Moon Magic
Gray silver
Dime, dusted and
Ground fine by the
Shifting footprints
Of Neil and Strong.
poem by Charlotte Ballard
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Row of Pansies
Black surround by soft
Purple curving
Green strokes
Connecting Ground
To Earth.
Let us pray.
poem by Charlotte Ballard
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Porcelain Crab
Shifting grapes, wave
Through budding, rounded
Together, perfect
Translucent crab
Reaches for a speck
Of gold in the midst
Of all that purple.
poem by Charlotte Ballard
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Norodom Sihanouk
I met a prince
And watched him age
Thru photographs made
At each turning year.
His black eyes turn from
Humor to pain to
A watchfulness that
A young man never
Had. He dreamed of
Music and of dance -
Took vows of silence
To hide his longing for
Another path, yet not taken.
A king now, he still holds
Truth in the curve of his
Hand and in the line of his
Brow.
poem by Charlotte Ballard
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Separate Beginnings
Everything separates-
Child from parent,
Husband from wife,
Ore from a mine,
Cream from milk,
Butter from cream,
Breath from my lungs.
A churning, changing, complex
Spin, apart, then back again.
The child has children,
Two hearts pair up in a damp Paris street
The earth pushes up the ground –
Too slow for us to see.
Another cow is lead into a stall,
And I inhale the precious essences
Of you, again.
poem by Charlotte Ballard
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Tampering with Justice
Tampering with Justice
Is a fair-hair sport
Given to Muses, divinely
Inspired by Rockefeller
And Franklin Mint.
Justice is not for pro bono
Clients, that weasel a spot
On the docket using
The taxpayer’s pocket.
Justice blind?
Oh, no, she sees in
Green, and blood, and wine.
Tempered with hot-bellied
Cops, who strain to hold it back
The tide of human waste or is it more
Like a boiling pot no one bothered to wash?
Useless to try –
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poem by Charlotte Ballard
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Two Cats Warm
A cat, tabby and tomcat charming
Reclines watchfully on the left
On a desk that once was my daughters but nows
Hides my books and holds
My fan, and frames the window
Black cat crowds me back in my chair
Curving C that never minds
The taby after a spit and spat
In the middle is Artificial Means
By Christine Lavin tapped out
On Second Monitor waits
And the taby washes himself
As I begin my Sensitive New Age Guys
As one taby foot rests on the arm of my chair
Yellow eyes
Pink tongue
Content, now that Black Cat left
And jumps back, shifting back to the top of my
Novel to be
Printer
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poem by Charlotte Ballard
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What are the twenty most beautiful things in the world?
A young woman who is trim, yet virtuous.
The eye of a duck that’s looking at you.
Still water beside a beach
Roses that haven’t begun to open.
My daughter’s face.
The shine on snow
The shine on a diamond
A chocolate offering from my husband
Clouds in different shades
A lace wedding dress
Glass mobiles
A red cardinal in my wild apple tree.
The sight of a cold can of Dr. Pepper when I crave it.
The splash of a dropp of water.
A chocolate cake that I can eat.
Rice that’s cooked perfectly
Tomatoes ready to be picked on the vine.
Twenty minutes to study before an exam
A new book by Stephen King
A blessing given by the pope.
poem by Charlotte Ballard
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2.2 Brown Cow
Truth is a slippery thing
Twisted by lies, or
Looks, or an expression
That begs for the reader
To think of more, of
A different chocolate
Slip of grace....how
Now, brown cow?
Do you pine for shaded
Trees, and farmers who
Press with warm hands
In your private place?
I, too, wish for doctors
Who know that warm hands
Are better than cold speculums.
How now, brown cow?
Do they push your ovaries as
They press mine? Do they
Mention a golf game
And when was your last pap smear?
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poem by Charlotte Ballard
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Mocking Grin
Seated at my Uncle's funeral fire
Are family close, all well attired
In the middle of them like a well fed hen
Is he who took aim, and recompense
A virgin's vow, a promise given.
My face burns as his chin mocks mine
Three lies told, only one is closed.
Husband bare, he stripped me-
Of the future promise given by another.
Leaving me to deal with the fruit within
Without bother from any other hand.
A father extracts a lie,
A promise, a plead of things that are not -
It doesn't matter, now, the blood cleanses all.
I sit up taller, holding a new husband's vow
In my closed palm-
Promises that never faltered.
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poem by Charlotte Ballard
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