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In Praise of Seasons

How beautiful are the changes,
How green can go to red and gold
And brown and even mint to stray
About, before it joins the wind,
To follow a circle dance away!

Soon the tree’s branches in bareness
Or sleeved in winter white will sway,
Stretching themselves out, and toward
The infinite, whether blue or gray—
For they’ll always celebrate the sky.

Welcomed spring comes, pushes forward
Bringing her colored robes—make way!
She’s also full of scented wake-up
Calls that inspire the every day,
And sees that we move along again.

And those pictures taken in summer . . .
Dive in the pools of remembrance.
Smiles not to be lost, we want to stay
Verdant, to move with the seasons
That keep circling back again to play.

  Evie Ivy__

© Alejandra Mandelblum: AWAKENING 2020
                          © Alejandra Mandelblum: AWAKENING 2020

Lost Things

Some pick up their lucky pennies and some
discard them for luck. My favorite thing
to pick-up is a lost pen. I pick it up
with a tissue, check that it was not stepped
on and damaged—then see if it still has ink.
I gently wrap it in another tissue,
then put it in my pocket or handbag,
and finish cleaning it at home. A pen
can bring a world, a feeling, a view to life.
I always try to remember to keep one
or two, so I can lend one out, in my bag.
They come in diverse shapes, and sizes, colors.

Some, pick-up their lucky penny,
I pick-up the lost and lucky pen.

  Evie Ivy__


At the Railway Station

In dusk, I sat to wait for my connection
with a strange feeling I knew the lady
who waited nearby, flowers on her hat
and wearing a dress with small bouquet prints.
Exhaustion showed well on a pretty face.
I tried to ignore her, careful not to stare.
Then, from her lap a large bag flopped! I rose
to retrieve it. It was heavy, stuffed with,
I couldn’t help noticing—ideas
and inspirations! Heavens, I thought—The Muse!
Lifting the bag I noticed some bruises
on the side of her face. “The slam,” she said.
“Other Muses don’t have to work so hard.”
And I sat down wordless, as she continued.
“You know there are those that if they don’t write
a poem a night, it’s death. They believe
they can snap their fingers and I’m there.” She looked
for something in her bag and then added,
“It’s not easy.” With a small comb she whisked
away at a strand of auburn hair then said,
“I don’t know why I’m doing this, I doubt
they care.” A rattle soon filled the night’s air.
Standing, she said, “Be well,” and with one hand held
her hat with the other that bag, and it seemed
she took flight toward the whistle that blew!

  Evie Ivy__


Time to feel freshened
and forget the inner bruises.
Circling fingers round out,
to expel what has taken hold,
of the only face you have.
What can you expect from
yourself and the caress
of the bad winds?

You sit unaware that the face
betrays the mind giving a stage
to too many returning thoughts.
Fragrant washes on your face
might help you to find yourself,
be a member of the coming day
even if it's just commanding
your space within it.
There will be no old veil
of smeared makeup to expose
the self's weakness.

for your serious face.
Still, their eyes will photograph
you in their ridiculous ways
as you listen and ponder
this one world in the news
that's not multiple world,
but one world which needs one big
facial ...

And I'm smooth, expelled,
ready for the windy street's
dusty kiss again.

  Evie Ivy__