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Ann Dow Poems
foxes' lament (in the key of d)
..better a solitary stroll, with a gentle breeze beside the forest stream than lingering doubt
lux et umbra
WHO ARE YOU? (i am me, i am who i am, i am she) (i am a name which shall not be named)
i am on a journey… wandering through my own life - like someone set loose amid the market stalls of a wild and exotic bazaar.
I thought I knew… and in my numbed surity, I betrayed my soul. (days, and weeks, and years …different battles but the same field- strewn with the grisly carnage that colors my inner landscape-
...The 'Kelvin' Problem...
...so like bubbles, the surface tension of my soul... fragile, existing to be seen- reflecting the shifting colors of what is packed, edge to edge inside... the beauty of the sphere, what is my own, escapes and transfixes me.. like a bird in the air, near the shore, where the bubbles from the surf form foamy piles on the growing warmth of the sand
…walking down the paths of my heart… i find no pause, in the stony garden there…. nor roses scenting the air… but…
Midsummer Night's Dream
today the trees are in full leafy glory their varigated greens a blanket nature-knit, stretching before my devouring gaze… flowers bursting, a slow and sensuous rainbow… bushes erupting, gleefully adding their hues to the unfolding symphonic balance…
from a distance, without one whispered word…. (like a gardener watching the ripening crop…day by day) regardless of the storms of time swirling … and the circumstance blatantly convincing through murmured river-like logic…
...there is a burning bleeding in my soul... i am cut, like paper snowflakes from my youth... - but held up to the light of the window of self, the complicated beauty of the folding and dissecting ...are missing..instead only a deep yawning crevasse, an ache with no balm..
I sat upon a wicker chair And sipped a cup of tea.. While tempests raged outside I drank...you..in
is it quiet, where you are? ….do the streams and eddies of life touch you or are you wrapped so closely within the silence that not even the lightening can rouse you from your reverie… perhaps you have journeyed overlong, and become lost in some primeval forest of the mind…
i chase myself… restless amber thoughts dancing through the corridors of my mind… the tattered memories, threadbare, worn …are able still to exert a vise-like grip on my heart…
In The Still
...your breath covers my skin- it's warmth like the early morning fog covering the waking fields and hillsides.... -creeping crawling deliciously to clothe me and i wish only for the dawn... and with the growing warmth of the sun, your eyes in perfect synergy
from my nose to the length of my arm the old ways are often best... (i sit in the dim light of evening and measure the lengthening of days...) within the fabric of my existence, i am confined, ragged edges dipping low on the ground... dragging in the damp full earth of fall...
Comments about Ann Dow
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
foxes' lament (in the key of d)
..better a solitary stroll,
with a gentle breeze
beside the forest stream
than lingering doubt
in fruitless pursuit
of shadowed hares..
(The fox looks toward the dawn and sings..)