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Silent Explosion

The earth is silent.
I hear each day explode.
Time violates us all.
Joy christens the multitude.


Rest easy now
This world will all be yours in time.
Call up your strength.
Scale not another wall ;
Wait quietly in the garden
For your keeper of all these years
To come and release you.


Yesterday's tomorrow is today
As my roots strain to reach their source
I stretch toward the light
Freeing me to touch this world
Whose painful light
Is so beautiful
And so welcome.


What I have dreamed
Never to such a world as this could I convey
Much less than any man could lengthen this day
For though happily I myself to this life consign
Yet will I live as I may.

Though still on me life's cruelties prey
Life herself is my shrine.
To the source of All, I am but a face ;
This life will I live out,
Addressing each day with a little simple bravery,
Waiting to see tomorrow sprout
From yesterday's joys and sorrows
Into the hands of myself :
This day's devotee.

Stars Crashing

The sight of stars crashing
And the sound of planets whirling
Befuddle me.
All that I can see
Disappears before I can grasp it.

Yielding Up Tomorrow

We see our dreams made fruitful at last
Yielding up tomorrow ripe in our hands
As warm as sunbeams
We glean all we hope to be
At last we travel from our inner place
Traversing all the void into a glad world
As our secret abode expands
Into every day.

A Love Poem

Why have you left me?
I can no longer sing
          of what was my great joy.

If only I could have spoken
When it mattered...
          but that time is gone.

Once so long ago,
I glimpsed your hour
          standing by the roadside.


Untitled #10

long ago
the words
"I am alone
in an empty universe,"
struck me upon the brow ;
since then,
sometimes sinking
always growing
above me
the many facets of a full sky.



I am full to the brim ;
I have drunk of life.
Now the thirst I wish to quench
Is for silence :
To quaff the calm waters
Beyond despair,
To hold an empty cup--
To be filled with the void.



The details of our lives are trivial.
Winter is harsh ;
Summer always passes.
Like the wind our lives
Cut a golden path into the darkness.



Each of us creates what she can.
Perhaps my work is like the child
That died before he was a man ;
Never read and less commended,
Never greeted by those for whom it was intended.
Its life can never pass our seed,
Yet I think a poem, like a man, can bleed.


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� Copyright, 2006, Mary Barnet-Schiff.
All right reserved.