Esther Triess
Lainie, Donna & Laura Senechal
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Adrift
Will you come dears?
Will you come to join me here,
At the edge of enchantment?
Your voices are floating to me
with the sound of dishes
being dried and washed
and put away in the old glass cupboard
with the skeleton key.
All these years...
the glass is aged and fragile;
it clatters brittly within its frame.
The pair of hands that washes
must have gone pruny and white.
The dishcloth must be soggy.
Oh finish and come!
I am here at the end of the dock
where summer laughter rises and falls,
spilling out of open windows and
over the dark ruffled surface of the lake.
My feet dangle and swirl in water
just warmer than air,
disappearing under a wavy reflection
of the starry and moonless sky.
Low waves softly fall upon the shore,
tenderly rocking our father’s sailboat
as they pass.
Its white hull shines out against the darkness.
Tiny red and green lights move
swiftly in the distance,
announcing the arrival of grander waves
from the wake of a distantly buzzing boat.
Presently, they will send the sailboat
bucking and slapping against the water,
its bare bones rigging all slam and strain
on its momentary wild ride
until calmer waters settle it down again.
Fair Delphinus twinkles overhead,
at play near shore of our island universe.
Your laughter, so familiar, reaches me.
O come, hurry, it cannot last.
The Northern Crown bejewels the sky!
Upon the shore wall,
upon the dock, my legs,
upon the swinging surface of the boat hull
light from Naiad’s lantern plays out its sinuous
multiform patternings,
its shimmering light show that
accompanies the rhythmic splashing of the waves.
The air is rich with faintly pungent aquatic smells.
Pour yourselves a little more wine
that sweet blood of life.
Let me hear the screen door squeak and slam
as footsteps descend wooden stairs
and cross the dewy grass to me.
Perhaps then, we’ll slip into
the warm and yielding water,
into a second skin of liquid night.
Perhaps then we’ll drift below the surface,
our hair in a silky spray about us...
and then, perhaps, we’ll follow
the glimmers of light ‘neath the waves
to find the Naiad herself,
pale pierrot lights dancing
beneath her translucent skin,
as she spins out her sivery strands of loveliness
and casts her charms upon the waters.
Laura J. Senechal
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
All Hallow’s Eve
I live in a place called
Ashford Hollow, or rather,
it lives in me.
That is to say, it tolerates
my presence.
But on one very special night
it takes on a new name -
Weird Hollow.
A fitting name as many spirits
reside here - Power Spirits.
All Halllow’s Eve -
sprite fires come to life.
Pagan ceremonies are reborn.
Celtic traditions reign this night.
Fire, that old devil.
The first power man grasped
in his rough hands,
and with brutish awareness,
mastered its ferocity.
Ah, but there are many other powers
which control poor man.
Tonight is the night to pay
Tribute to these dark powers.
This night stirs old fears and
half-believed mysteries.
Weird Hollow is teeming with
these primitive forms.
And, we remember that we
are human and the hues
are many shades of dark
as well as light.
We remember that we are not
antiseptic, automatic beings
of order and restraint.
Instead we hear the madman
howling within.
We remember that we can
growl, stalk, lust, fear, feel.
We remember the earth is our
Mother, our ancient bewitcher;
seducing one moment,
destroying the next.
We remember our animal selves
where our home is earth and sky.
We remember that we are power,
power Spirit, flesh and blood,
bone and ash.
So join me, brave comrades,
around the ancient circle.
Let us invoke the spirits
of this night.
Let us conjure up the
primitive soul within.
Donna Ray Senechal
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lady of the August Moon
I am strolling with
the Lady of the August Moon,
trailing her long silver veil
across this evening’s sky.
The seasons have cycled ‘round;
we celebrate your predicted return.
Rich and full, the harvest ready;
grains, grown golden in summer sun,
are rippled by winds in the fields,
tousling their stalks;
as it tosses your wheat-hued hair.
Yellow corn has ripened
with tassels of bronze;
sweet apples harvested;
round fruits’ rosy glow
matches the blush of your cheek.
We have come to gather;
to reap what we have sowed.
Tomatoes, fiery-red, hang low
and indolent on the vine.
Black-eyed Susans brighten garden path;
sweet scent of moonflower
and nicotiania perfume night air;
glistening with crystal raindrops
that replenish earth, dried
in the height of summer.
From these I will weave a garland
to adorn your tresses.
We will walk the heavens
among sprays of falling stars;
below, sounds of crickets rise from grasses;
fireflies flicker at edge of woods.
We rest with the heaviness
of our plentitude.
The bone cold spareness of winter;
laborious toil of spring are far behind;
let us not dwell tonight
on the melancholy and longing
of the season that lies ahead.
Lainie Senechal
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Westwind
It’s the wild places for me.
Wind roaring through the boughs
whips needle and stem.
Branches flex and release
to bend farther,
to twist more fully,
partners with the Earth’s breath
in the dance of the Westwind.
Black waters crest in white.
Fractured sunlight
glints brilliance in millions of tiny wavelets
that form greater waves
running before the gale towards this eastern shore.
Wave meets shore, and the force of the flowing wind
spreads over rocks and pebbles worn smooth
by dance between water and wind.
Over and again the same water meets the same shore
until the essence of rock lies mingled with the water
that has been its mate.
And again...
and shall do so until water no longer lives
unconstrained in this place,
long past the brief years this witness shall know here.
So run waves, roll, crest and break.
Find landfall so close together that the one
can only just be separated from the next.
Roar Western Wind,
for my heart, indeed my spirit
cannot contain my joy.
I cry out at your passing
and at the touch on my face
that teaches me your feral ways.
Laura J.Senechal
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Glints
Glints from late afternoon
sun on webs and
translucent wings of tiny
insect hordes hovering,
bobbing, and gliding through air.
Caws from distant crows,
crickets, and wasps provide
background music for these air dancers.
A breeze so gentle it rocks
only spindly weeds and
lovely delicate webs sending
out strobing lasers of light.
This waning afternoon
belongs to the insects.
They induce light to dance,
they impel air to sing.
Donna Ray Senechal
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Temptress
In the corner of old, venerable garden
I settle to paint a scene
respectful of her grace
and stately passage of time -
muted grays of fence post
against mellow hues
of old fashioned blossoms.
Out of the corner of my eye
I caught her dazzle
that decadent dahlia
dancing in sea wind,
near edge of bed;
like a crass acquaintance
yoo-hooing from across avenue,
dressed in carnival colors,
negating any attempt
of one to present a demeanor
cool and reserved.
I had noticed her in passing;
her scarlet and gold petals
seemed a vagrant from tropic realms.
A tourist whose bright, garish garb
grated against gray
of Northern coastal scape.
As I unpacked my brushes and palette,
she winked and cavorted
in morning rays,
all flash and flirt.
I examined the colors before me;
my sight fell on deep carmine
and bright lemon yellow
that would imitate her form;
simple, direct, nothing concealed.
I turned my chair towards her,
for she knew my ways,
the secrets of my wild, wild heart.
Lainie Senechal
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