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Poetry

Certain ideas impell me to express them in the form of poetry;  other ideas find their ways into essays and opeds. I'm not a person who writes poetry in response to highs or lows in my life, nor do I resort to it as a psychological release. When the form seems right for the idea, I go with it. This is neither right nor wrong - it's just how I respond.

The following are representative.

Weymouth - the Boyds - and the Transmigration of Energy
Garden of Wishes
Yesterday is Yet Today
Can Love Transcend Death?

Note:
Since 1984, Bill and I have had twice-a-year writer-in-residences at the Weymouth Center for the Arts & Humanities in Southern Pines, NC. 
A legend persists that the ghosts of the former owners roam the mansion: some claim to have heard James Boyd typing; others that they've heard Catherine Boyd humming. 
I was invited to submit the poem to the right to an anthology edited by the poet laureate of North Carolina. 
Weymouth - the Boyds - and the 
Transmigration of Energy

Ghosts inspire the writer's muse 
As James types a staccato tune 
And Katherine hums her melody. 

Like the prickly cones of the longleaf pine, 
The seeds of the mind expand with new births, 
And creative surges feed the soul.

Fresh words sing from the spirit 
To form realities shaped in black and white, 
While the writer forges the chain of continuity. 

- Gloria T. Delamar

- from Weymouth: An Anthology of Poetry: 
edited by Sam Ragan: The St. Andrews Press, 1987

Garden of Wishes

Let your wishes adorn your daily life,
For wishes are fragrant flowers
That bloom in the garden of the mind.
The best wish begins
As a tiny seed of thought,
Expands to become a possibility,
And finally explodes
In a reality of fulfillment.

- Gloria T. Delamar

- from The Wishing Handbook: More than 500 Ways to Make Your Wishes Come True;
Gloria T. Delamar: Running Press, 1999

Note:
Though this and the above poem have different focuses, that little seed of thought managed to plant itself into both.
Yesterday Is Yet Today

My childhood's summer streets were filled with
Hide-and-seek, kick-the-can, and tag,
Or high-water-low-water, here-we-come-where-from,
and may I.
Under street-lamps, jokes and secrets
Took turns with tremulous off-key tunes, 
While ice-cream and popsicles cooled
Our youthful energies.
And though the playmates faces fade in and out
In memory,
The essence of elation and play is as alive
In my spirit today as
Yesterday, last year, and years ago.

- Gloria T. Delamar

- from Voices, USG, 1979

 
Can Love Transcend Death?

They play games with mortality . . .
And ask how I want to return.
    As my mate's mate, I say.
But that isn't the game,
So I choose the seasoned oak
Whose gnarled and outstretched branches
Bespeak a beauty in growing old.
Choose an animal they say.
And I opt for something mythical;
Oh a Pegasus, unicorn, or dragon, perhaps.
And the game goes on.
Choose a bird, choose a flower,
    But they won't let me choose me.
For evidently, being human is taboo.
    Yet imperfect, pluperfect, future perfect;
    What I seek is a karma
    That lets me live again
    Within the arms of our mutual reincarnation.

- Gloria T. Delamar

- from Voices, USG, 1979

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