The Distilled Essence of Daphne

Sunday, June 5, 2011

Corvid the Crow

Corvid the Crow

The winged bandit of sparkly things

Flies o’er the field of corn,

And he is a wise and ancient bird

Of heart’s desires borne.

Blackest feathers, orange-yellow beak,

He caws to give a warning,

Ever vigilant a guardian he,

Preferring gaiety to mourning.

Psychopomp and watcher he

And executor of law,

Teacher of the ways of life

Sometimes with humor raw.

A creative bird but not held down,

The crow can be relied on;

His mischief and his swarthy ways

Often get him lied on.

Ah, crow, crow, delightful bird

A family bird is here,

Crow will never fly quite straight…

But that’s what makes him dear.

ã2 June 1999, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw.

Brown Betty’s Brew

Brown Betty’s Brew

Where does this slightly astringent

Yet tantalizingly fruity sweet amber

Liquid warmth come from?

Like ambrosia and nectar,

A paradisical flavor

With milk and honey flowing…

Is this an emperor’s brew or

A pirate’s treasure?!

How satisfying to drink

This mug

Of Earl Grey.

ã14 April 1998, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw.

Tuscan Red

Tuscan Red

Vined ripeness, Tuscan red

Dripping, oozing into the clay

Fired to an inebriated blush

Of hunger, thirst, desire

For one perfect grape.

ã14 April 1998, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw.

The Dog Sentry

The Dog Sentry

Attentively scouring the horizon of the yard

And the immediate vicinity,

She stands her watch,

Guarding her fort and troops

From rabbits, groundhogs, birds,

And especially cats…

Seeing an encroachment,

She silently stalks the intruder

Until she is in position…

Then pounce and chase,

Faster and faster,

Until the field is cleared once again.

Satisfied, she returns to her post

On the porch.

ã23 April 1998, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw.

Dandelion Yellow

Dandelion Yellow

A sunny-faced yellow smiling with

Basking, buttery, brilliance,

Dandelion’s daring defiance

Of human efforts to

Devastate

A generous herb.

ã14 April 1998, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw.

A Late Autumn Afternoon

A Late Autumn Afternoon

Grayish-blue edge with lighter gray,

Whiffs of white,

Shadowed by purples and black,

The snow clouds pile on one another.

The bare, black barked trees silhouetted against the sky

Sway forming intricate, delicate designs in the air.

The brown fallen leaves no longer rustle or dance on the breeze.

All seems peaceful, so quiet,

As if this were the season to be silent.

ã22 November 1993, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw.

A Late November Night

A Late November Night

A clear, sky on a cold late November night is breath taking.

The panorama of stars and moon are splendrous.

The stillness and the bone-chilling coldness

Seem to frame the sacred…

What great mysteries to behold, to cherish.

ã22 November 1993, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw.

Dawn

Dawn

The lightening rosy-orange against the bluish-purple eastern sky

Heralds the sun’s arising again today.

The birds sing to welcome the dawn

As the children of the night quiet down for sleep.

The morning star beckons expectantly just above the horizon

As all the stars except ours disappear from sight.

Then there he is, rolling up into position

For his westwardly daily trip.

Morning with its crisp, clean air,

Fresh and new…

The beauty of life given for one more day.

ã22 November 1993, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw.

Saturday, June 4, 2011

Please Don’t Leave Me Here All Alone

Please Don’t Leave Me Here All Alone

Away you go on a trip of which I cannot join,

And I am afraid.

Afraid you’ll go never to return;

Afraid you’ll die;

Frightened I’ll never see you alive again;

Frightened I’ll be alone

Forever…

Left behind…

Forgotten and unloved…

Unclaimed.

Unwanted forever.

ã19 December 1993, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw.

Harsh Forgivings

Harsh Forgivings

Life is like the ocean…

Its vastness is fluidly changing

Second to second

Even when calm;

The harshness affords little mercy,

But the depths hide many sins.

ã14 April 1998, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw.

The Sand Flea Funeral

The Sand Flea Funeral

Welcome to Parris Island,

Some news skills you will command.

That even the Devil left this place—

Said he needed a cooler space.

So let me tell you what’s the story.

You do what I say, you morning glory.

If I decide to say you stand,

Don’t you dare move a hand.

If a sand flea bites your face,

Soldier, don’t you me disgrace.

If you cannot let him pass—

Slap him, pansy, I’ll have your ass!

For that Sand Flea is a Marine Corps bug—

Kill it, and you’re just a slimy slug.

Full Marine Corps burial you will give.

So, I strongly advise you: Let the bug live.

Decoration Day

Decoration Day

The week before Decoration Day

To each veteran’s plot we’d go

To mow and clean up,

To plant flags to fly,

And sow some seeds to grow.

To be there.

To remember.

To honor.

The ancestors would somehow know.

So to each cemetery we’d go—

Woodland, The Bradshaw Cemetery,

Some on hilltops behind farmhouses,

Some in the woods or along

John’s Creek, Elkin’s Creek, and more…

Some easy access,

Some quite a climb.

Did the spirits see us there?

Were they comforted that the dead were not forgotten?

That their sacrifices were honored?

Then we’d go home.

Fly the flag.

Fix a family feast to be eaten after

The Parade…

The traditions are the same now

Even though they changed the name.

Memorial or Decoration…

The ancestors somehow would know.

“Macam Tiae Lembu!”

“Macam Tiae Lembu!”

(Malay for “Sounds Like a Cow Shitting!”)

For My Husband Avalon Ajang Ledong—

Royal Malaysian Army, Sarawak Rangers

Army training can be a chore;

In boot camp, abuse is piled on more.

You can train both days and nights

And don’t you worry about your rights…

For you have none.

Drill sergeant will bark if you are wrong.

Sometimes he’ll make you bark along.

You’ll not be left to be long idled.

You’ll find to what you’re entitled…

If you live long.

Marching here, marching there;

You’ll go marching everywhere.

You’ll go marching in the rain.

You’ll be marching while insane.

You’ll go marching up a hill.

Oh, you’ll like the marching drill.

When marching sergeant says you stop,

Don’t you let your feet ker-plop.

Just one POP he wants to hear

Or he’ll shout straight in your ear…

“Macam tiae lembu!”

Hard Facts Harder Faced

Hard Facts Harder Faced

Who said our soldiers could not be psychos?

Who said we always are saints?

Where is it written we do the right thing

And never show evil or taint?

War is hell, lest we forget it,

And crimes of war even much more…

Can we train a human to kill, not to feel,

Without evil allowed in that door?

Rape is a tool and an agent of war.

So is massacre, torture, mayhem.

Even a good man can snap to a monster

And live only to slay ‘em.

None of us are guiltless, much to our pain,

But we are trapped in this way,

If ever we forget the humanity of victims

From Coshocton to Mai Lai.

And Still the Channel to Cross

And Still the Channel to Cross

Looking around,

Nerves stretched taut,

The winds and waters churning.

All are pale.

None will return.

Deep terror in us burning.

Normandy,

Damn those cliffs,

A beach changed to bloody swampland…

Though thousands die

To win that beach

From Hell’s elitist command.

Friday, June 3, 2011

Ironton’s Memorial Day Parade

Ironton’s Memorial Day Parade

To remember to honor and to celebrate,

To decorate the graves of those who fought…

Ironton parades through most of the middle of town—

Bands, floats, horses, clowns…

But most of all, people—

People of all types and ages.

Used to be said, if you were able,

You marched.

Whole classes of school children marched.

Men alongside the streets took off their hats,

And everyone put a hand to heart.

I remember the hours of preparation:

With chicken wire and tissue on trucks,

The band practices and marches,

Or, even Brownies getting scout cheers and songs right…

To ride in a squad car, a fire truck or an Army-Navy Duck…

Just to be in The Parade.

Now people come from everywhere to see our parade,

Our Parade…longest lasting…and proud.

May the graves be decorated,

The flag flown free;

May the flowers thrown on the River

Say thank you for liberty…

And may Ironton ever be able

To march for memory.

Those Orange Poppies

Those Orange Poppies

I remember the old men standing in front of Kresges

Selling small paper poppies…

Small orange flowers on a wire

That we hooked onto ourselves with pride—

‘Though some hooked them on to show they’d paid their buck,

But me, with a mix bittersweet, mostly sad—

Were always the skies gray those days,

Threatening rain?

Or, was it my heart would burst

Seeing those men whose smiles…

Smiles that never quite hid

Deeply wounded,

Woefully sad eyes?

She Never Married

She Never Married

For Vivian Taylor, A Friend and Landlady

(*loosely based on her story)

“Sweet lover, be safe as you fly from this place

To your missions in the Pacific.

I will await your return for then do we wed

After Guam, Midway, and ‘Unspecific.’”

Many letters she wrote, many pictures she sent,

Care packages when she was able…

While meanwhile she worked as a nurse and an aide

Though times were very unstable.

Sometimes he would write when he had the time

For combat, of time, was commanding.

Assuring him forever she would be true

Even though he was not so demanding.

This gave them both hope and a measure of joy

In the face of great fearful unknowing

Of where he would be, or if he would be

A part of a blood crop then sowing.

A year thereabout after he flew

Away from his love at the airport,

Two soldiers in blue came to her home

With the most regrettable report.

She took it quite well until they were gone

Then she collapsed on the sunroom divan,

Crying, “Sweet lover, be safe as you fly from this place

Until I join you in your mission in heaven.”

Flashback to Mekong: The War in Viet Nam

Flashback to Mekong: The War in Viet Nam

For Dustin Massie, Daniel Massie, David Massie,

Wayne Massie, and James Delong, My Cousins Who

All served willingly and honorably

And still the evil fought through lives

In minds and bodies all tattered

With memories of a limb or an ear

Or a child blown up and scattered.

Flashback to the now of the time when we hid

From the nightmare of still living

With a best friend’s right arm,

All that was left, of the life he was giving…

For a country who hated us…

In a country who hated us…

No reprieve.

Nineteen years old and proud of this land

Of our birth, our family, and teaching,

Many were drafted, so they couldn’t say no,

Regardless of the masses loud screeching.

War heroes, yeah right, stoned out of our minds

Blinding to terrors more real

Than any horror king knows,

And in our souls they live with us still…

For a country who hated us…

In a country who hated us…

No reprieve.

A Mother Cries for Her Fallen Son

A Mother Cries for Her Fallen Son

For Mrs. Goldcamp, Our Neighbor

Never will the guns be so silent

As the silence after death

Of those fallen to fight “the cause juste.”

Is a common life so shorn

Or youth so plentiful

To be offered up this way

By the wrathful God

Who has known not childbirth

Nor the enfolding of life

Into one’s arms, one’s heart, one’s womb?

In righting wrongs,

Did my son, my own,

Die suffering?

Did he fear the end when it came?

Did he know my love

Would outlast the grave…

Was this just cause worth this blood sacrifice

Offered to the God of war…

That tears my heart always?

Ah, my son, brave man and true,

Willing soldier, mother’s pride,

Well fought against madmen gone berserk

Setting the world on fire again.

Sleep now, my son,

For the guns are now dreadfully silent

But still at ready for

Another mother’s son.