Foreword

The poetry of Joyce Shipley is pure poetry. It lives in spontaneity and freedom, unaffected by the unpoetic external tumult of today’s environment. It is creation with a simplicity which is also profound. Its metaphors reach the invisible forces at the heart of the universe; its surface images hold delight for the sense. In the clarity of the poet’s vision, all these features blend.

Jerome Ashmore

This book of poems is dedicated to my husband, Ken

Standing

Shoulders slumped
Smoothing the stone
Slowly shaping –
Satin

After The Party

Candles turned to liquid
In the night
Still light up
Faces worn from smiling
Trying to be polite

In Hiding

A hidden face
Leaves
Only a trace
Of what is
Behind
The mask
But the mask is
For the one who
Wears it
Because
Only a few
Would be surprised
By the being
Beneath such
Obvious disguise

Rainy Day

Sunflower
Spends the summer
Stuffing its head
Full of light
A narrow stem
An oversight
Sunflower
Spends the fall
Not so proud
Not so tall
Its overgrown head
Is found
Hanging down
Somewhat closer
To the ground

A Place In The Sun

The sun
Consistent
Will not even shun
The dandelion –
Persevering
The dandelion
Will grow
And so it goes
Success
For the persistent
In their roles

Indian Summer

The first frost
Has begun
I sit
Soak up
My sadness
With the sun
Surrounded by –
Colors on the run

Winter Horizon

A maze
Of lines
Winter’s amazing
Design
Of lines
Hazy
Along the horizon
Bare branches
Form
A borderline
In a pattern
So dense . . .
So fine . . .
A winter design

Going Astray

The sparrow
Starts its day
With a song –
Only then
Can something go wrong
Only when
In flight
Does it open itself
To the plight
Of being
– A sparrow

Presence

Bobbing
Of a branch
A sparrow
Has lighted
Or taken flight
A chameleon
Moving free
Over
A bobbing
Winter-brown
Tree

A Remembrance of Spring to Come

Before the crocus
Is the fragrance
Of Spring –
Lingering
Like a perfume
In the room
After she has
Gone

Water Lilies

Pink petals on the pond
Afloat in the sun
Stems rooted in sand below
Do not allow the flowers
To flow – very far

Soon The Fall

Little ladies in the garden
Lithe and lonely
Waiting for a day
That has already begun
– Lilies in the sun

Starling

Darkness lights upon the white
Seeking sustenance below
Scarring the surface as it goes
– A black bird in the snow

Lady

She steps softly
Her black hair in the night
Is a rainbow lost in darkness
Stranger to the light

Her robe falls and flows
At her breasts where
Silken flowers have been pressed
By hands she does not know

She walks with grace
Head held high
Her dark eyes are quiet
They do not ask why

City Girl After The Rain

She curses
The splatter
Of muddy streets
Over stockings and
Well-heeled feet
While the grime
Of the city
Marks time
On her pretty
Shoulders

First Snow

The first snowfall
Of the year
Appears
As I near the school
I hear
Voices of children
Everywhere
Shouting
“Snow, snow!”

We walk towards home
And Mandy shows me
As we go
Round, red berries
Topped with snow
Looking even lovelier
Than a few days ago

We walk towards home
And I show her
As we go
Marigolds still in flower
Under this sudden shower
Of “snow, snow!”

(for Mandy)

Heat

Magic
Of the morning
Is dispersed
Imposed upon by the sun –
Little elves on the run.
Those who stay
Might pray
Some will fight the day
And those who miss
The final haven of the Tree
Will shout
“There are drinks
For you and me
Down the road
Escape – stories to be told.”
But, in the morning
Heat prevails
Hope of shade is, again,
Curtailed.
The big, orange sun
Announces that another day
Has begun –
Little elves on the run.

(for Ireland)

Heart-felt

A belief
Is born of the heart
Therefore, there is
No need to surmise
A start
Or and end
Importance is on the
Now
I simply believe –
I know not how

Prisoners

The caretaker’s
Careful cutting
Casual rape
Carves a life
Into a convenient
Shape –
With life that requires
Constant control
The caretaker
Is made prisoner
By his role

Colors In The Sun

Dreams
Once begun
Soon
Start to fade –

Colors in the sun
Each time
Taken out to air
Fade

A little more
Until –
The dreams
Just aren’t there

Beyond The Roses

Sometimes
There strolls
A visitor
Into the garden
Who looks beyond
The roses
Already begun
To pale in the sun
And discovers
Hidden from view
Lovely, little violets
Still veiled in dew

(for Shelley)

Under The Apple Tree

I am the snake
Scapegoat
For the sin
I was somehow
Involved in.
The apple’s esteem –
Unblemished
In that
Original scheme
Remembered now
Like some
Dreadful dream.
My satisfaction
Is found
Slithering aground
Spreading fear
All around.
For those two
Satisfaction
May never be found;
It was left behind
Under the apple tree
And they can’t seem
To find
Their way home . . .
Free

A Garden in the East

Bad bean seeds
Here and there
Planted
But do not appear
Or
The seeds grow
Slow
Or grow
Deformed
Curl up
Die
No use
In wondering why
But the sower
Is not a seed
Good or bad
There is a choice
To be had

A Death

Under the heavy hands
Of rain
The rose is torn
And in the morning
To be found
Soft petals
Upon the ground
This does not concern
The flower –
It is gone
Standing only
In the shower
Of the mind
Soon, nothing else
Is left behind

(for Uncle Eddie)

Ride

Flowers come to me
In shades
Of passing –
Faces
From the past
Blurred images
That do not last
But come and go
So very fast

A Clearer View

Sometimes
I sit by my window
I just sit and stare
Not from some deep despair
I stare –
Because there’s nothing there
That is confusing.
Meanings come from within me
And it’s not often easy
To see
My mind clearly
So, I sit and sort myself out
Trying to decide
What I want to be about.

Blind Spot

Are you being kind
Or has love
Made you blind
Or has it made
You see
Through
The images of self
Imprisoning me

Thief

It comes easy
Being polite
He has already
Sold himself
To the night
But in the dark
He fails to see
His own pockets
Being emptied

Transparency

Sand
Coldly calculated
Into rigidity –
Crystal –
A beauty
That can be seen
Through
By the light

Escape

Eyes can be
Closed to the light
But dreams coming
In the night
Leave within
Silent screams
Held deep
Kept from sight
Of the day

Minds can be
Tricked into thinking
Time away
But in the night
There is no disguise
For the cries
Silenced in the day

Hearts can be
Forced to seek refuge
Deep within themselves
To feel only movement
Inward
But dreams coming
In the night
Bemoan these flights
From the day

Some dreams
Escape
Can be seen
Excited
Moving in the light
Restless
Seeking peace
From days
That do not cease
To cause pain
In the night

Sound, Scheme, Dream

From the tallest of trees
Comes the same simple sound
For it is the same subtle wind
That drops the leaves to the ground

From the most distant rainbow
Comes the same simple scheme
For it is the same subtle light
That divides into the beam

From the greatest of men
Comes the same simple need
For it is the same subtle dream
That provides food for the seed

Being Misled

A mystery
Is exciting
Something
We can’t comprehend
An innocent adventure
To be mastered
Before the end

Director Of Dreams

Mike is a man
I see
Occasionally
It’s always the same
A continuation
Of the game
Under the heaviness
Of smoke, music, lights
He spreads out his dream
Sincere in the night
It’s bound to materialize
Any day now
He has everything he needs
The location, actors
Even connections
He only lacks
The central theme
To actualize his scheme
But that will come
In the meantime
He has something of interest
To talk about
And it doesn’t really matter
That the lights went out
Long ago
On his dream
When he failed to realize
That he was
The central theme

Many Darkness

The many darkness
Of my mind
Split within me
While they bind . . .
Me to them

One in the darkness
Takes the lead
And for a time
I hear it plead . . .
To follow

I and the darkness
Become the one
Moving together
While we shun . . .
The others

But the many darkness
Is not in peace
And other voices
Do not cease . . .
To whisper

And one in the darkness
Now has the lead
And in a time
I hear it plead . . .
To follow

And the many darkness
Of my mind
Split within me
While they bind . . .
Me to them

Night Train

There are whispers . . .
The train
I’m riding is heading
Nowhere –
In circles – to hell
Hard to tell

I purchased a ticket
Paid with my heart
It was all that I could afford
I boarded
Long ago

I do know
There are no refunds
On this train
No reimbursements
For the casualties –
The pain

And if this train
Is going nowhere
I do not care
As long as the seat
Beside me
Is never empty

And as I near each bend
I hope that this is
Not the end
Just one more station
Not the final destination

A chance that someone new
Will sit down beside me
To soften what I see –
A reflection
In the darkened windows
Of quiet desperation.

Insight

Ocean opens
To the storm
Strews the seaweed
Over land
In the morning
Among the shells
And sand
Deep, dark secrets
Are at hand
To be gathered
By those who
Walk the shore
Seeking something –
A little more

Book Design: Kenneth L. Shipley
Cover Photo: C.R. Studio
Typography: Peto’s Type House
Printing: S.P. Mount Printing Co.

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

Jul 5 IN OTHER WORDS . Joyce Guion Shipley