THE POEMS OF GRACE HARRIS

THE SEA (And of course it's not really about an ocean.) September, 2008 You reflect upon my calm blue expanse Stretching endlessly on beneath the warm sun. You shudder when my torrents rise beneath the tempest. You walk along my shore, lulled by the sound of my waves, Content to watch my tides rise and fall and rise again, And you think you know me. Beneath lies a vast domain Hidden from gaze and veiled from understanding, A kingdom rich in vibrant color and teaming with life. My ancient currents run deep and strong, Impervious to wind and sun, And the mysteries of my dark depths Can never be fathomed by any man. ODE TO MARGARET MEAD I think that I shall never read A liar quite like Margaret Mead Who in the years she spent abroad Did perpetrate a crazy fraud When her lie was brought to light I saw a truly awful sight The textbooks still contained her name But never speaking of her shame Books are read by college dons But Satan makes them into pawns PORCELAIN PEOPLE Porcelain People Delicate and fragile Their extremities chipped Cracked and glued together again And again, and again They lack the resilience of rubber dolls But oh for that cool smoothness of their fair skin… THE ROAD LESS TRAVELED - UGH I walk along in silence in the rain Feeling irritation at the pain Scratched hands and swollen ankles caught in roots Slipp'ry mud, skinned knees above my boots The sudden pour from branches up above The cold, soaked clothes engender no great love 'Bout half the time I think that I am lost I'm fairly sure that I hate Robert Frost I chose to walk this wooded path today I could have walked a common city way Its concrete sidewalks flat with people swarming Lined with shops within which I'd be warming Myself, should ever rain begin to fall, But the "Road Less Traveled" came the call. And anger tires one too much, I sigh Who cares right now which road I travel by I lay my back against a leaning oak And wait for G-d to end His little soak Strange how mantra-like the rain can be As it falls and drums on rock and tree The ticklish treble trickles forming rivulets Could rival any philharmonic string quartet I deeply breath the cold clean humid air And as the rain begins to ebb, I stare A beam of sunlight wakes each crystal drop To shining globes of light that dance and hop Above me through the branches green and spare A rainbow crowns the scene across the air I still hate being wet, my leg still hurts My irritation comes and goes in spurts But maybe after all something there is To Robert Frost and all that poetry biz. I wrote this haiku upon my father's death, but it works for any time of grieving or great sadness. I remember the winter of endless rains How it beat down like drums upon the window pains I feared that spring would never come again A song to God up at Yosemite National Park: First verse: Em                                            C I feel your presence as I walk among the trees B                                                               Em Every leaf and bough and branch dance homage at your passing Em                                          C I hear the singing of your praises in the breeze B                                                              EM The words not quite discerning but the meaning comprehending       G                       Em                       C                         B My mind has all its words forgotten, yet my heart will sing                    Em Great Spirit come Em/B C B Ohhhh Second verse, same chords: The early morning stars so far beyond my grasp testify I ne'er could reach you with my foolish wisdom And yet the wetness of the dew upon the grass beneath my feet does reassure me that you are near your kingdom My wisdom bows beneath these lights, but still my heart will sing Great Spirit come Ohhh Bridge:   G                       D                     Em I sit beneath the granite giants carved into your image D    G                       D                   Em And drink the holy water flowing in your quiet springs        EM The birds above sing psalms to you Edim              B I lift my open palms to you B                 Em Great Spirit come Em/B C B Ohhhh Verse 3, same chords, or modulate key The city lights are dim amidst the noonday sun And fields of waste now grow where once grew flowered fields of color The race and haste and waste for wealth is ne'er quite done And poverty of soul trades lively hues for lifeless pallor. My mind was lost so long ago, my heart alone can sing Great Spirit come Ohhhhh Great Spirit come. Note:  third verse turns dark, and doesn't really fit with the rest of the song. Could be a good idea to put the bridge between verses 1 and 2, and drop the third verse. My first genuine attempt at a real poem - written when my heart was broken over a boy. I remember him still.  I was eighteen.  I think its' a corny poem. But those last two lines have often come to me throughout my life, and I'm turning 60 now. Dislike you the shadows cast in the light? Enclose yourself in a windowless room. Care you not for love's pain and plight? Kill love.  A coffin's a windowless tomb. But understand beauty you'll never enjoy Without light all beauty does surely cease For Sorrow walks hand in hand with Joy And Suffering sits softly next to Peace. SILENCE She sits with her feet up Cozied with her comforter upon the couch Her purring ball of fluff upon her lap Outside the window, cars whiz by An occasional indistinguishable voice is heard The clock ticks slowly, the refrigerator hums The fastidious feline slicks its fur rhythmically Only the phone is still As she continues to wait PAINTED SMILE As the setting sun relinquishes its final rays And the evening darkness deepens I see her on the street With her fishnet stockings And her painted smile. Our eyes meet by chance But I look away Ashamed to find myself mirrored in her eyes. Oh Thou! Why do I sell my present For a tomorrow that does not yet exist? All I have is today And if I do not cherish it With the setting of the sun It too will slip away TO WHAT END? How came I struggling on this weary way? To what end do I bear this cross of shame? Tomorrow finds me where I am today And nowhere but on me can rest the blame. Try as I might, I stumble on my feet And though I rise again to travel on Tis certain that the ground again I’ll meet And bathe my face in dirt and blood anon Behind, “I too,” a gentle voice does say, “Have born a cross, and I will show the way.”

> Grace Harris:  The Short Biography of a Writer There was no time in my life that I didn't have an active imagination.  My brother tells me of when I was three, and I was standing unmoving at a doorway for some time, as if I were guarding it.  When he asked me what was up, I replied. "I'm the Crow.  I have an army of crows.  We're gonna fight the Monster of Dodeo." I think the first poem I ever wrote was my first day of High School English.  The teacher had asked us to pick a topic and write a paragraph on it.  I'm sure she was looking for a structured piece of prose.  Instead, I wrote a beautiful free verse poem on the sea.  I still remember the words, "a vast array of colors filled the air."  I didn't even know yet what free verse was.  It was simply something that came from my heart. I was slow to mature. I attended an accelerated literature class, and quite frankly it was difficult for me to keep up, because my mind was simply not mature enough to understand many of the concepts, concepts that later in life so familiar to me they were like old friends.  But back then, things that I grasped intuitively seemed awkward and unfamiliar when addressed in an analysis. At the university, I chose a degree in Liberal Studies because for me, the world is a web where everything is connected by its strands.  My minor, however, was English Composition, with a special emphasis on Creative Writing.  To this day, I still hear Professor Rafael Zepeda's many words. "Write what you know."  "Show, not tell." Thus, a great many of my stories and poems are about myself and the experiences I have had.  Oh, I do change it up a bit.  Switching the genders of characters. Changing the point of view from myself to another. Hiding behind metaphors.  But those who know my history recognize the autobiographical nature of my writing. Because of this, I'm extremely shy about my writing.  It has been a huge step for me to nervously venture out and have Shlomoh publish my works online, taking the chance that others will not appreciate them, or will see the things that are deeply meaningful to me as stupid, or worse yet, think that I am arrogant and full of myself and who do I think I am to imagine anyone would ever want to read my stuff. On the surface, I come across as a moody intellectual, especially online.  But there is a deeper part of me that I keep hidden.  In that place, I am a hopeless romantic of the 19th century sort, loving all that is true and good and beautiful.  I find that the works of Thoreau give words to my passion for life.  I too want to suck all the marrow out of life, so that when I come to die, I will not discover that I have not lived.  Two movies have also given me the language to express my romanticism:  Dead Poet's Society, and Don Juan Demarco.  I too suffer from a romanticism that is not only incurable, but highly contagious. Grace Harris resides in Los Angeles County, California