Skip to main content

FIELD OF POPPIES by Eva Marie Cagley


Field of Poppies

      by Eva Marie Cagley 


I remember when you were mine,

Another place, another time.

Walking through the meadow we were,

gathering up scarlet poppies.

Dancing in the cool velvety breeze,

still brings me to my wobbling knees.

We gazed upon that pure white shooting star,

the one that came so far.

And made our vows to each other then,

we`d be as one from here on in.

I heard a nightingale sing a melody that

became our song.

In our hearts we knew that we belonged,

within each other’s arms.

Oh, how sweet the music to my ears,

as we grew old throughout the years.

We walked that meadow many a time,

listening for our song, as we hummed along.

Until one day I walked alone,

gazing upwards into the indigo night.

Searching for the brightest star.

I saw you from afar.

‘Twas then I did hear our song

and I swear you hummed along.

Comforted now in knowing, I could always

find you in our meadow of scarlet poppies.

Dancing and humming

our nightingale’s sweet song.



*For submission guidelines, click here.*

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

IMAGINE A WOMAN by Patricia Lynn Reilly

  This poem invites you to look upon yourself with loving kindness… Gazing at your own true reflection, you will discover that everything you have longed for “out there” is already within you! I invite you to love your creativity fiercely. Faithfully plant seeds, allowing under-the-ground dormant seasons, nurturing your creative garden with love and gratitude. In the fullness of time, the green growing things thrust forth from the ground. It's a faithful, trustworthy process. AND it takes time and patience.  Blessed is the fruit of your creative womb! I invite you to trust your vision of the world and express it. With wonder and delight, paint a picture, create a dance, write a book, and make up a song. To give expression to your creative impulses is as natural as your breathing. Create in your own language, imagery, and movement. Follow no script. Do not be limited by the customary way things have been expressed. Your creative intuition is original. Gather

FOR TARA by Penn Kemp

FOR TARA * Goddess of Compassion and Wisdom, I need to recall,  reclaim you, invite you to return to my heart. Come back  to my heart, Love, where you are home. There’s room.  There is room enough for two, for multitudes. For you.  Become me, I beg you. Worry my concern into peace.  Shake this rag doll out of stiff contrition back to joy.  Till bones, blood, marrow, mind all leap up to dance,  to expand and mingle with the greater Presence, gift  we are heir to if we remember to remember the Whole.  The whole that made us, not that hole I fall into.  From her celestial seat in the Pure Land, Tara smiles, extending a hand of pure blessing, her invitation. Up. Penn Kemp --poet, performer and playwright-- has been active in Canada’s literary scene since her first publication of poetry,  Bearing Down , by Coach House (1972). As well as editing Canada’s first anthology of women’s  writing,  IS 14  (1973), many of her books have been devoted to

WINTER SOLSTICE: A GIFT OF LOVE by Carolyn Riker

I’ve had several days now of alone time… It is unusual and a gift that I couldn’t see until I breathed it. I have been able to watch the sun’s rise through the grey of dawn and smile at the flickers of frost melting on the waving boughs of evergreen. It’s unique to follow daylight as it traverses the tempo of a cat’s soft slumbering purr. Night comes swifter and the glow of candles and the flames of fire comfort me more than the steady stream of always-doing-more. As much as I resisted, I needed this break. I had no idea how much my body was trying to tell me   slow down   until the exhaustion settled in around my joints. My eyes swam in molasses. Heaviness of I-can’t-hold-out-much-long, walked me to the throne of my nest. It’s winter’s gift of self-nurturing and love. It’s been a quiet proclamation of femininity and a need for comfort foods. Lemon crisps and cranberry, white-chocolate shortbread dipped in tea; I felt a hint of being pampered without