Kate Wiley

Many poets only have one work
Known and remembered after they are gone
The Mona Lisa overshadows all
And many one-time sculptors stand alone.
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Like thoughts held deep within my heart,
The joy that rustling leaves impart
Brings forth life's greatest comforting
A breathing there of subtle art.
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The National Forest called the Big Thicket in East and Southeast Texas-I found this dreamy atmosphere there.

The tall trees in the forest now are hushed
And listen to a song, long past, that rushed
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Outlined against the blue so very deep
With bare feet planted firmly on the clouds
The angels furled their robes in glorious sweep.
They graced the sky with multitudes, their proud
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Now lingers Evening; iridescent light
Fading, folds in closing shades of Night.
Minute fireflies flash in reverie
Ah, the tiny sparks of mystery!
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Midnight wind rushed through
Wild trees in dark milieu-
They bowed their heads
And danced a pas de deux.
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I played one day a nice Swiss dance
For Rita and her girls.
Rita jumped up and grabbed their hands
And pulled them into swirls.
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We cannot always see our brother's heart
And have perception only partially.
We weep for what of love mankind has shown;
Also for that which we have never seen.
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Ships are homing in for winter harbor
Now the sun is past its evening glow
Far in northern reaches where there's naught
Save endless ice and glaciers and snow.
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Quiet were the fields in winter white
Silent were the songs of every bird.
Bemused, creation watched the jeweled snow
Come gently, thickly falling, scarcely heard.
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We stood in late, late grasses lost,
Bare feet in midst of soft white sand
Near trees so old that even they
Could not recall when they began.
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my goal is to write 24 nocturnes, after Chopin. I have 14 so far.

That rushing siege of Midnight Storm
Wielding her weight in mighty form,
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My father lay long in the dusk
His form was nothing but a husk,
The doctor said he could not heal.
Listening close in night's soft hush
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They gaze at me
Fearful to know
Curiously
Which? Write or throw?
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He climbed up in the north side tree
To cut off a branch that offended me.
His chain saw he then started running,
Its motor he was fiercely gunning
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My tree, while weeping bitter tears,
Its strong arms drooping, twisted low,
Low to my level-whispered songs
Its old heart knew from the long ago.
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On Chopin's 24 Etudes

These images before my eyes
Pass vaguely-shadows shimmering.
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A melody, so sweet and true
From a bird upon a branch,
And an angel on a cloud
Whose head was bowed o’er hands in prayer;
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On the old wooden bridge that spanned our stream
Many hours were spent of my childhood in dream
Gazing, reflecting on scenes I had known
The one hand reaching toward life and home
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We'll remember him-all of us.
How could we forget a man like that,
The man in black
In a world which was dark
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