By Joyce Guion Shipley / Photography by T. Simon

The poets of antiquity were not as poets are today. Then, poetry was called by another name and poets had a role not very different from that of oracles. Both spoke in rhyme and both required inspiration – the breath of the gods – to produce their words. When inspiration came, they spoke, often in a trance, of those things the gods chose to reveal. Both poet and oracle provided ordinary mortals a rarefied glimpse of a world more beautiful and sometimes more terrifying than the one they perceived with their own senses.
There is little in contemporary poetry that reminds us of its origin. Over the centuries, inspiration has lost its literal meaning; oracles have faded into obscurity, and poets have become more concerned with craftsmanship than revelation. Perhaps something has been gained by this, but I think more has been lost. Too much of the modern style is given to intellectual cleverness or to emotion that is studied rather than deeply felt. The academic consideration has superseded the inspirational, and poets who expect to be taken seriously had best not write in verse that rhymes.
How different from this is the poetry of Joyce Guion Shipley. Here is a poet who does not fear to bare her heart – or to speak plainly of serious things. Here are simple, good poems, layered with meanings that often seem to sound the depths of our collective subconsciousness. Here is a poet without guile, who understands that the gods can speak only through the lips of those who do not insist on ideas of their own.

Alfred Bamberger
President
Abraxas Publishing Company

This book is dedicated to my brother, Harry,
my sisters: Kathy, Evelyn, Betty, Linda, and Barbara,
in memory of my brother, Donald.

When I was designing my wife Joyce’s poetry book, Ideas of their Own, I had the notion of coupling photo with poem in a way that allowed a sort of dialogue between poem and photo. The photos would not illustrate the poem, but would reflect something similar. An example of this is the photo that accompanies, Dust to Dust The dialogue is about eternity.
The growing tree has partially engulfed part of the tombstone. Then death took it too. The surrounding foliage will eventually overwhelm both stump and stone. Tree, tombstone, and poem are united in a correspondence of implicit meaning.
All the photos I chose for the book have this interactive relation to the poems.
Joyce, as client, had final approval for all pics selected.

– K. L. Shipley

“Dust to Dust”

Buried
Under the leaves
And earthly debris
Lie the seeds
Of
Eternity

Poet

Lady of sincerity
Singer of psalms
Humming
As she walks the shore
Sinking barefoot
Into sand
That quickly shifts direction
Making way
For each new impression
She creates...
Footprints
That are washed away
With each new wave...
Echoes
Drowned
By the resounding
Tide
Bringing to the evening
All the poetry
Of the sea
And she walks –
Quietly

Food for the Masses

Dreams, dreams, dreams…
We feed our souls
On delicate morsels
Of Daily Bread
And so… satisfied
Can go
For days on end
Before
We dine again

Daily Bread

Dreams
Schemes
Inspire
The desire
To go –
Flow
Down a stream
That holds
No dream
Of its own

Twins

Beauty and Ugliness
Can be found everywhere
Though home is in the heart…
They look so much alike
It is impossible
To tell them apart… and
When they are taken
For a stroll
Hand in hand
They always go

Guest Speaker

The naked Truth
Stood
Standing there
Shivering
Embarrassed
For when finally convinced
To make a public appearance
An empty hall
Was all
This old one could address…
The audience
Had simply not been impressed
With the sight
Of such a humble guest
And had soon set out
On some other
Quest

The Collector

He cannot resist
The trinkets of the time
No reason or rhyme
Other than they shine
Move or sound
Tools of the collector
Can be found
Stacked high in a space
That shows little trace
Of anything practical
And
The sleek, smart crow
Goes and goes
Turning his nest
Into a treasure chest
Of very fine stuff
And there never, ever
Is enough

Teachers

The steeple
Pokes a hole
In the sky
Angels
Fall out to tell
Us why
We haven’t gone
To Heaven yet

Diffusion

Colors
Keep the eyes
From being blinded
By the bright
White
Light

In God We Trust

Bounding
In the safety of the night
The deer froze
Caught
By some intruding light
Frozen in fear
The plight
Of a gentle soul
Who cannot know
To have faith

Making the Scene

Into smoke and music
Step the patrons
Some... come to present
Pretty selves strutting
Only within the confines
Of their own minds
Seeking something
They seldom find... here
Moving through a format
Fashioned... elsewhere
Some... come as witnesses
To the charade
Bystanders at a parade
Of show and tell
Some... come to dance
Rhythms merge
The current surges
With indifference
Through them
Feeling no memories
No tomorrows
Forgetting in the fantasy
Of being free
Dancing
But not for you or me
Some... come stumbling
Through the door
So high... so low
Missing the entire show
Stars in scenes
Of other days
Extras in this evening’s play
And the scene is set...
A crowd that creates the illusion
Of players free to be
Less lonely
In so much company

Editor

Sobriety’s
Common sense
Sorts out
The passionate
Sincerity
Of drunkenness
A time
When the soul
Is bared
But the mind
Impaired
In need of some
Control –
Morning’s role

Boomerang

Heed
The words
You feed
So carefree
To the winds…
Syllables
Begin
To gather
In mass
Until
At last
A storm
Begins to brew
And flings them all
Straight
Back
At you

Little Brother

The conscience
Is younger brother
To the mind
Often lagging behind
Crying
“Wait for me…
Wait for me!”

Vague Presence

The mist
Drifts
Low
Over the fields
Finds a home
Hovers
Like a dream
That does not
Bring screams
But hangs
Uneasy
Indistinct
Over the stream

Evolution

The occasional
Deviation

From the norm
Is somehow born
Sometimes
It becomes
What is to be
The fish now
Goes beyond
The sea…
Venturing
Onto land
That has always
Been
At hand

Transition

I
Spring is
Slowly
Spreading
Silhouettes
Into
Summer
Shadows

II
Spring is
Slowly
Spreading
Silhouettes
Into
Summer
Scenery

Black greenery
on the sidewalk

Deep in the Pines

Way deep in the pines
Where the wind
Goes to cry
To rattle the reeds
And make the trees sigh
Someone has gone walking
Alone through the mist
Quietly saying “I’m restless, restless”

Off in the distance
Where the hills
Fill the sky
I look for the reason
That you said good-bye
Were they calling
And did you hear me cry
Whispering low
“You lied, you lied”

Deep in the woods
Where the shadows
Sing and sigh
Shutting out the hills
Black against the sky
I stand beneath a pine
Staring down at the ground
And I think I hear you whisper
“Lie down, lie down”

Off in the distance
Where the hills
Tempt the heart
With promises and dreams

And secrets to impart
I think I see you standing
Against the changing sky
Still in your search
Through the valley and the pine

Still in your search
Through the valley and the pine

Wanderer

Silhouette settles
Into winter
At home along the highway
– Silhouette against
The gray haze
Of a departing day
– Silhouette of a loner
Not free
Though the hawk moves
Easily
From the tree

Core

Behind the mind
Treading heavy between words
That shatter everywhere
The heart
Of the matter
Shouts
To be out
Getting caught in a network
Of so much
Thought

Beacon

Intrinsic
To the heart
Is the spirit
Sometimes
Speaking so softly
The mind does not
Hear it
Giving off light
Into the night
Releasing energy
To calm the fright
Of uncertain days

(dedicated to Tracy B.)

Speech Patterns of a Sort

The man
On a flying trapeze
Floats
But not with ease
As he swings
Off on some tangent

Redundant tracings
Into space
A captivated mind
Refusing to leave
A broken line
Behind

Back and forth
He goes
Concentrating
On an illusive goal
But he is left
Hanging
In mid-air
With nothing there
To catch him

Conflict

The wire is taut
Pulled tight
By the tension
Between the two
Who stand
Staring at the spotlight
Beckoning
Within their sight
Each wishing a turn
To perform
What has been learned
While waiting in the shadows
Knowing
The wire will fold
If they loosen their hold –
They stand determined
A clenched fist at each end
Feeding on the tension
Creating
Symbiotic songs
That will have to be sung
In some other dimension

Spirituality

Shadows
Surface…
Shadows
Shaped
Into figures
Of the night…
Strange forms
Finding substance
In subtle
Patterns
Of
Light

Filling in the Spaces

Painted
Petals
That do not touch
Are such –
Forming a flower
Only in the
Imagination

On Condition

I’ve been told
That hearts
Growing in the snow
Flower only in
Someone’s fantasy
But I know that
These are hearts
Growing free
Of conditions
Blooming even
In the gloom
Of some winter

Love Calls

A wall has been built
Out of hurt
Cold stones
Surround the heartland
There to stand
To break the rush
That might appear
Out of nowhere...
A sudden blush
Carried in on the wings
Of a bird
Who has not heard
Of walls...
And this defense
Weakens
Against the innocence
Of vulnerable wings
Beating
Heating
The cold stones
With its fragile touch
Such is this passion
The wall is already
Beginning
To fall

Morning

Something
Soft and slight
Coming
In the late, late
Hours of night
Gentle caresses
Into awareness
Light strokes
Spreading
A warm glow
Slow
Over sleepiness
Taking it away
As the dawn
Becomes
The day

Sunday Morning

The bells
Are breaking
Against the wind
Ringing
Bringing
In the rain…
The essence
Of damp terrain
Seeps through
The asphalt streets
The concrete
As
Damp flesh
Heats
Permeates
The tangled sheets…
Life humming
Coming
To the surface…
A taste
Of Sunday Morning

Wedding, September 25th

...And they are wed
Two flowers sown
Into the same fertile bed
With roots intertwined
They will grow
Side by side
On separate journeys
To the sun
And when the evening breezes
Come
A caress
To lessen
The loneliness...
The heady fragrance
Of love
To dull the sense of day...
Two flowers sharing
A bed
Supporting each other
They are wed
To a common goal
...Colorful blossoms
Before the snow

City Survivors

Lining the city avenues
Like soldiers along the shore
The sycamores
Stand at attention
In mottled, battle-worn
Uniforms...
Shedding the scars
Of insensitive hands
They reach out – determined
For distant lands
The sycamores
Stand
For something...
Refusing to fall
To the over-whelming shadows
Of a city at night
They seek bluer skies
And sunlight
For deep within their cells
Something tells... them
The way to go... is up
The way to grow... is up
And the sycamores
Stand
For something

Perversity

Lovers know
The perversity
Of time
How slow
The day can go
How the moments
Together
In the night
Move too fast
Lovers know
Moments
Only last
In the mind
In memories made
Perfect
By time

A Sign of Mine

A white
Picket fence
Has a friendly
Presence
But is still
A defense…
Keeping out
What does not

Belong in
Politely saying
“My possession”

Christmas Gift

Some serious child
Pounds
On a Christmas drum
Echoing the heartbeats
Of someone
Who long ago
Offered them
One by one
To those
Who chose
Not to hear
But the passion
Resounds
Clear
Within those
Held dear...
The children
Sincere
As they pound
On their Christmas drums

To the Child

Home to the heartland
Home again I run
Seeking the times
When I ran free
Up and over
The trivialities
All the horrors
That must be
Following me to sleep
And when I awake...
Nightmares
That somehow quake
At the sight of day
For the sun is shining
Upon my face
As I go out to race
Among the ruins
And I must hurry
So don’t you worry
About me

(Dedicated to Mandy)

Dignity in Disguise

Dressing
For the day
Donning
A starched-stuffed shirt
Upon
A delicate soul
With all movement
Under control
He is ready for the role
Of a dignified man
But what can be perceived
Slowly staining the sleeve
Is the passion
Of a wildly beating heart
Straining to be free
Dissolving the stiffness
With human dignity

Friend

He dressed up as
My friend
Stole my heart
Something he already had
Free
From the start
Something in his disguise
That cancelled any
Caring...
Giving him control
To take what
He could have had
Even without the role
Of friend
And if he comes again
I will weaken
Let him in
But his masquerade
His promises
Must remain at the door
To be gathered up
Taken home
As he leaves me
Once more

Prism

Susan has not
Captured society
She struggles
To just be…
Few care to entertain
Her strange simplicity
This woman not dressed
In fashion… in facts
They fail to see
The understanding
The optimism
She offers… free
A prism
With some inner
Source of light
Giving off colors
Steadily
To the night

Treading Softly,

Gentleness
Trails behind
Sweeping her steps
Aside
Erasing all evidence
That someone has
Gone by
Perhaps
An angel
A messenger
To the mind
Moving lightly
As she departs
Leaving
Lasting impressions
Deep into the heart

(Dedicated to Rose M.)

Dancer

Strands
Of silken hair
Strung
With beads
Of colored glass
That slip
And shatter
When she moves too fast
Dancing in circles
Spinning
Again and again
Cutting her feet
On broken beads
She does not heed
The bleeding
She will dance
As long as there
Is music

Intensity

Roses so fleshy
Full of red
They bleed upon
The canvas…
Lips swollen
By passion
Obscuring the pain
Of this moment
Passing

“Winkin’, Blinkin’, and Nod” Medley

Winkin’
Is a wood nymph
Dancing naked
Through the trees
Blinkin’
A fallen angel
Pouting beneath
The leaves
Nod
Is an intellectual
With questions
In her eyes
Always looking
For where the answer
Lies
And...
All three
Of these ladies
Are together at sea
Riding the waves
Vociferously
Riding the waves
Unable to agree
On just what course
They all should be...
On just what course
They all should be...
For this uncharted
Solo
Journey

Looking Out to Sea

She takes in the world
Through open pores
Bypassing her mind
Gathers, stores
Awareness
Unadulterated
In her heart
But such intuition
Cannot be expressed
In thoughts or words...
Insights abide inside
Uncatergorized, undressed
There to collect
In the dark pools
Of reflecting eyes
Treasures
Left behind
By the ebbing tide

Accomplishment

Out from caves –
Caverns
They have so recently crawled
Barely able to stand
Already unable to separate
The swords
From their hands...
Metal gleams in the sun
As sure as the ship
Now begun
On its journey
To some distant place
While in the not-so-distant hills
Blood will spill
As a determined, unswerving
Sword
Greets the departure
Of someone who momentarily
Looked away
To witness
This day’s
Great accomplishment

Slow Race

In this painting
The hills are filled
With the sound
Of mourners
Solo performers
In a static procession
Solitary figures
In search of a lost possession
Figures slumped
Low to the ground
Insects gathering around
A discarded sweet
That has suddenly disappeared

Intense, somber colors
Have been layered heavy
Upon the canvas
Bleeding into one another
In quiet confusion

The mass is so great
The space so limited
That the figures are all
Slightly deformed
Trees conforming
To an overcrowded forest

Their flesh is tinted in gray
For they stay
Among the human shadows
Created by a sun
That can be seen
On some other canvas

There is a slight movement
Through the landscape
Of disillusioned eyes
Seeking their escape
Of figures unable
To free themselves
To find the dreams
They left behind
In some other scene

And the painting
Is hung in place
Stationed In a space
That has long been reserved
While the next canvas
Is being prepared –
A rare creation
Of a Slow Race

Sudden Change

Something
Or someone
Has crossed the sun
Dissolving
The shadows
Every one
And black birds
Emerging
From the trees
Flee
Noisily
Leaving behind
Their moment of fear
To greet
The shadows
As they reappear

This Day

Always
Blow the winds
Over the old
And the new
Brittle bones
Rattle under
The dew
Of morning
But their melodies
Fade
Away
Finally...
Echoes
No longer
Resound
From under
The distant, dark
Ground
Silenced by the
Fresh, young grasses
Whose songs
Belong
To this day

Looking Away

Leaves
Pressed
Against the walkway
Wet caresses
Of
Yellow silhouettes…
So many deaths
In the space
Of a few breaths
Of wind…
I was only away
A short time
Lost for awhile
In my mind
And I almost
Entirely
Missed
This
Sad loveliness
Of autumn

Empty Evening

If to empty one’s self
Is to be fulfilled
Tell the lilies

Of the meadow
To bend over
And empty
Their fragrance
And their dew
Into the earth
And soon
The perfume
Will leave the air
And only the evening
Will be left
Hanging there

Loss of Innocence

Now…
We must feed
Our needs
Seeds
Of meaning
Are sown
In flat
Furrowed fields
Where joy
Had once grown
Naturally
Free
A joy that did not
Justify
A joy that did not
Ask
Why?

Voyage

Snow is
Falling
Quietly
Over the
Constant confusion
Of the city
…A solitary voyage
As tears
Falling
Quietly
Over the roar
Of someone’s
Departure
…Moments
Held in time
And in the heart

A Circle that is a Spiral

Every blade of grass
That breaks anew
Brings with it
The faintest hue
Of green
And soon is heard
The sound
Of the brown, barren ground
Being covered in Spring...
Every sound
That breaks anew
Against the ancient quietude
Of dawn
Soon is echoed from within
The deep, dark forests
Of Oblivion
Becoming a melody... freed
Upon an enchanting, breathing reed…
Every syllable
That breaks anew
Spawns a visual avenue
To free the
Voices within
Beginning to speak
With more and more authority
And soon
These images are sent
Out into the world to live
And rule
Upon the new Awakening...
Every psalm
That breaks anew
From the Consciousness
Of the few
Who know of only One
Is joyfully sung
And soon is heard
The gospel of the Word...
Every tear
That breaks anew
Flows from a mind
That has left behind
A faithful heart
In search of
A more reasonable Truth
Only to be filled instead
With the dread
That the One thought to Be
Is an image of the Self
Set free
So long ago
In hope of guiding the Soul
To eternity...

And yet the circle
Has not been completed...
It has spiraled
Around and around
Ever seeking higher ground
And the point of view
From which the Self
Now stares
Is only Today
So near and already fleeing
Below...
And ahead –
The Horizon
All aglow
With a new dawn...
With Tomorrow

Sidetracked

Wisdom
Is lost
In too many
Translations
In too many
Words
That have ideas
Of their own

Void

Death
Is a void
A hole in the heart
Catching
Teardrops
Forming a bottomless
Pool
Reflecting
The many memories
Of you

For Donald I

I remember the hours
We spent
Setting them up
Little, plastic, army men
Totally green...
Two children concentrating
Completing the scene...
The war was begun
Battle cries were sung
In young, innocent voices
Sounds of war
Sprang out of narrow chests
Echoes resounding from
Shallow depths...
In just seconds
They all fell
Sensitive soldiers
Who didn’t fare well
Under our heavy hands of fate…
A child’s game
Where we had the controls
Now the roles
Have been switched
And we are the little ones
Who fall or stand
According to the whims
Of some other hands...
I wish that I could pick you up
Shout, “You lost!”
And then, start
Over again
But I do not have the power
To change your last few hours...
These old memories of you
Will have to last
Help ease the pain
Of the recent past
Sweeten the tears that flow
So often for another
So many tears
For my brother

For Donald II

I follow the men
In our family
Who carry him
We wait at the site
For the others
To gather around...
As I look down
At the ground
To shield my tears
My tired eyes
From the sun
I am shocked to see
My feet standing
So rudely
On another grave
Of someone
Already begun
To be
Only a memory
A reminder of
How personal
How universal
Death is
How indifferent
To dreams
To screams
Death is...
I listen to the priest
But I cannot hear
For his words can only
Comfort those
Whose faith is truly there
And in my confusion
I, too, will carry the weight
Of my brother
Without communion
Without grace
But
With a heart more sensitive
To where my steps are placed

For Donald III

Emotions
Fragmented... apart
Shoved into corners
Of the heart
Needing another’s eyes
To mirror
All the love
Hidden there...
Schemes
Fading with the coming
Of the night
Dissipated with the light
Needing a source
Some inner force
To actualize
The many visions...
Images
Lost
To thick, stagnant
Streams
Remaining only
Someone’s dreams
So dependent
In their need
For reflection...
Finally
A memorial...
And memories
Free
To be reflected
As the sun lights
Upon some tears
Shed by the sight
Of that smile
That reappears
Lingers for a while
An image from the past
Finding a home
At last

With Wings Dipped in Shadows

On wings
But not on wings
Of a pure, white dove
I fly
Full of love
Seeking peace
But I do not cease
In asking why
I fly
At all
Or why
The tips of these wings
Are always dipped
In shadows

The Photos:

Daily Bread / Vaulted ceiling, Marburg, Germany

Twins / Religious statuary, Niagara Falls, N.Y.

The Collector / Collectors at photo swap meet near Albany, California

Diffusion / Ginger the dog waits for her master (Columbia, S.C.)

Editor / Sometimes, there are strange objects found in my sink on new moon’s eve

Boomerang / The DA DA people in San Francisco, where other people help you live out your fantasies

Evolution / At the county fair, a girl is advertised as changing into a gorilla without the help of Raymond Burr

“Dust to Dust” / Nature’s embrace in Talmadge, Ohio

Wanderer / Pine trees, rampant, Metroparks (Cleveland, Ohio)

Core / Cyrus, the messenger of God, in front of his home

Conflict / Trying to save a game (Washington Square, N.Y.C.)

Spirituality / The Sharon Conglomerate... for the geology buffs

Love Calls / Statuary in the Grecian manner near Niagara Falls, N.Y.

Morning / J. early in the morning

City Survivors / Trees near the San Francisco Natural History Museum

Perversity / A haircut in Salem, Ohio

To the Child / Children (Mission District, San Francisco)

Dignity in Disguise / Mel’s tux, L.R.’s mask

Treading Softly / Staircase, Abbey Tavern (San Francisco, CA)

Dancer / A dancer – for the “Art” crowd (Cleveland, Ohio)

Looking Out to Sea / Along the shore of Lake Erie (Mentor Headlands, Ohio)

Accomplishment / The Metro (Washington, D.C.) – But, does it go anywhere?

This Day / Central Park (N.Y.C.)

Looking Away / Central Park (N.Y.C.)

Loss of Innocence / Hot dog stand near Denver, Colorado – Over one mile high

Sidetracked / Fontaines du Trocadero (Paris, France)

Void / A nuptial hand clasp, St. Bernard Cemetery (Akron, Ohio)

With Wings Dipped in Shadows / Gargoyle, Metz, France

Graphic Design: Kenneth L. Shipley
Typography: Peto’s Type House

Books by Joyce Guion Shipley:
Little Words
In Other Words
Crow Dance
Ideas of Their Own
Cherry Red
Wilds of the Heart

Jul 3 IDEAS OF THEIR OWN . Joyce Guion Shipley