Caryl Ramsdale, American Poet
to Barbara Casey
In my long past neighborhood
At the intersection where;
Narrow streets meet each other—
Sometimes—I want to be there.
Where bright yellow beams circle
Forks in the road after dark;
Where snowflakes slide down columns
Of light rays that curve and arc.
Where lamps perched on tall lampposts
Illumine black ice and snow;
Where bright lights cover corners
Setting slick and safe aglow.
’Neath those light beams I first heard
The silence of falling snow;
There quiet—gets quieter—
As air currents shift and blow.
That’s the somewhere calling me
Back to its someplace in time;
It appears to beckon me
Back home near Thanksgiving time.
Oft I go there in thought when
Family bustles my heart;
With think back memories of
Streetlights, big brothers, and art.
Isn’t it strange how small things
Leave a lifetime impression;
Or odd how a simple scene
Effects mind’s eye direction?
Like the charcoal version of
A streetlight my brother drew;
The Lord’s face in its lightest light
Was hidden art some eyes can’t view.
©Copyright 1999-2007 Caryl Ramsdale. All rights reserved.
newsong online
November 04, 2006
bluepenciled November 02, 2007
