Period Italian Sonnet

Roses of War

In line I stand upon a windless hill,
More silent than the grave I watch and wait.
Unknowing soldiers march to take the bait.
My arrow nocked with bow drawn back until
Then comes the signal high and loud and shrill!
My arrow flies to meet it’s destined fate,
The soldiers turn to flee but much too late;
The rain of arrows cease when all is still.

I see the bodies lying down below.
The smell of blood and carnage fills my nose,
And I accept my part in what’s to be.
For victory only holds a single rose,
And face the truth my heart would have me know.
The enemy I killed this day is me.

Isabella Poliziana (05/31/07)

Period poem - Pathya Vat (Cambodian)

The Vessel

Here is the clay
Lump on a wheel
Nothing to feel
Everything blurred.

Around it spins
Nothing assured
Now hope is stirred
Waiting for sight.

The potter’s hands
With gentle might
Begins the rite
Shaping the clay.

It takes the form
From hands obey
And trust someday
Value to hold.

When shape is done
No more to mold
From fire comes gold
Fit for a king.

Dedication

For all the times you’ve dried my tears
and tucked me in at night.
For scaring away the “boogie man,”
and leaving on the light.

For all the times I lied to you
and went behind your back,
For all the times you told me “no”
and my hearing seemed to lack.

For all the words I said to you
I didn’t mean to say,
but couldn’t take them back because
my pride got in the way.

Now as I set out in life
I finally understand,
that I never would have made it
if you hadn’t held my hand.

And so I dedicate this poem
to you, my mom and dad,
I know how much you love me
because you gave me all you had.

1984

Sounding


In the utter depths of darkened silence,
Comes a haunting call that echoes round;
Over a million years of unchanged essence
The dwindling cries of the humpbacks sound.

With the mountains of ice that drift through the years
In the heart freezing waters that touch the sky,
Live the great gentle beasts that cry without tears,
And live only in fear of the harpooner’s cry.

The Gift

A woman once beheld a man
She knew could end her pain.
If she could only get his help
It would not be in vain.
She thought, “If I could hold his hand
I know this trial will end,
If I could only touch his cloak
My body then would mend.”
So weaving through the pressing crowd
His hem she gently brushed,
And when the man turned to his men
The crowd around him hushed.
“Someone here has touched my robe,”
His words were deep and clear;
And finding his eyes holding hers
She knelt down in fear.
Then with a smile of gentle love
He raised her to her feet;
Said, “Daughter by your faith are healed,”
And sent her down the street.

Now we don’t have to touch his clothes
When faced with pain and strife,
To feel the power of his love,
Or have eternal life.
A simple call brings Jesus near
He answers every one,
And by His grace will set you free
His gift for all who come.

Rebecca

An Italian sonnet

Mary’s Garden Sonnet


Like the others I stand in line;
A cockleshell adorns my dress.
To look at me no one could guess
My slippered feet are made of vine.
We drink the springtime rain like wine
And bloom a vision of loveliness;
Pawns standing in a game of chess,
There beauty second only to mine.

One day Mary came to our garden bed
To trim our fingers and smooth our gowns.
To capture my beauty I’m cut at the knee.
My screams she can’t hear, nor can she see
The stem she leaves will turn brittle and brown;
The maid she saved for tomorrow is dead.

Rebecca

The Seeker
Sometimes I hear
Inside my head
The silent screams
of a dying world.

Or maybe it's not
A world I hear
But a shattered heart
On the cold dark stone.

Soap Bubbles
The life we live is illusion
Nothing is what it seems
We keep turning round empty corners
Following soap bubble dreams.

Rebecca