Reflections On A Recurring Dream
Floating downstream ...
... or upstream?
Light flashing through gapes in the over-hanging tree branches
... or from Pulsars whirling in some distant galaxy?
Colors blazing
Nature displaying the abundance of its’ pallet
... or mind’s eye imagining colors never seen?
Textures untouched yet felt
Sounds unheard yet sensed
Faces
With features morphing
Strangers... for the moment
Morphing
Faces
Known and loved
Friend and enemy
Faces from the past
... or from the future?
Shadows
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poem by Mary Havran
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Wordplay With Marshmallows
Some days are meant for marshmallows
Such light and puffy stuff
Time for tossing words about
For phenomenal fun with fluff
Infinite interludes for introspection
Imbue innumerable another day
However a taste for marshmallows
Suddenly insinuated itself today
No harm ensues from marshmallows
(No eye need be put out)
As long as one practices prudence
While tossing them about
As with all sugary self indulgence
Some control needs be employed
But no call for complete capitulation
(Marshmallows won’t be denied)
Like clouds they are in substance
(Or at least they so compare)
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poem by Mary Havran
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Top Ten Reasons I Would Make a Lousy Poetry Critic
(Letterman style countdown)
Number Ten: Because I probably lack the skill to determine where another’s failings lie
Number Nine: Because I doubt that anyone else really has such infallible skill
Number Eight: Because I lack the desire to render negative opinions of another’s work
Number Seven: Because I question the true motives of any one who readily renders scathing critiques
Number Six: Because I believe in positive reinforcement rather than accentuating negatives
Number Five: Because I don’t wish to have any hand in discouraging or killing the dreams of other poets
Number Four: Because I believe that what people write is far more important than the skill they show in doing it.
Number Three: Because the majority of poetry derives from a warm heart and most criticism originates from cold indifferent intellect
Number Two: Because I know what it feels like to be on the other end of the equation
And the Number One reason I would make a lousy poetry critic:
Because, poetically speaking, I live in a glass house.
poem by Mary Havran
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Our Moon
July 1989
Alone I watched the Full Moon rise tonight.
The same Moon rose over you just hours ago.
Did you also watch it rise? Did clouds obscure the view?
Was your night as fine for stargazing?
When the Moon is just starting to clime my horizon
It is finishing its' journey across your sky.
Were you still awake to watch it set?
Did dreams call you away?
Tonight I will watch till this Moon leaves to find you again.
The calendar says each Moon shines on you first.
But the Moon doesn't follow... it leads!
Full Moon... Full Circle
Ruler of tides
My Moon first tonight.
I shall wish it safely back to you.
Last July the Moon carried grief for me.
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poem by Mary Havran
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Life on Ice
A quest for emotional provender
leaves me guided by your North Star
into wilderness unmelcoming
to my hearth loving nature
Fathoming your emotions
a venture akin to ice fishing
even should we crack the surface
there may be no reward
no returning tug on frail lines
deployed into chill waters
Wisdom holds bounty abides below the surface
and by patience might fishing pay the prize
Yet what to you may spell but sport
looms for me as groundless strife
Ice extends a contentious surface
You, insulated by substantial layers
unvoiced emotions your choice swaddle
My garb, as gossamer compares
transparent, ineffectual glacial guard
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poem by Mary Havran
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Synchronal
You and I each noticed the other
because of silly words
and witty banter
displayed in a chat room
goofy jokes
that no one else seemed to get
quick wit
making for quick friends
first impressions
common expressions
typed in sync
creating bemusement
followed by amazement
at how much alike we
really do seem to be
which inevitably gave way
to deeper connections
You and I realized
though from different places
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poem by Mary Havran
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One Hundred Ripples
One hundred ripples I mark today
One hundred steps along my way
One hundred steps lead to the pond
One hundred trees there do surround
One hundred birds nesting among the trees
One hundred bees filling the air with these
One hundred bees buzzing about in the air
One hundred flowers are pollinating there
One hundred flowers provide the aromas sweet
For one hundred bouquets given to lovers as treat
One hundred lovers walk the winding pathway
One hundred times to find romance there each day
One hundred times they will reach to explore
One hundred pebbles found along the pond shore
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poem by Mary Havran
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What Color is Love?
From practical perspective
Love may be viewed as colorless
When romantically reflective
Color spectrum Love does possess
To couples just discovering it’s laurels
Love is yellow like the sun shining bright
To lovers who have engaged in quarrels
Love is deep blue like a sky late at night
In eyes of lovers enjoying honeymoon precursories
Love appears red as hearts gracing valentines
To lovers working together to overcome life’s adversities
Love holds evergreen hues like cypress and pines
For lovers celebrating wedding anniversaries
Love glows gold in rings where diamond luster shines
Love can be soft and swirling
As on paisley patterned gowns
Or calliope colors twirling
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poem by Mary Havran
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Garden of Choice
Two in the Garden of Eden
who had everything to lose
the bounty of all creation
save one fruit forbidden to choose
Their fates, and our fate as well,
were resting in their own hand
in what splendor would we dwell
had they honored that sole command
Two in the Garden of Eden
each charged with that sacred choice
Either one could have chosen
to disregard the serpent's voice
Yet one, then the other, failed
abdicating Eden for one bite
their naked wickedness unveiled
lost forever Garden's delight
Two in the Garden of Eden
did they think but once or twice
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poem by Mary Havran
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Wise Men Still Find Him
Though He of course was there
They did not see Him at the mall
They did not find him at the big box stores
At least, not as they recall
The discount store was too crowded to search
Though He walked its aisles as well
The Hallmark store was a madhouse today
If He was there, they could not tell
They did not see Him standing outside
Though it was He who rung the bell
They thought they caught a glimpse of Him
When a stranger wished them well
At the restaurant with all tables full
They did not see Him among that crowd
Though many holiday parties they attend
His soft voice was lost among the loud
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poem by Mary Havran
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