After the Tempest

Tags

Bermuda, Elaine Stirling, Grotto Bay Beach Resort, poetry, Shakespearean sonnet

Prospero’s cave is under construction,
the tempest now passed, his circles undrawn.
What still remains of the bleak destruction,
small fires torch while the play carries on

in a tiring rhyme, the tyrant passes
what could have proved true, if only he’d chased
the cetaceous, the seedheads of grasses
sporting the dune, and scorning less the chaste.

I now own the deed to Prospero’s cave
that echoes with tones of his final speech.
With so few willing their peacetime to brave,
our rebuilding thrives well beyond storm’s reach.

Farewell, dark crucible! New alchemy
weds high seas to cool space amicably.

~~~

The caves of Bermuda are said to have inspired Shakespeare’s setting for “The Tempest”. An instant after I took this photo, a Bermudian emerged from the cave who would have made the perfect Prospero. I dedicate this happy memory to him.

© Elaine Stirling 2015

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The Fundamental Lord

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Elaine Stirling, poetry

Let it be said
of no man
whose time has come
to repatriate
with ashes
or with blades of crushed
narcissus kept alive beyond
their expiration date
that he has need
of recollecting

no new armour
waits, the rust he gathers
in his bones
to make a home
for microbes and raw deals
has been lining the valise
for years of a richer man
who lives with no address
beneath a dead crow’s tongue

guardian of galaxies
steward of the unrefined
you need not fear
the smelter

chutes
of elemental gravity
that keep thoughts pinned
and flying in your face
like bats whose caves
are blasted to make way
for tourist lodges will restore
their rightful shape

as playing fields

of the lord
the fundamental lord
you are

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2015
The photograph was taken at the rear entrance of St. Peter’s Church, St. George, Bermuda.

Saturday Night at the Swizzle Inn

Tags

Bermuda, Elaine Stirling, narrative poetry, poetry for fun, Swizzle Inn

I decided to let my fun begin
on a Saturday night at the Swizzle—
no! No, no, no, no!

I didn’t decide at the Swizzle Inn
on a Saturday night to do anything but
nurse a gingery rummy dark drink
of the house, slurp a chowder, a curry,
I couldn’t decide between fishy
or spicy…both sounded nice

but of one thing I must be
abundantly clear:
I had no intention of
knowing so dear
the commencement of fun
that had smoothly begun
with fresh mahi mahi
and Bermudian rum
chased by pale Indee ale
at a rustic wood table
beneath setting sun.

could a meal pale derision,
abolish all fear of enjoyment
perpetual, bring happiness near
enough to embrace and to tug
at my heart, and to view
on the sleeves of the good
folk around me?

well, I couldn’t have told you
what I now surely know,
how it all worked its way
into and under my sunburned
skin, which is how I began
to let the fun in on a Saturday
night at the Swizzle Inn…

postscript

to those with a penchant
for gossip and dirt,
I refuse to disclose
if I purchased the shirt—
but straight out I’ll tell you,
I’m happy to say, that I did
swagger out arm in arm
with great fun and exuberant
whim on a Saturday night
at the Swizzle Inn.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2015
Photograph by author

Remembering

Tags

Elaine Stirling, poetry

We were companions of the soul who made
us in his image, zodiac complete,
the rays of his extension. You, his feet,
the thunder twins his arms, a barricade.

The treasurer who would betray his will
incensed us all; we rubbed each other raw
until the day a quarter of us saw
what he perceives. The vision haunts me still.

Now each of us a hub, a higher grade
of understanding deems that we should meet—
the journeyer and rock, far from replete
and yet inspired. The comfort of his shade

in early years felt such a bitter pill,
forgetting sacrifice is not the law.
We are not Abraham. That was our flaw
until we walked among the daffodils.

Happy Birthday, G!

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2015

The Inadequate God

Tags

Elaine Stirling, narrative poetry, sonnet

 

 

 

 

The ad read, For Sale: casting stones, a pair.
They contain the magic of what remains
of the inadequate god their prophet
praised and stalked to prove he is everywhere.

I bought the stones and gave them names,
set them on a shelf and then forgot it
till my fortunes fell and the dwindling share
of a joy I’d known turned to shooting pains.

Relief was all I sought. Desperate,
I threw my stones in anger, didn’t care
so long as someone paid, until the strain
proved god is useless and mankind crooked.

I make my living now by casting stones.
Feeling inadequate? You’re not alone.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2015