Wander Gently

 
            Wander Gently

        Wander gently
        through a Spring meadow
        in a desert land.
        
        Cherish a brief blossoming
        from the brilliant red poppy
        to each tiny, delicate, sunlit star and
        Purple thistles, blue flax, pinkish roses, all
        come bursting from rock
        and earth
        and everywhere
        where a seed might stray
        there is bloom.

To Our Right

             
        To our right, the Salt Sea        
        shimmers smooth with spectrums of pink
        and lavender and blue light.
        Jerusalem is over there,
        beyond.
        In the gaseous glimmerings
        that rise above the fluent surface
        of the still sea.
        I think of the Dome of the Rock:
        
        An image I've seen from many angles,
        except with my own eyes.
        
        Less than 40 miles away, yet a world away
        a place we can't go to yet.
        
        Someday...
        in the gaseous glimmerings
        that rise
        to our right.
    

poem copyright ©2000 Anne Selden Annab

Wild Flowers

        Deep yellow mustard,
        bright red poppies, white daises,
        and much much more

        to entertain the fancy
        as they grow in quaint bouquets
        as if on purpose-

        Fragile fragrant little splays
        often underfoot
        as a short walk becomes constant pauses.

        Here as small gold burst of petal
        star shape
        as if dropped and planted from heaven.

        There- another echoes the gold star
        but it's contained in a soft mid blue flower.

        There a thistle blends
        with a cluster of possible roses.

        I think this is a pansy, that might be
        a lily.

        This delicate beauty of blossoming
        is a veritable encyclopedia
        of all the wild flowers I can't name...

        I can only enjoy
        as the sun flushes my white cheeks pink

        and the elevated air touches deep blue sky
        as zither breezes sweep down
        from centuries of sighs-

        Exquisite wild flowers.

poem copyright ©2000 Anne Selden Annab

Sand Bottles

  

                             There are
                                more
                               colors
                               of sand
                               in little
                               dishes
                                than I
                               thought
                          possible. From
                         the white I know
                       so well through the
                       pinks  and  oranges
                      and reds I'm learning,
                    to the browns I believed
                 in before I came, to black.
              He takes a pinch of dark brown,
            drops it in a narrow necked bottle
         on a tan layer already poured on top
        of light brown one.    His dark head is
       bowed over his work and he reaches in
      the bottle  with a wire,  touches the sand
      pushes gently, pulls, releases and a camel
     prances on a desert landscape. It only took
      a few seconds and he repeats it all around
     etching a caravan of camels prancing. With
    dark fingers he tweaks up a color from a little
     dish, pours another shade and another, pokes
      with his thin wire patterns in the sand like
         a  starry night-  and he packs it tightly
            compressing the picture and plugs
             it shut with a soft waxy substance
          that hardens and we have a splendid
       little memento that fits firmly in my hand.

 poem copyright ©2000 Anne Selden Annab

 

Sandstone

        We walk in a valley
        surrounded by cliff walls carved
        with Nabotean caves
        and Roman edifices...

        Incredible architecture all
        soaring far beyond the reach
        of my outstretched hand
        as my grappling mind
        climbs up sheer pink,
        red and purple cliff faces:
        tombs and temples
        a place of trade.

        Light air filled rock
        that makes our path pliant,
        and crumbles as I reach down into it-
        dissolves as I lift a small soft stone:

        I show our young sons
        how to make
        sand from stone...

        And the youngest
        spends the rest of the day
        in this spectacular expanse
        of carefully sculpted stone
        
        veering towards rocks to crunch.

poem copyright ©2000 Anne Selden Annab