Sunday, February 28, 2016

Linda Dessaint Fine Art

Well, Dears
It’s another morning
Cold on the toes
With not much scratching
To be had
The ground is froze
No worm or bug today
My dears 
But we shall look
Be it in vain
The hope of spring
Is in the air
We hear the stirrings
Down below
The whispering of things
To grow
The waking up of buttercup
The rolling from the bed
Of bug
The crocus yawns
Beneath the lawn
The murmuring of
Juicy slug
We hear the close of
Winter’s door
We’ll keep the faith
And scratch some more

Sara Mathews  February 2016

Saturday, February 27, 2016

F. C. Hennessey

After several days
Of calling
From the wood
The happy little
Phoebe birds
Have finally
Found each other
They chase each other 
Around the grounds
And come to rest amid
The forsythia
And there
They whisper
Plans of parenthood
They scout around the house
And check beneath each eave
And wonder 
At the neighborhood
The cost of sticks and mud
And everyday things

Sara Mathews     February 2016

Friday, February 26, 2016

When darkness falls
I make my way
To find the furthest
Edge of day
The western rim
Where sun sinks in
To just a silver line of sky
And trees sketch sonnets
On the moon
And fracture night
And moan and cry
Like ghost ships
On a cloudy sea
They ride the tide
And carry me

Sara Mathews     February 2016

Thursday, February 25, 2016

If I am to be caught
May the silence
Enfold me
May she carry me off
May her green tendrils
Hold me
May I hide in the hush
Of a mist covered lake
Or the still of a morning
Reluctant to wake
Let the gloaming be worn
Like a gossamer shirt
I will breathe
In the space where the
Tide is inert
And there may I rest
Neither coming
Nor going
Let me hide in the silence
Of nobody knowing

Sara Mathews     February 2016

Monday, February 22, 2016

Illustration by Greg Newbold, used by permission.

The chickens say she’s here
Although the morning creaks
With cold
And snow below my feet is arctic
In it’s sound
The way it squeaks beneath
Each step and makes
Your bones go
And hunker further down
And winter’s slipping grip is iron like
And up to now
Has kept the hen house
And all the Maples stand in helpless
Inability to thaw
Their toes
And the Old Man
Doesn’t care that he’s put sugaring
On hold
While March’s sputtering engine just
Blows cold and she’s
At her apparent
But the chickens know she’s come
And in good faith this frigid morning
They have laid
Four small warm suns
A simple
But celestial offering
Four small warm promises
Of Spring

Illustration by Greg Newbold, used by permission.

Sara Mathews     February 2016

Saturday, February 20, 2016

We’re just alike
The waterbug and I
We skate across the surface
Of the day
Happy little travelers
On top
Amid the ripples
Of our locomotion
Surrounded by reflections
Of an azure sky
And sunny sparks
Like diamonds
That glint
And dance among the waves
We’re well aware of
What goes on below
Down in the depths
The murk
And hidden places of our soul
But we are satisfied
To let that lie
The heaviness of
Grief and sorrow
And despair
Has found the ideal place
To come to rest
A peaceful watery way
To settle down into the silt
And in the crevices of rock
Where fishes swim
And with their tails
Have nicely tucked it in
And covered it with sand
It’s perfect there
The weight is helpful
For holding down
The bottom of the pond
And we know where to find it
If we ever need to go
But we just choose
To skate on by
And keep it light
The little waterbug
And I

Sara Mathews     February 2016

Sunday, February 14, 2016

It’s a mockingdream
Not quite
Not quite
It calls
From branches swirled in mist
An almost gathered wish
A yearning still within
Insists things could have been
Why not
Why not
Implores my heart
But dreams are such
And clutch at visions of the vast
Imperfect past
And mimic me
In my desire
I reach
I reach
My mockingdream
Flies higher

Sara Mathews     February 2016

Saturday, February 13, 2016

Photo by Ricardo Perini

The children now 
Below my window call
No woodland here for miles
Just chirping voices
Trilling past
And car horns blast
Instead of cawing crow
The sidewalk grows a row
Of various pedestrians
In flocks
They come and go
And wander by 
In search of sun
And rain
And country sky
And only deep inside
They know
The concrete isn’t real
It isn’t  fresh turned earth
Or soft green meadow grass  
Or gravel road

Don Bishop Fine Art, Portland Oregon

Sara Mathews     February 2016

Wednesday, February 10, 2016

A snowy road
That went towards home
Began to bend and sway
And disengage from solid ground
And like a drawbridge
To take me on a different route
By way of moon
Where craters
Swallowed me in silent realms
Of deep and frozen
And foreign hills rose up
Before my eyes
In spectral shapes to
Blindfold me
With lunar winter in the blackest
I whispered prayers and
Gave my fate to those inclined
To throw me back into the earthly

Sara Mathews     February 2016

Sunday, February 7, 2016

A kite of pigeons swooped
And dipped
Across my window
I grabbed the string
And flew them
Back and forth
They circled low
Above the cityscape
I steered them through
The houses tightly rowed
And sent their souls aloft
In search
Of field or pasture
Then wound them down
Into a solitary elm
Where branches caught us
With nostalgia
But with a gentle tug
I disentangled our desire
And with my rural heart
Tied to their tail
I let them go

Sara Mathews     February 2016

Thursday, February 4, 2016

You wrote a poem
Forty years ago or more
When you were in the middle
Of your journey
You saw an apple tree
That struggled
Toward the sun
And you captured it’s life
In written word
And we turned it to calligraphy
And gave it back to you
Within a frame
And placed it
There among your
And dusted round it
But like anything that slips
Into familiar
We got so used to seeing it
And never really stopped
To read it anymore
It held it’s place within
The clutter of the
Until you came
To lie beside it
In your final moments
When suddenly
It spoke to me
I picked it up
And read each line
And with a sense of awe
And premonition
Never realizing when you
Wrote these words so long ago
You were telling us the story
Of your will
Your reluctance to let go
Of life and all it’s beauty
You said you were not ready yet
There were things still left to do
And you clung to life
Beside the ancient tree
Within the frame
But when you left us finally
I had a reassuring feeling you were free
To follow and pursue
The dreams you left unfinished here
And your poem gained freedom too
We took it out from it’s four walls
And sent it’s spirit
And it’s words of joy
And hope
And life enduring
To all who loved and knew
The better part of you
And in a twist of fate
Or maybe this was orchestrated
Long ago
The apple wood
From your old friend
Who’d passed away just recently
Was there to keep you warm
Burning brightly in the stove
And holding out it’s light
To take you home

Sara Mathews     February 2016

Wednesday, February 3, 2016


By: Paul Gordon Mathews

In an old long forgotten orchard site
I stumbled onto in deep woods with pine
And poplar grown to overshadowing height
I found an ancient apple tree alone.
The gnarled and hollow hulk obliquely stands
Worm-riddled, weather beaten, gaunt as bone
But one branch high above where brief sunshine
Pervades the shade of forest gloom
Still clings to life and burgeons into bloom
As if in memory of loving hands
That nurtured it with care so long ago
I feel a kinship with this ancient tree
That clings to life with such a will and draws
It’s last ounce of sap through dying limbs
To worship life with fragrant sweet applause!
I too would tell life’s raptures in my hymns
And show the world in sorrow, pain and strife
The sweet and ever blooming joy of life
And to the end, with faltering fainting voice
Give praise to God - and with my dying breath
Would sing:  There is no death -
Rejoice - ‘Tis Spring!

In Loving memory      July 22, 1918 - February 3, 2009

Monday, February 1, 2016

You came to me last night
A little girl again
So small
I held you as I did
And showed you round to all
How cute she is
But why so young
I couldn’t say
Or know
Only that it could be so
In dreams
And it was sweet and wonderful
To have the time turn back
A glimpse of what so long had passed
A feeling visceral enough to hold
Within my soul
And oh, my soul
Was pleading for a way
To have you stay
And when at last we had to part
I couldn’t let you go
But you were brave and stoic
Resolving with the past
In whispers of
Don’t cry
And less the true believer
Of the mistiness of time
I watched you slowly drift from me
Oh, arms
Were reaching there
So desperately
Oh, heart
Was crumbling there
As current carried you
Away from me
On thirty years
Of tears

Sara Mathews     2/1/2016