Four Poems by Kathleen Chamberlin

 

A Garden 

 

Azaleas burst forth in a mantle of soft pink,

Enjoying their brief reign in the springtime sun.

But the winds will steal their blossoms, 

Leaving no trace that they were ever more than green.

The tulips, once a sea of swaying colour, 

Have shed their vibrant hues,

 They stand now disrobed and withering, 

Their scattered petals littering the lawn. 

The roses have quietly prepared their entrance:

Leaves, then buds, emerge from woody stalks.

All at once the garden bursts with colour:

The pink and white tea roses nestle between the brilliant reds

At the feet of the sand cherry trees. 

Their purple leaves cradle soft pink flowers.  

I walk among them, each a profusion of splendour,  

Overwhelmed by their beauty.

 

 

 A POEM IS

 

A poem is born from those thoughts the mind cannot contain 

That bursts forth, fully formed 

Like Athena from the forehead of Zeus 

Attired in metaphor, endowed with wisdom. 

Poems come into existence violently 

Shattering the rib cage like some alien entity 

Bloodied, half formed, escaping its confines

To survive in an unfamiliar and critical world 

Hungry and determined to be heard 

Poems are the sighing hopes

Of dreams deferred, unrealized... 

Of raging anger pent up too long

Shouting warnings that echo unheard across the countryside,

Detailing death and destruction, ruin and pain. 

Poems are the joyful exhortations from majestic mountaintops 

Of love so deep, soaring and sublime: unrestricted joy and bliss.

The words pouring forth 

A warbling anthem of celebration.

A poem is a sorrow seeded deep within the soul 

It grows like a poisonous vine

Squeezing the heart until it nearly bursts,

Seeking solace in tear-drawn images. 

When tears have all been spent, 

And anguish struggles unrelieved,  

Begging words to act as proxy 

Courageously charging forward, carrying the banner of memory 

Woven from loss, fringed with the bitterness. 

A poem is this and more..

A poem seeks to see the world anew: 

To view the ordinary with fresh eyes 

Looking back at a landscape,

Listening to lyrical laughter, 

Reliving a lazy morning, 

Capturing a cartwheeling child, 

Remembering a caned chair,  

Watching a caterpillar creep across a leaf.

A poem harnesses the world's complexities, its simplicities.  

The sounds of surf chasing sand against the shoreline, 

A roaring tornado's wild winds furrowing the fertile fields,

Of crackling fires and ashen logs shifting as they burn,

Of endless stars in endless space, cold and silent. 

A poem is the precision of all we measure 

The secure simplicity of mathematical formulas 

The pristine elegance of a diamond's refracted rainbow 

The calculated orbit of a comet crossing the sky. 

Poems are all we see and all we know: 

the pain and joy, the ugliness and beauty. 

A poem is all we imagine and all we dream, boundless.  

A poem is born as each timid soul 

Lifts pen in hand and, in fluid strokes, begins to write.

 

 

Brother

Brother.

I had one once. Older by two years.

That was a long time ago.

When the world was...what was the world then?

Full of Hopalong Cassidy hope? Flash Gordon adventures?

Ovaltine smiles and Gunsmoke courage?

Dragnet justice and Lassie's loyalty?

They are all gone now. So is he.

It was a long time ago

When age was measured by flipping picture cards

And Little League scores, merit badges on a sash

And lead roles in high school musicals.

His name?

He had one once.

“What's in a name?” the poet asked. His was my father's and yet his own.

We called him Chip. Off the old block, you know?

Married? For a time.

Here they are, perpetually smiling in photographs

In the time of “We’ve Only Just Begun.”

Karen Carpenter died. Their marriage died before she did.

Then began the nightmare years, decades really.

He was lost in the chaos of the untethered,

In the void of despair, the chasms of doubt,

The abyss of the unreal, the Mind's taunting creation,

Until the end.

I flew to the place he called home, emptied his apartment

And brought him back.

His ashes rest alongside our parents, in a cemetery not far from here.

He’s with me always, a quiet presence.

Locked in my memories,

Youthful and smiling and full of hope,

Sheltered from his tortured future

At peace, in perpetuity, my older brother.

BOTH YOUR HOUSES

The rhetoric is always the same:

Spewing forth from a face contorted with contempt

Angry and derisive

Voices raised, fingers pointing,

The blame game begins anew.

Another round of hypocrisy and lies,

Slanderous unsubstantiated accusations

Delivered with pretentiousness,

The mantle of righteous indignation squirming uncomfortably atop their shoulders

Ill-fitting and tattered.

All a puerile catechism

Rendered into sound bites short enough for the simple-minded

To grasp and repeat, bleating the message like the sheep they are,

Blinded and mesmerized by the fires of hate,

Truth and logic be damned,

They are caught is the sticky web spun by an evil genie

A mirror opposite of reality,

A parallel universe in which foul is fair

Where deflection is the soup du jour

And bigotry is always on the menu

Kathleen Chamberlin is a retired educator living in Albany, New York. She began writing creatively during the quarantine period of Covid-19. Her writing has appeared in both print and online journals and anthologies. In addition to writing, she enjoys gardening, genealogy, and grandchildren.