Five Poems by Maria Downs

 

A LIFE ALONE AMIDST THE SENSES SHRILL

 

Reverie at the dawn,

to always stay, amidst this dream,

where lies, where rests, the silent, lonely soul –

 

in awe of this peace, embracing each instance, of this

only, listening now to no – one,

but hoping to hear, the songbird’s refrain.

 

To bring alive, this acute, audible sense

to those still, hushed depths,

those quiet waters, that endless flow.

 

Heeding not, to folk’s trivial talk,

but only, by what is owned or possessed,

once again, little one, aware, of this mundaneness,

this secular greed, this bull doze of folk, for gold to attain.

 

For now, the tired eyes will close,

immersed amidst this lavish, wonder

of this ancient world,

emerging, to flaunt,  its hues and brilliant colours, soon

perceiving this miracle, of all changing seasons,

that sweep, with such glory,

tempting to inspire, all artists, to portray

such wild, beauty adorned, so intricate

yet simply, unfolding,

like the unfurling rose, of legendary name,

 

while all, to the sounds of soaring, birds

brushes, with what all, will lose,

as those gales and winds, that carry away

each seed, fruit, perhaps, at death, the spirit imagined

pictured, in fables and myths, so daily, fashioned.

 

Realizing, amidst this awareness, to sustain

the life of one, alone

embracing, this mellifluous overspill,  of descriptive

words,

thus, fulfilling the heart, with but

a rich, inner solace, that no earthly voice, could contain.

 

Love of this loneliness rests, enough, that endures,

as winter’s wrath will return, once more

the cold, icy winds will rape, as raw -

huddling, cosey one, alone,

as wilting, leaves in falling, foretell

each pain, each sorrow, that be -

aspiring to envision,  a little hope,  

with this return to spring,

to embrace alone, this wide – eyed, vision,

as a lonely, wild dreamer, of the sea.

A LOST CRY

A quiet evening draws to the close of night,

when midnight chimes announce the time of peace

under the moon, shining bright

 

when glistening beams sweep

upon the glassy expanse of the seas,

extending long in golden threads, 

like a loom in gleaming shafts of light

seductive, to the gaze.

 

Calm, as serene upon the still of the deep

when all floats lost, in a dreamy sleep,

while the sound is heard beyond afar

lapping edges of silver waves, in the black

beneath the shimmering stars.

 

Little boats bob, upon the sheen of water

of darkest green

tied to garish buoys that dip,

to warn each seaman of rocks that rip

through helm or prow to beware

 

of the peril to portend, that will arouse those waves

to hurl their heights, frothing crests,  

like leaping phantoms of the night.

 

Yet upon this night, no noise did dwell

upon the waters cast in moonlight

that set the heart in an eerie spell.

 

Transfixed by the glow of the round orb above

sifting with wisps of cloud

that swept its shadows upon the coves.

 

Lending a valour to believe

the calling voice of the gusty breeze –

 

sending the spirit to answer, thereby

the faint cry upon the winds, as a distant gull in the sky.

 

Coaxing in its allure, as a mystic impulse of the mind

straining faint into the dim,  

like a weeping sailor left, to die.

 

All upon the midnight light

where ghosts plague the will this night,

alone soaring upon the seas,

like the lull from an Elysium to be free –

 

nebulous, as lost by the wisps of those clouds

the hush of evening that haunt

while the lonely echo upon the shores did resound.

A TENDER BRUSH OF THE GREAT WING

So subtle does each season turn its face,

to wonder yet at the purest of skies, free from taint.

To dream amazed at the span of years

shading, each contour groove,  

colouring the brimming fields.

 

Transpose thus in hearty glee

the sun–lit, idyll the jackdaw: - throaty notes, 

its song of glee.

 

All to dream, as if a paradise swiftly descends,

upon the aching heart to fill the soul love, as a friend,

strange that though the beauty spreads,  

through all places great to learn –

 

the buds of spring, the birth of each fledgling’s wean,

the shining heat of the summer star brazen – clothed,  

beckons travellers, to wander near or far.

 

The brilliance of vivid hues, shades of amber russet  

had to view

wavering, within the vision to gaze,

the cast of bright fair, at the wane.

 

All to remember, as if to blind

the child–like, love of snow, with winter coming wild.

The feeling sense to huddle snug,

through the freeze warm lit, by the little lamp,   

home of love.

 

Somewhere, amidst the realm of all these miracles,

rests the fire of spirit that glows, 

as the twilight will dwindle.

 

Longing still for the sun

as a new day is born,

to hear again the melody, of a river song.

A THRILL AMIDST THE GLOOM

When the winds gather to portend

the gloom of another day,

no sun is espied blazing, from the skies

to uplift the mood bestow, as grace the spirit,

as zealous, alive

 

when the seas drift, with thick mist

the boats are loathed to sail away

 

the spring seems distant to bring

the fresh buds lambs birds, that sing

and the swirl of the oceans, the hiss of sea spray

the dip bend of each wave hurling, to crash upon the bay

 

does not subdue the heart, that in its fancy will roam,

but excites the mind to venture far

travelling wild from your home.

 

To believe in the phantoms, whirling at your door

to know the thrill of each hunt, as prey is seized

from the forest tips to the earthy floor.

 

To sense the tingle of rain upon the skin

feel the heat of breath, as quests to echo

with each voice from the city’s din.

 

Thinking, as if in a dream ravaged, upon the air,

like a carefree gypsy striding winds

whistling, through her hair.

 

So though dull, floats a day, 

yet still resounds each sound

angered by Gods that howl –

the gales blur into the dim, the gropers that taunt and

prowl.

 

So immersed with this, but alone still, to enjoy, as

solace,

like the lull that descends, upon each hour brimming,

full

with gusts, the shrouded mist

each shower of rain, that sweeping blows.

 

Finding here, as rapture amidst the still of all, to be,

as quiet, as the draw of eve,

the slow emergence of leaves upon the tree.

 

Waiting tentative to commend,  

the harp of each call flung, in silence,

like the roaming ghosts upon a breeze.

ADORNMENT OF LIBERTY AMIDST NATURE’S REALMS

 

Hark! arise, awakening, to the day,

hearing each melody, resonant

drone its beat, upon each roadway,

though seeming to daunt, the workload that haunts,

the very sense, that through each smile, 

attempts, to endear

finding ease, at last, with this grace, this flow,

though hurried, folk pace,

in their hunger for bread, racing, to and fro.

 

Yet the heart endures, to embrace,

this earthly toll, of each season, so colourful

that strikes in such myriad guise,

upon the eye, to amaze.

 

Reminded, that all within the natural, realms

irks not, upon the instance,

but grows, turns and evolves,

with each dawn of sun, each lull of eve,

steeped, in innocence.

Boasting the rural green,

the purple and aquamarine, of the sea,

yet still, remaining unspoiled,

in its attire, its beauty.

 

Revealing all that dies,

like those songbirds, at autumn’s wane,

that are heard no more,

upon the cold, windswept rain,

 

as if calling the soul, to fret no more,

aware, in the end, that all will perish,

leaving this world, but only, as dust

joining with this fabric light,  

carried upon the winds,

no more to toil, nor spin, desire, or lust.

 

Released upon the ethers,

with all sense, as dead

where the spirit roams wild,

no more to lead, command, or be led,

 

while those wintry snows will fall, still

dressing, the huge, wide lands,

the sun will beam its light, again

at another birth, another dawn,

with each lonely, bird’s refrain.

Maria Downs - Has been playing the piano for fifty years. She a has painted over 150 artworks, of garden scenes, moorlands and seascapes for fourteen years and has been writing poetry, concerning Nature’s realms, the universe and the soul,  for forty years, writing over 2200, verses.

Maria has lived in Lyon, France, studying French and in Florence, Italy, studying the history of art, musical drama, history of Greek theatre, aesthetics, Italian language  and classical music with emphasis on the composers, Robert Schumann and Debussy.

She reads excessively and now, mainly loves writing her verses, reading biographies about interesting gifted people, playing upbeat pop music, easy listening, and Motown, Rhythm and blues and Soul music on her piano. She loves to read, a genuine “good book”.