SCILLA
Most humble lily of them all
Scilla, springtime’s first refrain,
Spreading on earth’s frigid breast
Anticipating April’s rain.
Braving vernal snow and sleet,
Frosty dew as morning lights,
Promising a summer’s warming
After winter’s long cold nights.
Hunkering neath woody bushes,
Perforating chilly sod,
Royal purple springtime mantle
Blown down by the breath of God.
Not with big and showy blossoms,
Fluffy flowers, ornate bells,
Just rosette of six blue petals,
Summer glory it foretells.
Regal purple gets supplanted,
By proud tulips in full bloom,
Daffodils and lush magnolias,
Cousin hyacinth’s perfume.
Disparaged “Not a flower,
Indeed, it is just a weed,”
But one I most admire
For its brave push to succeed.
Sherwyn Warren 4/22/04
A SONNET TO SEX APPEAL
Petals are the flower’s skin
That lures the pollinators in,
Emitting smell, taste, feel of beauty,
Insuring species’ continuity.
A woman’s skin, which doth adorn
Her beauty from the time she’s born,
Augmented to give more allure
With jewels, cologne, coiffures, couture
Showcases nature’s gifts to her.
When aging buds repel the bee
She primps to relive history,
Though ova are now all depleted
And fecundity must be conceded,
The buzzing swells her vanity.
Sherwyn Warren 1/25/06
TO A FRIEND POST-LARYNGECTOMY
Talking is a feeble way of communication
One not written with the smudge of permanence
It is lost in the wind.
Love speaks with body language and embrace
Touch stays tingling on the skin
Sweetness strokes lips and swirls in the nose
The tongue can taste experiences
Swallow bitterness, sounds and memories.
Dear David, any loss of voice is puny
Beside your towering presence.
Your light announces your footstep
To our eyes and ears.
Sherwyn Warren 12/7/05
SAILOR’S HIGH
There is no thrill of summer that can match the tiller’s seize,
Of crimson, dancing spinnaker flying full before the breeze.
By compass-point I set my course mid-way from beam to wind,
Air blows on skin, tingling hair, to help me set my trim.
Creaking boom is hauled in tight, main tensed from head to clew,
And lines and stays and halyard’s cleat zing challenges anew.
With bow wake splash and gurgle and the water chilly feel,
My arm aches to the balance of the sails and the keel.
Thrill of disequilibrium, she powers with the heel!
Disdaining spewing fuel lines hauled seaward from the land,
I race with nature’s forces reined full at my command.
Sherwyn Warren
ANTARCTIC ICE
WATER
A drop of water fell on my hand,
drawn from the Ganges and the
from hoarfrost ascended to heaven
off a seal’s whiskers,
from jugs broken in the cities of Ys and
Wislawa Szymborska
In Wislawa Szymborska’s poem
Of water’s journeys in time and space,
Flow and vapor evade Antarctic’s capture
Into its vast deep-freeze,
Where snow’s fluff compresses to glacial ice,
Pressure’s prism refracts white to crystal blue.
Time ticks in geologic eons.
Glaciers creep for millennia.
Not delicate or subtle,
With thunderous cracks, they calve icebergs
As gigantic, floating islands
Hurled to sea with seismic swells.
Submerged monsters flagging icy bonnets,
Meandering as they sail,
Languidly melting to bergy bits, growlers and brash,
Reentering water’s liquid journey
And Wislawa Szymborska’s poem.
Sherwyn Warren
6/14/03
STACKS AND PILES
My house has books and papers everywhere;
Some piled neatly, stacked with loving care.
Most should be shelved, arranged in bookcases,
Or attic, closets or storage places,
But sit close to where they’ll likely be read,
On desk, mantel, table, lounge chair or bed.
Books on books, on papers, on a magazine,
Or photo albums of places I’ve been.
Most have been perused or somewhat looked through
Or wait for review when I’ve naught else to do.
I’m not much for arranging, I confess,
My house is called a disorderly mess.
When looking for something lost in a pile,
I vow to straighten things up--in a while.
When conscience says, “organize, it’s a need,”
I find urgent items I still have to read.
Perhaps these habits impair my affairs,
But I’m willing to let that be solved by my heirs.
Sherwyn Warren 11/25/05
TRAVELING MAX
You’ll float in a boat on the seven broad seas,
Tour grand on the land in lush, plush, pampered ease,
Catch sight day or night of most wonderful sites,
Not waste any taste of encountered delights.
Prepare Max, repair Max, to escapes far and near.
Be quick, Max, to pick, Max, your traveling gear,
For you will for the thrill of adventure you find
And pity the ennui of those left behind.
Although hot be your plot to wander earth’s sphere,
Don’t you burn to return to what’s dear and what’s near,
Have a yen now and then for familiar old sounds,
For the feel ’neath your heel of familiar old grounds,
To unpack that worn sack of your toothbrush and comb,
And relax, traveling Max, when you finally get home?
Sherwyn Warren 2/2/06
WHEN YOU WENT AWAY
Not much really happened
Even though you went away.
The sun rose every morning,
Stayed out throughout the day,
The birds sang with the dawning,
Then flew off out of sight,
The moon rose in the evening,
The stars came out at night.
Folks shopped at the super marts,
Put petrol in their tanks,
Checked books out the library,
Cashed checks at all the banks.
We’re glad to see you—back at last
And checking in today.
We’ve managed to get by OK.
How long were you away?
Sherwyn Warren 11/29/04 6/12/05
WHEN I WALK INTO THE HOUSE
When I walk into the house
I’m not home unless she’s there:
There’s no light unless I see her,
No warmth until I touch her,
No life until I feel her breath,
No love until I hold her tight.
When I leave without her, I’m adrift,
So strong have our tethers grown
With the pulling of the years.
Sherwyn Warren