WILDS OF THE HEART . Joyce Guion Shipley

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Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand.
For the world’s more full of weeping
than you can understand.

The Stolen Child
W.B. Yeats

FORWARD

Bright new life, springing up from the darkness of roots sunk deep in ancient soil... That was the thought that came to me when I first read these poems.

It is an image that could describe much of Joyce’s poetry. She wrote with a deep understanding of how the past is entwined with the future – of how hope can grow implausibly from despair – of how joy shows itself most importantly against a background of sorrow.

Her favorite word was “joy”.

She had five books of poetry in print before she was taken to Heaven on March 10, 2010.

This is her sixth.

Every year, on her birthday I re-read one of her books. This year, 2016, one day before her birthday, I discovered a package tucked away in a part of the house that I don’t go to very often anymore: my office. It was the manuscript for this collection of poems. I had wrapped it up, along with my cover design, some unknown time ago. How I could have forgotten it
I do not know. It may have been because her long illness pushed so many other thoughts from my mind.

This year on Joyce’s birthday I read her new poems. Now so can you.


K.L. Shipley
Loving Husband
Fall / 2016

WILDS OF THE HEART

A Sixth Book of Poem
Joyce Guion Shipley

This book is dedicated to Rufus, my childhood friend.

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SWEET WILLIAM

The shock... the surprise
The unforgettable image
When out of a seeming wasteland
Delicacy... beauty arise –
William slowly rose
And the small room seemed to shrink
As his massive frame spread ever wider
Making it difficult for them to breathe –
Were they claustrophobic
Or was it fear, or was it the contrast
Between this unsolicited song and the singer?
For William had begun to sing
Staring into space, his sunken eyes now tender
And dreamy... his lips moving easily
Between smooth, loose folds of flesh –
It couldn’t be his voice
Though sweet as a choir boy’s
As pure, as fresh
Or the lovely, sweet-sad song
Heard countless times before
No, who would have guessed
That weird, intimidating William
Could even sing?
But, out of this seeming wasteland
Something delicate... beautiful was rising.

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HAYDN’S SYMPHONY 44
(Funeral)

The cat’s been watching
Staring transfixed
As the dove tries to dance
Scrapes against the branches
Falters and flips.
The cat follows along
Muttering, “Fat chance, fat chance
She’ll never get it...”
But, she’s got it – She’s got it
She can finally dance!
And, don’t we just love her –
Let it begin
Warm up the cellos, sweeten the violins
The last waltz of the night –
A lovely conclusion.
She’s got it together
Each stroke disappears
Dissolves into the movement
Of a dance in mid-air.
Fragile, graceful
The beating wings of a dove
Obscure all her efforts
Obscures the blood
Dripping from her wings
The cat licks it up.

Let it flow – Let it flow
Passion elegantly
Smoothly controlled.
She’s dancing – She’s waltzing
She’s a pale-white glow.
The cat is waiting just below.
“Last chance, final call
And then the fall...
She has to fall!”
Keeping good time
With velvety paws –
The dove is floating
Oblivious to all.
Such elegant music
What a lovely way to die
The last waltz is ending
Violins subside
Now, the final note
Now, it’s “Good-bye, good-bye!”
The cat moves swiftly
And in a blink of an eye
The dove is stilled
A few feathers float by.

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BETWEEN TWO WORLDS II

In the woods, again
But not for the first time
She came upon that boy
The one who always came alone.
She usually kept her distance...
Today, she was drawn near –
Was it his sweet sigh?
He seemed so sincere
So determined to hide
That dreamy look in his eyes.
He was caught between two worlds
Perhaps, this was the time
To have him enter hers.
The fairy leaned over
Something escaped her... a sigh?
She gently kissed his ear.
He swatted at her
Saying something about a fly.
“He didn’t hear me!” she said
As she quickly disappeared
But in her heart
She really believed
He heard her fairy’s sigh
For his words didn’t match
What clearly showed in his eyes.

She was riding a dragonfly
Her toes skimming the pond
She was thinking about him
And then without knowing why
She hopped on a passing salamander
Rode beneath the leaves
Under the bridge
He had made with his knees.
“This time, he’ll admit
That he sees me!”
She said with a sigh
The boy jumped to his feet
And she jumped behind.
He stared at the salamander
Until it scurried beneath the leaves.
“A salamander... he didn’t mention me –
He didn’t even see...!”
But in her heart
She really believed
The boy heard her fairy’s sigh
In the salamander’s eye
For his words couldn’t deny
His look of amazement
And the gleam in his eyes.

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RIVALRY

Six sisters gathering
In the shade of a tree
Voices floating
Sweet on the lilac breeze.
Laughter, chatter
Quick, little hands
Pulling at the branches –
Mom’s favorite for the date
What are the chances?
Secretive glances at each other
War of the flowers...
The biggest bouquet
For Mother.
Six towers of lilacs
Bobbing down the road
Six daughters all excited
Anxious to get home.
The battlefield is deserted
The lilac tree was relieved
Of most of its flowers
And petals and twigs are scattered
All around the scraggly-looking tree.

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LOST EVENING

Alone, she sinks into bed
The flower she still wears
In her hair
Is torn beneath
Her tossing head...
Petals spread
Across her pillow
And tears spread
Across her vision, glistening
Like the stars outside
As the bright, yellow moon
Riding on lilac perfume
Comes through the open window.
What has gone wrong
With this balmy, Spring night
And the romance
Of flowers, perfume
And bright moonlight?

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MORNING LIGHT

“So, sweet, so sweet!”
Caws the crow as sweetly
As a crow can call
Warming to the light of dawn
Gleaming on its wings.
“A treasure lost, a treasure found
So sweet, so sweet –
See how the sun glistens on my dream:
A nest with tinsel intertwined...
So shiny, so unique... and only MINE.”
A treasure that was lost in the night...
Tinsel slippery, slithering
Out from a beak
Carried on blackened winds
Starless, moonless, heavy mist
And a treasure reclaimed
Glistening even more than the dew
in the long, swaying grass of a wild field.
“So sweet, so sweet
The morning light
To help me find the tinsel
Stolen by the night.
And I’m falling in love
With the dawn’s early light.”
Caws the crow trying to caw tenderly
Trying with all its might
But sounding more like a crow
wounded and squeaking in the
Dawn’s early light.

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BEDTIME STORY

Fear caught the possum
Caught her by surprise...
“In the twinkling of an eye...”
“Love is blind”
“Love is blind.”
...Wheels turning fast
Mama Possum’s slow
Young possums stranded
On the side of the road.

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SUMMER LESSONS

The yearning tree
The learning tree
A heart does flower
Though it can never see
Within itself
The blossoming
Can only see the world outside
Delicate, white petals freed
Floating, swirling
From the old apple tree
But a heart cannot be
other than in search of
That blossoming...
The yearning tree
The learning tree
A child’s play
A child’s game
Hour after hour
worked away
Following the boughs
Twisted and spread
Markings in the bark
Signs to be read
Up through the branches
Off on the breeze
Among petals and perfume
Of the old apple tree
Into the wilds of the heart
Lessons to be learned
Imagination set free
A child daring to dream
All that a child can be.
Apples from blossoms
Ideas from dreams
The strength of a child
Growing unseen.
And summer slowly passes
Other changes in the tree
Apples now ripe
Fragrant and heavy
Fruit of the labor
Changes in the child
A vision made clearer
First formed in the wilds.
And other summers to spend
Other thoughts, other needs
Other lesson s to be learned
Lying in the shade
Of the old apple tree –
In search of that blossoming
Beneath the boughs
Of the yearning, the learning tree.

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GRAND DESIGN

Here we are... the spider and I
Spinners of lines –
The spider spins instinctively
I...chose mine.
The spider’s just completed a work
And has crawled below
The web that now bridges two branches
Of the shredded, decaying willow.
It’s all curled up and waiting
For one of the resident ants
(That are devouring this tree)
To wander out... get caught
In the spider’s flawless symmetry.
And here I am... spinning
Intuition... discipline
Line after line
Attempting to connect them
In a coherent design.
Some order out of chaos –
I spin as I wait
Hoping to capture inspiration
In the tangled mess that I’ve made.

I spin as I labor to untangle the knots
Tighten loose ends... re-string awkward lines
And slowly it emerges
(Though not in flawless symmetry)
– A poem
That bridges
One thought to one image.
Here we are... the spider and I
Spinners of lines –
The spider spins instinctively
I like to think
That I choose mine.

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AUTUMN EXPOSED

Red and golden leaves
Shiver in the morning sun
Crack the thin, clear ice
Encasing, preserving the autumn night.
Winter bends nearer to hear
Blows its harsh breath, enraged
And drops the few remaining leaves
Refusing to be cheated
Of its time “upon the stage.”

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CROWS

Crows in the sunny fields
Strutting... gleaming purple and green
Suddenly, the beating of wings
Now, crows in the cottonwoods
Shadows... black spaces between the leaves.

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VISION

Dawn breaks behind the pines
takes them from the night
defines them in visions
of black, ragged outlines
softens them in shades
of blue and green
as the earth moves in between
the morning and the night.
Vision breaks upon a dream
takes it from some inner need
defines it in an image
distant, indistinct
then brings it into focus
with the concentrated light
of some inner sight.

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ALL IN THE SONG

From the dry, barren bough
Down upon the brown, dying blade
And, then, up through the branches, again
The sparrow sings of winter’s final day
In clear, sweet refrain
As the bough stiffens and cracks
As the world restlessly awaits.
From the waking, pulsating bough
Down upon the warming, wet field
And, then, up through the branches, again
Through days gold and green
The sparrow sings and brings in the Spring
In clear, sweet refrain
As the bough moans under fickle winds and rain
As the world joyfully awaits.
From the fragrant, fruited bough
Down upon the long, tender blade
And, then, up through the branches, again
Through days of gleaming gold and azure
The sparrow sings of Summer’s pleasures
In clear, sweet refrain
As the bough creaks with excessive weight
As the world leisurely awaits

From the golden, emerging bough
Down upon the sleepy, frosted field
And, then up through the branches, again
Through days of blue-gray and rosy gold
The sparrow sings of Autumn’s brief, blazing glow
In clear, sweet refrain
As the bough rattles and crackles
As the world anxiously awaits.

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THE CASTING

A stone’s throw away
Summer’s vision in dreamy flight –
The stone breaks upon still water
Sinks into the sand
Fish quicken to feed on circles of sound
The dreamer wakes to an empty hand.

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FORSAKEN ROSE

The essence fades
from the rose to the word
The rose is not a rose
but an elusive though discerned
in the image of petals falling
through their own sweet perfume...
in a poem forming
out of flowery words.

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LIFE ON THE EDGE

Winter drips from stiff, barren boughs
Snow seeps into hills and fields
forces its way to the banks of the river
and life...
old, leaning, precariously-clinging limbs
of ash and willow...
exposed roots of delicate shoots –
crocus and hyacinth...
life on the edge
falls under the weight of
Winter’s accumulation
pours and disappears
into the swollen, swiftly-flowing river
as the hills and fields give way
to bright-green blades
of Spring.

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RESURRECTION

Lilies pressed white nakedness
Against the bright blue sky
“Rise up, rise up... ascend!”
They urged the stem and blade
“Rise up... it’s Spring!
Rejoice in the earth’s rebirth!”
They cried, their golden throats
Ablaze.
But stem and blade lay dormant
Beneath the brown, barren earth
And never did hear
The lilies joyful words
“Rise up, rise up...
Spring is finally here!”
For the lilies thrown off
Their shields unaware
That fickle Spring winds
Can blow balmy and fair
Or they can blow freezing rains
That beat against delicate petals
Ravage and tear...

And lilies began to shiver
In the chilly, evening air.
In the morning, icy petals
Lay scattered in circles
Around the earth
Where only yesterday
Lilies had rejoiced
In their wondrous rebirth.

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DARK SPACES

I walk to that place
Our very own
The one so near
Forever from home
The only difference
I walk alone.
What need have I
It’s now my own
Just over the hill
And another world spills
Into hours and hours
That so slowly pass
Sink and seep
Into the heating grass.
Dreams, new dreams
So easily had
Old desires scattered
Like the petals in my hands.
Words, sincere
Yet easily lost
Eagerly picked
Absently tossed.
So much in love
So taken with dreams
Unable to think
Unable to see
But today, today
I’m in love with the sun
The song of the wind
Clouds on the run
And I lie here awake
In the long silky grass –
It’s glistening, whispering:
How quickly youth passes
As those sweet dreams
Secrets those, of others
As ours
Tangled together
Unwind from the flowers.
Today, today I only have need
For that one dream
Held so deep within me.
The others I let slip
Through dark spaces
In the grass
As I watch and listen
And the hours pass.

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DARK SPACES II

It seems forever
That I lie on this hill
Alone and at home
Peaceful, stilled
By the vast space of sky
the heat of the sun
Why, then, why
Do my thoughts have to run
Over to those woods
Now edged in sun?
I should stay here
I know I should
Not enter alone
Not with the sun down so low
... But distracting... those crows...
Moving in and out
Of the spreading shadows
Gathering
Matters of their own
... Or are the crows a sign...
Warning... inviting?
I have to... I go
Through the dampness
The sharp smell of pine
Wild, mysterious
Find... and sit beneath that bough
Without you... so different, now
It’s quiet... no words or laughter
To break the silence
And it’s lonely, easy to feel
The misty magic of this world
Pulsating in the air
Seeping with dampness
Through my clothes, into my skin
Into my hands as I absently dig
Scraping the earth
Where we feverishly pressed
Wild flowers, ivy... hours into minutes
... Tears, now... sentiment
Love sincerely, eagerly had
And love lost – bits of leaves
Decomposing words, pine needles
Sifted from the dark earth and tossed
And I know what I need, now
... Love, but not yours...
Yours I leave to these woods
To feed the mystery, feed the ferns.
Gone... splendor sinking
Through dark spaces in the grass.
I rise and smile
As I watch these moments pass.

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DARK SPACES III

I stayed too long
Too deep in these woods
Alone, never really at home
Becoming unnerved
By shades of darkness
That now sway and swerve
To the wind sucked in
Through black holes in the trees
Like the bough above my head
Moaning, unable to flee.
The woods are now a world
Of things darkly seen.
Suddenly, something
Moving in on me
Worse than a phantom
In the worst of dreams.
Overwhelming dread... panic
I try to scream
But my voice is bent
Back into my head.
I’ve got to get out of here
But there isn’t any time
Nowhere to go... no place to stop
Flat shades of black swirling
There is no depth.
It feels like I’m running
But I’m not moving ahead
Something is pulling at me
Or the woods are moving
At the very same speed.
Or, maybe, that’s not really me –
I’m off somewhere watching
Or this is a dream... a horrible dream.
I have to get out of here
I run... but, where is the light
To overcome this darkness –
These fears of nothingness
In the woods at night?
I run... I can see the dawn
A pale grayness is spreading
Morning is born.
The light bright pink and gold
Rising to show me the way home.
And I go... and the darkness has passed
Falling through spaces between
The blades of grass.

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THE COST

The petals of the honeysuckle
Delicately danced in the breeze
As the honeysuckle sighed
And gazed into her dreams.
“Oh, to be free of this vine
To which I am attached –
A vine that seems to be content
To just cling and to climb
Along the boundaries of this fence –
Oh, to be free to go beyond
Would make a world of difference!”
The honeysuckle wiggled
At the very thought –
A hummingbird noticed
And was just as soon there
To sip honeysuckle nectar
In the dusky, summer air.
“Oh, to be free, free...”
“What?” gurgled the hummingbird
Between sips of nectar.
“I was only dreaming... about freedom”
The honeysuckle softly answered.
“Dreaming?... wish I had the time
But, I’m always on the go
Zipping from flower to flower...
Hate this hovering, you know –
I use up more energy than I take in.
I could reach you from that fence –
My, what a disgusting-looking thing –
But, I can’t stand rust... irritates my wings.
So, it’s freedom you desire...
A rather lofty goal
For such a delicate, little flower!”
“But, I want to be free!”
The honeysuckle declared.
Now, the hummingbird considered himself
Quite on top of flowers’ affairs –
A sophisticated bird who really got around
Having dipped his beak, sipped nectar
From a thousand flower crowns.
Yes, he had flown to far reaches
Of his world... though always in hurry
Always in a whirl.
So, he was happy to advise her
On her rather lofty desires.
“Hhmmm, freedom isn’t free, you know?
There are prices... choices you must make
Chances you must take... and it’s easy
To make some very big mistakes
That aren’t as easily erased
As yesterday’s dreams in the light
Of a brand-new day!”
The hummingbird interrupted himself
For one last dip... bobbed his head
And while he slurped and sipped
He stared at some pink flowers just up ahead.
The honeysuckle shivered and sighed
Against the hummingbird’s beak
As honeysuckle nectar flowed thick and sweet –
She gently swayed as hummingbird wings beat
And blurred in the balmy breeze.
He finished the nectar, but had more to say
“Let’s see... oh, yes, freedom...
There’s a much bigger price to pay –
For in obtaining your freedom
You suffer your dreams
Now running freely in your imaginings –
All those wild, fantastic schemes
To harsh reality... some dreams hold up
Some cease to be, crumbling under the weight
Of discipline and responsibilities.
You’re just a little flower
Probably better off attached to a vine
With no decisions to make
Dreaming for hours and hours.”
He zipped away, headed for those pink flowers.
The honeysuckle shouted to a neighboring pine
“That hummingbird’s, for the most part, a fool
Though what he said is probably true
But, those words weren’t his own
He probably stole them from an owl or a crow
And never bothered to think the words through
For if he had, he would have known
That it’s only natural to want to be free
And he wouldn’t have tried to discourage me!
Zip, zzing, zzzing, zzzing... I don’t think
The hummingbird knows much about anything –
How could he... viewing the world
Through the blur of his wings?”
The pine moaned and politely agreed
As the petals of the honeysuckle
Delicately danced in the breeze.
The honeysuckle sighed
And gazed into her dreams as she whispered
“I still want to be free
And if given the chance
I would gladly suffer my dreams
To the test of time... to harsh reality.”
The honeysuckle wiggled... strained
Against the vine courageously.
“I won’t spend my life clinging
To a rusty, wire fence –
To be free to go beyond...
That would make all the difference!”

IN THE PARK

I was sitting there... warm, lazy
In the bright, summer sun
My thoughts floating... flowing
(A girl with long, wild hair)
Sun glistening on the leaves
Sky so blue, so clear
(Running, carrying something... a jar?)
A Monarch butterfly flew near by
Landed lightly on a leaf
(Alice... the White Rabbit
So serious... running always late
For here, there, for nowhere)
Suddenly, there she was –
I must have been watching her –
She was very near, chasing that butterfly
Grasping... catching the warm, summer air.
She would have run right past me
But I quickly asked what I already know
She glanced at me and then back to the leaves
Decided to stop unable to resist this sudden interest.
“I’m catching butterflies... already got one
See, it’s small... kind of whitish-green.
Now, I need that pretty one I just seen.”
“But, butterflies will die in that jar...”
“I know... I know – I want them to die!”
“But, why?”
“Because, then, I’m going to spread out their wings
Flatten them in this book like I do autumn leaves
And cover the holes upstairs in my bedroom screen.”
“That’s really mean...”
“No, it’s not... you don’t know... holes let in
Mosquitoes and bees and other things
That bite and sting – And, when I’m asleep
They land all over me, touch and hurt me –
I hate to go to sleep...”
She hesitated, stared down at hear feet
No longer glancing around at the leaves.
I tried to tell her
“Butterflies don’t bother you or bite
And being upstairs, I don’t think mosquitoes
Fly that high... and bees don’t fly at night.”
“I know butterflies don’t bite!
That’s why I’m not afraid to catch them.
Anyway, they won’t even look dead
Just pretty butterflies flapping on my screen
Come to visit me, flapping their wings
Wanting to come in to be my friends
So I won’t be alone at night...
And no more bugs can get in to bite...
I have to go or I’ll be in trouble!”
And before I could say anything
She turned and ran... probably running
All the way home with a butterfly
For one hole and, at least, one more
Butterfly to go.
I never saw her again... a little figure
Disappearing from sight...
I don’t know what happened to her
But, I’m pretty sure that mosquitoes
Don’t fly very high and bees don’t fly at night
And little girls aren’t in the habit
Of killing pretty butterflies
Or even fixing holes in their bedroom screens
To keep out bugs that bite at night
And to help them have good dreams.


REMNANTS

Joyce started book seven, but finished only a few poems before she was taken from this world.

The last two poems were not typed. She wrote them on a torn sheet of notebook paper, and on the back of an envelope.

I have re-produced the poems here as I found them.

K.L. Shipley
Loving Husband
Fall / 2016

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BENEATH THE RUSTLING LEAVES

A Seventh Book of Poem
Joyce Guion Shipley

GOLDEN HARVEST

As we sow
so shall we reap
the Fruits of Manifest Destiny.
From chosen ones to chosen ones
the Signs remain the same;
Metal clinks passing
from hand to hand
beneath the Fragrant Tree.
Read the History
of those gone before
remember but do not make
the mistakes of those who knew
the Ways of the Land
and did not follow the Lay.
A Phrase plucked like a Shaft of Wheat
is nothing before the Harvest
worthless except to chew and dangle
from the lips while musing over
the Coming Bounty.
A Scarecrow placed in the Ripening Field
made in the Image of Man
does not frighten all the Crows –
those bold perch on the Outstretched Hands
spread gleaming black wings
call... screech and mock the Stuff of Man.
But to bring them down with stones or such
spills Blood over the Golden Field
spoils the Kernel... the Staff of Life
in Whose Name the Field was taken.
And some things change
some things remain the same
the Field spreads ever wider
the Owl calls out the Night
the Rooster calls out the Morning.


BY RIVER’S DIVISION

In the distance, the mountains in purple majesty
Below us the valley in fields of gold and green
and below us the river peaceful flowing...
I feel as distant as those mountains
I’m now foreign to these hills
I know them only as a child
intimately knows his whole world.
I tread upon summers long returned to the earth
and through a single decision
I tread upon my memories of innocence and youth.
This valley below me... how small it now seems
so lovely, so quiet except
for us soldiers and the rustling of leaves
as hickories and cottonwoods rise
silver-green with the wind
and signal a storm slowly moving in.
Like Heaven’s formidable descent
into the valley we move threatening
over the hills in clouds of deep grays or deep blues
but the heavens never roll cutting into the land
nor thunder rise from the earth
nor angels shout out sharp commands.
No, the voices are our own
as we halt and dismount along the river’s edge.
By river’s division, divisions of men
divided by color, the valley is now two lands
and across the darkening waters
in dim light and long shadows
I see him once again
as a chill runs through my body
as the grass around my feet shivers in the wind.
From hillside to hillside
lush with summer’s end
letters are written in the dusk
of love, hope, regrets.
Voices are softer, sweeter
Prayers barely whispered get no farther
than the trees
and like this long, long night
die upon the leaves.
From hillside to hillside
on the blue and gray
a heavy rain is falling as we wait for day.
I think of him as I huddle here
cold, anxious in the darkness and the mud
How different could his thoughts be...
how different his prayers?
Yet from differences rise the reasons for war
from causes to come, causes gone before
and this war will be won
not by the just or unjust
but by the power, the skill behind
the shooting of a gun...
We both can’t be right...
we both could be wrong in the shedding
of blood over these fields we both love...
Someone is singing on the other side... striking
against the blackness of this night.
It rises above the rain, rises above my thoughts
and how many of us are singing through
this single voice... a song familiar, cherished...
and how many harmonies flow back and forth
across the swollen river?
Upon the sleeping valley
dawn breaks in red and gold
blushed and broken by the thunder
resounding below of cannons
and rifles... cries of agony
as horror, confusion... as fire rages eternally
for Hell like Heaven knows no time
and the promises of morning lie
in ashes and smoke – promises of youth
lie dying with the boy.
In the distance the mountains in purple majesty
Below us the valley in fields gold and green
now blackened by war, by crows as they gather
to feed on pieces of flesh and bones scattered
under the ashes, under blood-soaked leaves
as they perch on rows of crosses... spread
their blood-soaked wings.
From hillside to hillside, no glory in this day...
I pray he isn’t lying in one of those graves
I don’t know – I may never know
as those of us remaining carry each other away
exhausted, silent... forever changed.
I know this valley will, again, grow green
Divided only by the river peacefully flowing.
Flowers will blossom over the blue and gray
But men don’t heal as naturally
We do so at will and wounds tend to fester
with pieces of our bodies, with family
left to the fields
with hearts full of bitterness or grief
with prayers left unanswered
beneath the footsteps of soldiers
beneath the rustling of leaves.


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Graphic Design: Kenneth L. Shipley
Digital Prepress: Tia Andrako

Published by:
Dragonseed Poetry Association
15965 York Road
Cleveland, Ohio 44133
First Edition: 200 copies
Printed in the United States of America
Copyright ©2016 by Joyce Guion Shipley
All rights reserved

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

CHERRY RED . Joyce Guion Shipley

Just Kidding