see more of Lainie's artwork here

"MORNING AT GRAM'S PLACE"

The Rising

(From Gram's Place)

At dawn wind rises;
soft, sweet air
blows in from Gulf;
awakens all leaves of live oak;
they twitter merrily,
this tree of tiny birds.
Sunlight tiptoes around courtyard,
a gypsy ballerina that touches,
here and there, bricks of burnt sienna.
Palm fronds, ladies of the court,
sway and lift, swishing long skirts
in turn of the dance.
It is a morning to rise and stretch
as far as the blue of sky;
spread arms wide to embrace
every moment of day.

Lainie Senechal

***********

Apples of Gold

Eyes close anticipate dreams.
Visions of you flow into mind.
Sleep is a stranger in restless bed.
Awake, heart and loins ache
To feel your warm presence
That inundates my senses.
Your sweet scent revives;
I thrive with your healing hands
That caress the spirit;
You offer cup to slake thirst of soul.
Emotions’ full-bodied wine
Pours into twin gleaming goblets;
Imbibing deeply empties lovers’ crystal.
Lingering bouquet of holy liquid
Mingles with your fragrant essence.
When my thoughts drink of you,
Intoxication floats me on its river;
Leads to the harbor of your arms.
Distant mirage of Eden beckons;
I stay to taste your apples of gold.

Harris Gardner

***********

"BEACH ON ST.JOHN'S"

The Source

Passion and the blue moon
Reach their peak tonight.
Emotions rise and retreat
In rhythm with the tides.
Our source is its flood;
We encased soothing liquid
Of primal maternal womb,
As we struggled into
Bright blaze of dry land.
It continues to course
Through capillaries;
To bathe every cell,
Memory of original cadence
Embedded in each.
Our prenates are lulled
By remnant of ancient sea.
I am drawn into you,
Like ocean to shore;
Abandon to desire,
Its intense flame of wanting,
Born of liquid and moonlight.

Lainie Senechal

***********

In Ecstasy I Sing

Each night is that little drifting death
with dreams to comfort temporary slumbering.
I want to scream myself awake
for reassurance so that others need not
wake for me. Shake off muttered conversation.
I surrender my seed for confirmation.
Cauldron of existence stirs sensations.
Breath conspires to enhance ensemble dance.
Procreative urges surge through leonine loins.
Climactic roars of ecstasy
create reality from fantasy.

Rhythmic ocean tides draw me toward the moon.
Cross currents carry me on conflicted journeys.
I want to converse with her enigmatic face
that confronts me nightly from nearby cobalt space.
I want to move with the flow of her subtle moods.
She gently pulls me away from focused reason.

Thought fragments float, coalesce.
Message symbols form abstract sculpture of sphinx.
Answers to mental riddles replenish more questions.
Chain of intellect forges connected links.
Luna ticks nocturnal measure of spheres music.
Celestial symphony climaxes in crescendo.
Silvered night’s haloed oratorio merges with the harmony.
I strive to achieve melody in correct choral key;
I sing exultantly; in ecstasy, I sing !

Harris Gardner

***********

Dusky Veils of Night

Passage from daylight to darkness,
a heavenly sky, piles on piles of clouds,
composed from delicate threads
of antique silver and pink of spun sugar.
Above, the sky glows with remains of a blue,
reminiscent of Giotto’s frescos that line
a small chapel in Padua.
An icy white moon resides here,
aloof and assured; assuming
command of her domain.
We walk under the dome
of this twilight wonder.
Evening comes, silently dropping
her dusky veils.
Sun has released his hot, electric grip;
His overload of searing energy.
We relax into cool comfort
of a lunar land;
put down burden of day;
release responsibility of light;
peel off the layers that bind.
Night wraps us in deep velvet
and black sable.
Inner self is boundless and free;
its illumination mirrors heavenly orb;
becomes a shadowy, nocturnal creature,
moving soundlessly in unfathomable dark.
We are transformed into
beings of mystery and wonder.
Our secret thoughts loosened
to travel course of our desire.
For harsh judgment of day
wields no power in this space.
It is now that my lover,
like an angel, appears; envelops
with embrace of great, gray wings.
We fuse and take flight, a grand mythic bird;
we melt into the mist that unites
heaven with earth.

Lainie Senechal

***********

Whitman Pond Family Values

Proud family of geese serenely glide
on Whitman Pond in silver tinted day’s demise.
Bumper crop of bugs and otherwise bothersome flies
provides better than average opportunity
for above average number of eggs to become
hatchlings, then gawky members
of gathered growing gaggle.
Those that survive fox, cars, and other predators
will thrive and add their honking communications
silhouetted across turning seasons skies.

Now, however, visible evidence bears witness
to nature’s neutral process of attrition.
Mother leads with two progeny between;
father follows in vanguard; head erect, alert,
watchful for other decimating danger.
In cornucopia contrast, a related group of nine
forage on striped asphalt for grubs and crumbs,
casually scattered oven - baked surplus.

Etched against background of growing shadows,
solitary fisherman reflects quietude of flat
reflecting surface of unbroken pond silence.
Any disturbance will require another source for dinner.
Drowning worms don’t notice difference between success
or defeat in valiant struggles of man and fish.

Parking lot paradise is shattered
by belch and growl of awakened engine.
Nervous parents nudge untutored offspring
onto unrippled surface of unruffled waters refuge.
Others who have arrived before
trumpet welcoming notes of greeting;
in unison, the gathering honks down the sun.

Harris B. Gardner

***********

"VIEW FROM SAN PEDRO CREEK"

Implements and Treasures

(on viewing the personal implements used
by the Dalai Lama and treasures that remain
from Tibetan Buddhist culture)

We enter gallery holding treasured memories
of men and women driven
from high mountain mists.
They speak to us of a journey and a sword -
a weapon of knowledge to cut
through ignorance, revealing wisdom;
a path of compassion whose
entrance is the opened heart;
lustful passion transformed into
desire for love universal.
Dual aspects of humankind,
male and female, daily balanced.
Our days turn on wheel of life,
and cymbals sound, horns blast,
our drifting thoughts to mindfulness.
Is it ourselves whom we must conquer
and then make peace?
Ancient scrolls tell of web of life;
although we are a separate strand,
our connection to all living beings
arose in the origin.
We exit exhibit, but turn and reenter,
not ready to face our mundane world;
held by mysteries and wonders,
in rarefied air we cannot quite comprehend.
Traveling home, sunset turns crimson
and gold of ancient images; edge of sky,
lotus-petal pink of enlightenment.
Moon rises, saffron yellow,
and I wonder, as night descends,
can we, terrestrial creatures
with feet of clay, but cosmic souls,
transcend into heavens realm?
It comforts to know that among us
are those living quietly;
who will step forth, at the right moment,
to illuminate our way.

Lainie Senechal

***********

The Mother Weeps

His work is cloaked in good intent, but is it ?
He powers jaws that ravenously devour
not-so-resilient rainforest. Just a hard hat
doing his job, because it’s what
he knows, to bring an honest meal
to the family nest. Conscience doesn’t
twinge or cringe even a little bit.
Machines bite chunks and feed in frenzy on ancient trees.
No cognizance that earth’s climate
is acting pretty twitchy like a skittish cat.
Displaced habitats systems succumb;
planet deteriorates in clutch of conglomerates.
Hungry bottom lines indifferently desecrate
nature’s holy breathing places.
Nests skeletal remnants sway in fallen branches.
Notes lighter than angel song no more enrich the breeze.
Bull-like bellows belch from throats of crunching engines.
Assault on the land advances with no sleight-of-hand.
Bones of wood bear scattered testimony.
Petrified corporate spirit augments
impoverished farmers laments.
Money leaks from ice-filled veins; earth scream is stifled.
Blood sap flows from severed trunks.
The mother weeps for her children
who are herded to fuel inferno of commerce.
Bleeding stumps consecrate littered landscape,
though twisted sacrifice does not seem to suffice.
Throttling mercantile tendrils gorge on their soul-blasted waste.
Weary laborer commiserates with sunset’s readiness for rest;
escapes to domicile and grateful arms of family.
Falling trees do make a sound of rending heart-break
even when within hearing there is no other
to witness demise except the mother;
and the mother weeps; the mother mourns

Harris Gardner

***********

"BLACK HOLE"

Resilience

Detached,
floating free through universe;
drifting like an autumn leaf
onto the silver river;
swept along by current;
drowned in the rapids;
whirling down the vortex
of the Blackhole
to lair of the Great Bear;
reappearing, transformed,
in another galaxy;
to dance again
among the stars.

Lainie Senechal

see more of Lainie's art here

To more poetry by Lainie Senechal
with her sisters Donna & Laura

(email)