking tomatoes
so long that my fingertips are black and green
with the residue of the pungent plant.
My strong brown hands rest at my sides.
I bask in the shade of a fluffy cloud
and stoop to work again. 

Summer 2009

Lonely Stand of Trees

Lonely Stand of Trees

An arc of trees
sprinkled with the green of early spring
stops the undulation
of the prairie's flow.
 Clouds hang low
over clumps of red, tawny grass.
The protection of a hollow
or the nourishment of a stream
allows this small wood
to thrive against the wind. 

Spring 2009

Tidal Wave

Tidal Wave

Swept away
emotion and feeling
lay on my heart
on my conscience
and stabs at my mind
Was it right?
Was it right?
The question repeats
until I relent 

I know it was not

I must-- 

even if my heart is harder on me than it should be--- 

I must ask forgiveness 

of me 

of them 

of the Lord.

Spring 2009

Modern Life

Modern Life

Thoreau sought to leave it all
and get away
from the trials and distractions of civilization.
To increase his closeness
to nature and his productivity.
Henry David.
What would he think of American life today
with endless opportunities
and avenues for fun and distraction? 

Spring 2009

Stillness Interrupted

Stillness Interrupted

A bare branch
scratches in my thoughts
its wind driven attention
flickers on the tree.
Gritty, grinding,
sandy thoughts
disturb the peace in waves.
Wing-borne contentment 

forces back the tides—
the wind,
the sound.
Meditation.
Enchantment.
Still.
Then a rampaging thing
flopping onto the sand bank
covered all in dried grass
breaks up my mind.
Is it sanity I was seeking?
Or something stiller, Still? 

 Spring 2009 

Sorrowful

Peach trees bloom
At the same time each spring.
It is a matter of timing.
As the axis tilts,
the sun shines,
the air warms.
And the tree knows the time has come.
It is a wonder that peaches come to fruition.
A late frost
seems to often wipe out the crop,
freeze the blooms,
   full of hope and life,
and they fail.
Each spring,
   though,
the trees bloom,
hopeful to produce the fruit--
   the progeny. 

 Knowing, sorrowfully,
what may happen, and
unable to change Spring’s cruel course.

Spring 2009

Mourning Dove

Mourning Dove

Calmly
the mourning dove calls
waiting for an answer
she calls again
Her coo is poignant—
at times it seems happy—
sometimes it seems hollow
or pained. 

Idly, I wonder 

about her mate, 
afraid to find his gray feathers
strewn about and he will be gone.
To my relief, his call comes
distant, from the east
and she answers,
echoing certainly.

Spring 2009

Child

Child 

You hold your hand against mine 

like a mirror image. 
You put on my shoes. 
You measure your height against mine.
I am your measure.
I hope I am large enough.
My life touches you in ways yet to be seen
as you watch my everyday actions and interactions.
I want to be worthy of your admiration.
I hope I am a good example
who will inspire you
and bring you no harm,
and help you to your best destiny. 

2009

An Elegant Terror

An Elegant Terror

I close my eyes
and see her again
Deep, glossy black
with a faint pattern
barely discernible
on her luxurious coat.
This panther is not leaping
for my jugular
or pouncing on my child.
Instead, she lies dead in the dirt.
A fine dust
covering her body,
tongue protruding through her saber-like teeth.
 Flies buzz around her,
their iridescent green bodies
match the former glossiness
of her beautiful fur
now shoddy and sad
in the bright, hot morning light.
I return with a shovel,
unable to tolerate the thought
of the encroaching ravens and buzzards
ripping through hair and flesh.
My shovel scrapes with a satisfying rhythm
as the hole deepens
to bury this elegant terror.

 Fall 2008

Burrowed—

Burrowed--

Under the close twigs
near the roots of a buck-brush bush,
with tightly wrapped buds
waiting to bring forth gray green leaves
and deep red, tasteless berries—
Burrowed—
in dark, dry grass and a down lined funnel—
No moves
No sounds
No smells—
Burrowed—
lie baby bunnies
waiting to grow
into their given place
on the cycle of life
some will be eaten by hungry, growing predators—
who also must take their place—
others go forth to multiply
as the way of Nature dictates. 

Spring 2009