Tag Archives: Poetry

Tales of Brave Ulysses

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We finally had rain AND thunder! In the middle of a downpour, I absolutely forgot how to turn on my windshield wipers. I had to pull over and search for the owner’s manual to figure it out. That’s exactly how long it’s been since we had sky water! From last night to this morning, there was more than an inch of rain. More is on the way.

For some reason, it seems like a Cream kind of day, and I can’t exactly explain why I feel like this…

Ulysses, also known as Odysseus, is a character of Greek mythology. Homer wrote The Odyssey about Odysseus, king of Ithaca, who wanders for ten years (although the action of the poem covers only the final six weeks) trying to get home after the Trojan War.

When the original Angel Boy was young enough for nightly bedtime stories, we read The Odyssey to him (truth!) and think, in some small way, that it helped to encourage his professorial and writing talents.

Tales of Brave Ulysses

You thought the leaden winter
Would bring you down forever
But you rode upon a steamer
To the violence of the sun

And the colours of the sea
Bind your eyes with trembling mermaids
And you touch the distant beaches
With tales of brave Ulysses
How his naked ears were tortured
By the sirens sweetly singing
For the sparkling waves are calling you
To kiss their white laced lips

And you see a girl’s brown body
Dancing through the turquoise
And her footprints make you follow
Where the sky loves the sea
And when your fingers find her
She drowns you in her body
Carving deep blue ripples
In the tissues of your mind

Tiny purple fishes
Run laughing through your fingers
And you want to take her with you
To the hard land of the winter

Her name is Aphrodite
And she rides a crimson shell
And you know you cannot leave her
For you touched the distant sands
With tales of brave Ulysses
How his naked ears were tortured
By the sirens sweetly singing

Tiny purple fishes
Run laughing through your fingers
And you want to take her with you
To the hard land of the winter

Background: The lyrics are inspired by Homer’s Odyssey, an account of the adventures undertaken by Ulysses. This can be seen in the song’s reference to “naked ears … tortured by the sirens sweetly singing,” an event from Homer’s epic. When interviewed on the episode of the VH1 show, Classic Albums, which featured Disraeli Gears, lyricist Martin Sharp explained that he had recently returned from Ibiza, which was the source of many of the images in the song (e.g. “tiny purple fishes run laughing through her fingers”) and the general feeling of having left an idyll to return to “the hard lands of the winter” https://www.lyricinterpretations.com/cream/tales-of-brave-ulysses

A live version…

Trees Call To Me, Too

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There’s a tree that I’ve been watching
And I see it in my dreams
For it calls to me and whispers
As it dances in the breeze
It whispers of a struggle
From the roots up through the trunk
And from there it tells of healing
Grown of nurture, care and love
Becky Hemsley 2021

Photo by Felix Mittermeier on Pexels.com

The Annular Solar Eclipse

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I couldn’t find the special eclipse glasses we used in 2017 even though I know I saved them, so I used a colander and it made some really awesome crescents on a white background. The sun was only about 70% obscured here, no ring of fire, but super cool to safely experience.

Here’s a relevant poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1850 – 1919) 

A SOLAR ECLIPSE

In that great journey of the stars through space
    About the mighty, all-directing Sun,
    The pallid, faithful Moon, has been the one
Companion of the Earth. Her tender face,
Pale with the swift, keen purpose of that race,
    Which at Time’s natal hour was first begun,
    Shines ever on her lover as they run
And lights his orbit with her silvery smile.

Sometimes such passionate love doth in her rise,
    Down from her beaten path she softly slips,
And with her mantle veils the Sun’s bold eyes,
    Then in the gloaming finds her lover’s lips.
While far and near the men our world call wise
    See only that the Sun is in eclipse.

Come Home

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Yesterday’s angst is over; problems solved — today is Friday the 13th, a day that was once considered unlucky until we learned that its negative image is rooted in the patriarchy suppressing the power of the female.

Rather than being afraid of Friday the 13th, especially since its ruled by Venus, we could instead manifest its magic as a day to connect to our beauty and nature.

For me, that’s always been the easiest route; my animal family is all about love. This IS home, along with art and a poem.

I shall
Gather up
All the lost souls
That wander this earth
All the ones that are alone
All the ones that are broken
All the ones that never really fitted in
I shall gather them all up
And together we shall find our home

“Gather up” A Poem written by Athey Thompson
Taken from A Little Book Of Poetry
Art by Elaine Bayley curated from Pinterest

October Fevers and Aussie Binges

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“Whence October is upon us, There shall be magic in the air, why it shall be everywhere. All ye leaves shall fall as Autumn does call. And as the faery folk are now gathering up and foraging, tonight I shall be leaving them a wee offering. Why, I shall leave them a few freshly hand picked Bramble berries & a wee tipple of Whiskey, Oh why how merry they shall surely be.” –Athey Thompson

First I’m hot and then I’m freezing. I confess that I’m having a hard time locating the magic in October. Not yet.

Because I wasn’t very smart last year and didn’t get a pneumonia vaccination, I ended up really sick with the most horrible case of double (bi-lateral) pneumonia, so bad that but for the fact that I’m incredibly stubborn, I would have been hospitalized,

THIS time I got the vaccination, reluctantly, because I always endure side effects for about thirty-six hours: headache, chills, fever. Most people only experience a sore arm but my immune system likes to give me a more ambitious taste of reality.

That’s why I’m now wrapped up in a blanket on the sofa, drinking ginger tea and binge-watching my new obsession, Blue Heelers, an Australian TV show from the 90s about the daily lives of Victorian police officers working at a police station in the fictional small town of Mount Thomas.

I think I’ve pretty much exhausted all the available British shows, so I had to search in a completely different hemisphere. Yes, it’s outdated with the gigantic brick-like cell phones, floppy disks, and scrunchies, but I’m learning a lot of new words like “mozzy” for mosquito, “esky” for Eskimo cooler, “slab” for six-pack of beer, “good on ya” and “you beauty“. I had to look up “it’s my shout, mate” to learn it means whoever said it will pay for the next round of drinks.

Previously my DIL and I loved A Place To Call Home, Rake, The Newsreader, The Doctor Blake Mysteries, and of course, Bluey.

I’m bracing for more vaccinations next week because it’s better to have a robustly active immune than the alternative. The first Covid vaccine sent me immediately to urgent care with an allergic reaction (read about that here) but the rest of them have been well tolerated except for the thirty-six hours of subsequent hell.

Anyway, happy October and stay healthy!

Love Light Glow

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This poem by Athey Thompson reminds me of the book I like so much, The Bowl of Light… https://enchantedseashells.com/2022/12/15/what-im-reading-the-bowl-of-light/

She held within her hands
A forever glowing light
Filled with love
O how it shined so bright
And everywhere she did go
Whether it be near or far
She left a little
Of her delicate, loving light
For everyone’s
Delight - Athey Thompson


In my own little rose-colored fantasy world, I wish I was wearing a sheer gossamer gown with butterfly wings so that I could share love and sparkles with all the flowers.

Artist unknown

Sunday Vibes

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I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree. –Joyce Kilmer

I looked up from weeding the veg garden at green leaves and the bluest sky kissed by the sun. There’s a bird singing somewhere in there but I couldn’t locate it.

Had to snap a pic before this ash tree loses all its leaves for the season in the process called abcission. I wrote about that here: https://enchantedseashells.com/2020/11/20/the-process-of-abscission/

#SundayVibes

Tick Tock, It’s the Autumnal Equinox

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It’s cooling off even here in Southern California and now we can anticipate (or dread) shorter, darker days, to give us plenty of time for self reflection on the passage of time.

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The Falling Leaves
Today, as I rode by,
I saw the brown leaves dropping from their tree
In a still afternoon,
When no wind whirled them whistling to the sky,
But thickly, silently,
They fell, like snowflakes wiping out the noon;
And wandered slowly thence
For thinking of a gallant multitude
Which now all withering lay,
Slain by no wind of age or pestilence,
But in their beauty strewed
Like snowflakes falling on the Flemish clay.
by Margaret Postgate-Cole (1893–1980)

I had to add this melancholy Nat King Cole song and just noticed he and the poet have the same last name. How cool is that coincidence!

And another version by Frank:

To Light The Way

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How, It only takes
One precious little soul
To light the way
For so many of us, to see

A Little Poem by Athey Thompson

A true artist, Athey Thompson strips language down to what is most moving and emotional, at least for me. There is abundant beauty in its simplicity. Her words deeply resonate.

Remembering September 11, 2001 | Twenty-Two Years Later

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I woke up this morning to a glorious blood-red sky.

It was about 6:30 or so, and I realized what day it was.

This was about the same time, twenty-two years ago, that I had taken my first sip of coffee and turned on the news to learn that the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center had been crashed into by hijacked jets.

I woke up my son and while we huddled together watching TV, there were other reported terrorist attacks on the Pentagon and a crash in Pennsylvania.

The September 11 attacks of 2001 caused the deaths of nearly 3000 victims and nineteen hijackers. Thousands more were injured and long-term health effects have arisen as a consequence of the attacks.

This sky is a poignant reminder of that tragic day.

William James Collins is an American poet who served as the Poet Laureate of the United States from 2001 to 2003.

The Names is his poem about 9/11.


Yesterday, I lay awake in the palm of the night.
A soft rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze,
And when I saw the silver glaze on the windows,
I started with A, with Ackerman, as it happened,
Then Baxter and Calabro,
Davis and Eberling, names falling into place
As droplets fell through the dark.
Names printed on the ceiling of the night.
Names slipping around a watery bend.
Twenty-six willows on the banks of a stream.
In the morning, I walked out barefoot
Among thousands of flowers
Heavy with dew like the eyes of tears,
And each had a name --
Fiori inscribed on a yellow petal
Then Gonzalez and Han, Ishikawa and Jenkins.
Names written in the air
And stitched into the cloth of the day.
A name under a photograph taped to a mailbox.
Monogram on a torn shirt,
I see you spelled out on storefront windows
And on the bright unfurled awnings of this city.
I say the syllables as I turn a corner --
Kelly and Lee,
Medina, Nardella, and O'Connor.
When I peer into the woods,
I see a thick tangle where letters are hidden
As in a puzzle concocted for children.
Parker and Quigley in the twigs of an ash,
Rizzo, Schubert, Torres, and Upton,
Secrets in the boughs of an ancient maple.
Names written in the pale sky.
Names rising in the updraft amid buildings.
Names silent in stone
Or cried out behind a door.
Names blown over the earth and out to sea.
In the evening -- weakening light, the last swallows.
A boy on a lake lifts his oars.
A woman by a window puts a match to a candle,
And the names are outlined on the rose clouds --
Vanacore and Wallace,
(let X stand, if it can, for the ones unfound)
Then Young and Ziminsky, the final jolt of Z.
Names etched on the head of a pin.
One name spanning a bridge, another undergoing a tunnel.
A blue name needled into the skin.
Names of citizens, workers, mothers and fathers,
The bright-eyed daughter, the quick son.
Alphabet of names in a green field.
Names in the small tracks of birds.
Names lifted from a hat
Or balanced on the tip of the tongue.
Names wheeled into the dim warehouse of memory.
So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the heart. -- Billy Collins