—Poetry by Marie Asner, Overland Park, KS
—Public Domain Photos
WOMAN
Diversity of color
like mosaic reflections of cathedral glass.
Flowers along the roadside
lighting the way for travelers
to wherever travelers go.
Glow of candle on a pine mantle,
white of lily on cloistered hillside,
diversity of color,
oneness giving unity
sisterhood giving strength
(prev. pub. in Grist Poetry Anthology)
Diversity of color
like mosaic reflections of cathedral glass.
Flowers along the roadside
lighting the way for travelers
to wherever travelers go.
Glow of candle on a pine mantle,
white of lily on cloistered hillside,
diversity of color,
oneness giving unity
sisterhood giving strength
(prev. pub. in Grist Poetry Anthology)
THE PURCHASE
The woman came to my shop accompanied by her daughters
to order a gift for her eldest son. The girls stood outside
quarreling softly, doubting the family could afford this present.
A color was chosen, then an unusual request—a seamless robe,
top to bottom. My shop had not done this type of work before,
but the mother insisted, saying my workmanship was superior
(to which I silently agreed) and she could pay for extra labor.
Who was I, a businessman, to disagree, so the purchase
was completed. The robe must be sturdy, warm for nights
in the hills, and ready on time—no delay—for he would
leave soon. She, herself, would return for the robe,
a present to a son from a mother who vividly remembered
the birth of her firstborn in Bethlehem.
(prev. pub. in Nazareth)
WOMAN OF SAMARIA
(John 4:4-30)
I’ve had five husbands and outlived all.
They offered gold and servants.
The new man comes to town often to buy wool
but can’t wed—he has a wife.
Last week, I met someone by the city well.
A stranger asking for water
and I gave him to drink, though
he was a Nazarene and not one of us.
He looked through me like the glass bauble
I wear around my neck. The stranger told me
everything about myself. Wizard, I thought,
but his eyes were kind and he had sadness
about him. The villagers listened to me,
then came to hear him. He stayed for a time.
I have sent the wool merchant back to his wife.
Now we await the stranger's return
to tell us more of this water of life.
(John 4:4-30)
I’ve had five husbands and outlived all.
They offered gold and servants.
The new man comes to town often to buy wool
but can’t wed—he has a wife.
Last week, I met someone by the city well.
A stranger asking for water
and I gave him to drink, though
he was a Nazarene and not one of us.
He looked through me like the glass bauble
I wear around my neck. The stranger told me
everything about myself. Wizard, I thought,
but his eyes were kind and he had sadness
about him. The villagers listened to me,
then came to hear him. He stayed for a time.
I have sent the wool merchant back to his wife.
Now we await the stranger's return
to tell us more of this water of life.
GODIVA IN THE FIELDS
From dawn to dusk, men have labored
in hot, dry air, hurrying to gather crops
before weather patterns shift, and bring storm clouds.
Women work in steamy rooms, feeding appetites
whetted to fever pitch. When the sun sets
over cooling engines and sleeping men dream
of profits twice-counted, the women bathe,
then stroll under whispering oak trees to wind-dry
and listen to the prairie sing, as a copper moon
rises against jeweled sky, brushed by clouds
eager for a look at Godiva in the fields.
From dawn to dusk, men have labored
in hot, dry air, hurrying to gather crops
before weather patterns shift, and bring storm clouds.
Women work in steamy rooms, feeding appetites
whetted to fever pitch. When the sun sets
over cooling engines and sleeping men dream
of profits twice-counted, the women bathe,
then stroll under whispering oak trees to wind-dry
and listen to the prairie sing, as a copper moon
rises against jeweled sky, brushed by clouds
eager for a look at Godiva in the fields.
THE LADIES WHO WRITE POETRY
The ladies who write poetry
have a special relationship
that helps them wander through life
with notebooks, watching for that special inspiration
like a scent of Shalimar on the twilight air
or the rounded edge of a golden-coin moon
with Frank Sinatra on the radio
and the first glimpse of the morning sun
reflected in dew on the rose
of a neighbor’s bouquet tossed out in anger
from a late-night lover’s quarrel.
(prev. pub. in Spare Mule)
_________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Every woman’s success should be an inspiration to another. We’re strongest when we cheer each other on.
—Serena Williams
_________________
Welcome back, Marie Asner, who writes that she “Noticed on the calendar that March is Women's History Month, and I have five poems . . . Each poem has a different slant on the many facets of being a women from Biblical time to the present”:
“Woman”—all women
“The Purchase”—an unusual present
“Woman of Samaria”—famous unnamed woman
“Godiva In The Fields”—could be Kansas or other states
“Women Who Write Poetry”—inspiration to write
Thanks, Marie, for your poems, and for reminding us of Women’s History Month.
__________________
—Medusa
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