A Different Vision

A Different Vision

Her sparkling eyes twinkle back from the glass,
Sees the character there, crinkles define
From none that were there when she was a lass
The life she has lead in wrinkles and lines.

She sees silver in her hair, how it gleams
Makes the red pop, not as old and jaded
Came in overnight, or so it now seems
Youth may be gone, her glow has not faded.

Her cheeks blush warm in memory of these
The lines by her eyes from laughter it seems
Those curving lines by her lips, if you please
Of the happy times that still fill her dreams.

Though the door is closing to youth’s fire
Life’s Winter Solstice is beautiful, too
Her nights are still filled with love and desire
Time, now her own; and there’s so much to do.

Life’s milestones remembered, not so, to dwell
Not stagnant, this life, it’s never the same
The love in her smile, has stories to tell
Her final season: Still warm burns the flame.

Lin Cava © 2007

A Poet’s Due

A Poet’s Due

…words can never hurt me…
poets know this is untrue
ink, the blood that they set free
upon the page will draw its due

sticks and stones will oft break bones
written words rend silently
a poet’s work never atones
for tenderness stabbed violently

…so it is, and shall ever be
it is the course steered true
words on a page make blind men see
and give credit to what poets do

Lin Cava  ©  28-November-2007

Far and Near — Lin

Far And Near

by Lin Cava

Summer night,
black velvet blanket
aglow in silent luminescence
sparkles of the distant stars
a beckoning to other shores
the ebb and flow of ocean’s tides
a scent, so carried far and long,
that on a midnight zephyr rides
an undercurrent to salt sea air
unmistakable, though faint,
intimate aroma of only she
transports her essence
there, to thee.

Lin Cava©

Creative Commons Copyright

Oct 21, 2010

A Quiet Break – Lin Cava

A Quiet Break

by Lin Cava

I walked with my daughter, yesterday.
Hand in hand, as when she was a child.

Her mother, and guardian once more, I give her hand
a double squeeze; get a double squeeze back.

Her child’s bubbly giggle
inside her adult laugh
shatters time’s persistent grip.
She is five, once more.

Living sweet memories from before,
our break from battle; recaptured innocence.

“I do that with my sons, too.” so softly said.
“Like you.  I squeeze twice, and they squeeze back.”

Simple things, lovingly engaged,
become our trademarks.

Unplanned inheritance enriches us,
blossoms in the bouquet of our lives;
the endurance of love, to become
heirloom offerings to the future.

Lin Cava©

Creative Commons Copyright

Oct 21, 2010

Wednesday’s Child

Wednesday’s Child
by Lin Cava

In dreams I see her blonde hair
always in a pony tail
She walks along the shoreline
Scouring the sand for treasure

Light blue shorts and a striped shirt
She quietly wends her way
Bare feet in and out of foam
In her hands, she holds small shells

Delicate and colorful
Orange, pink, yellow and white
These were wampum long ago
Gone now, all gone from this shore

But there she is, eight years old
Golden, tanned, happy alone
Treasures, wampum in her hand
She slips them in her pocket

Stepping into the water
She sees something moving there
A scallop! So carefully,
She reaches down patiently

Leads it with her hand until
The live mollusk slips right in
Clamping shut as she lifts it
It is beautiful, alive.

She knows they have many eyes
A bright blue like no other
If opened, they look like eggs
Cracked, sunny side up inside

Return it to the water
Watching for the many eyes
It hesitates, then opens
Jets away, ever backward

She lifts her face to the sun
One must notice those blue eyes
Then they cloud, time is short now
Soon the sun will leave the sky.

She runs for her red bucket
Half fills it with salt water
The water to her ankles,
She twists her feet, digs up clams

Chowders and some Cherrystones
Digging clams with little toes
Fills the bucket, off she goes.
Wednesday’s child is full of woes.
© Lin Cava 29-August-2008

I grew up on an island. Clams and scallops, crabs and flounder were plentiful and available for the taking. No one took more than they could eat. I had bay fishermen in the family – and they earned their living from the bounty of the waters around us. This poem is about a girl growing up in just such a place. Children this age are often not left to themselves. She thrives in solitude, happiest there. Notice there is no running or jumping or laughter. This is meant to be a somber work. The child knows that she is older than her years, yet she takes her happiness in those simple things that children do. So might we all be awestruck at the beauty of shells, the feeling of a living creature with its own beauty, in our hands. If only we could take the time. In whatever life holds for her, the girl takes her childhood in whatever way she can. Gazing over the water, whether it is the ocean, the bay or a lake, she often sees a woman there, a projection from within. I often see the child in my work. I am a Wednesday Child.

Creative Commons Copyright
Oct 25, 2010