Sarah Picklesimer Wilson
Passion
My name is passion,
and I am the spirit of everlasting youth
understanding your silence
desiring to be the balance in your seesaw of life.
Hold out the candle that lights my fire,
and I will lead you past the mountains of rock
that often blocks courage's door
allowing you to find and face the faith you need to win the race.
A spirit dwelling within us all,
but sometimes we forget how passion keeps the romance alive
in the heart of God's children bringing shining sleep with dreams
woven of magic allowing entrance to a world of wonderous strife.
Hold out the candle that lights my fire,
and I will lead you past the mountains of rock
that often blocks the ray to guide your struggling gurgles of life day by day.
Eager feet follows passion to climb dark stairway's will with mazes and doors
not opened leaving behind the fragrance
filling hearts with goodness dwelling within each.
Hold out the candle that lights my fire,
and I will lead you past the mountain rock
that often blocks the needed will
to dismiss the wild rages of anger that are often near.
Passion pauses a moment to send to distressed love
a small token releasing glad
tears washing away the hard lines of sorrow.
Hold out the candle that lights my fire,
and I will lead you past the mountain rock,
that often blocks the ability to fight
life's storms that break your heart so dear.
Entering the dark corriders of the mind,
passion reminding scarred memories of what might have been,
and focusing forward to good days yet to be
bringing forth all of our tomorrows.
Hold out the candle that lights my fire,
and I will lead you past the mountain rock
that often blocks the bright ray of God's will.
Creaping softly, passion enters into the still,
white home of pain, and kisses lips that are too weak to speak,
just trembling in silence, eloquent thankfulness.
Hold out the candle that lights my fire,
and I will lead you past the mountain rock
that often blocks the thousands of ways
a weary world leads the devil's work
allowing you to look up into the face of Heaven's door,
and for a little time you can forget
the things that are small and wretched reminding us
when we were born we were all blessed.
I hope to remain in your soul, living in passion.
Copyright © 1997
Sarah Picklesimer Wilson
Dad's Window
Dad always leaned to watch for us, no more shall the petals weep
the dew, anxious if we were late, or standing in the summer fields
so full of secrets he would not yield.
In winter by the window sill, leaning against the sink watching the
swallows soar or breezes in summer flying past the gate;
And though we mocked him tenderly, no more will the moonbeams
dance with his waves of such foolish care,
The long way home would seem more safe because he waited there,
his thoughts were all so full of us, he never could forget.
And so I think that where he is must be a place of sheer delight
shining upon his graven stone illuminating rays with his light, and
he must be watching yet, waiting till we come home to him, anxious
if we are late,
Watching from Heaven’s window,
Leaning upon the fountain at Heaven’s gate.
Copyright © 1998 Sarah |
Holiday Spirits
Corn and privacy at Christmas time decked halls
about granny’s clapboard shack of no shame
enterprising should have been her middle name
frisky ways brought on time-honored whiskey
corn crops crossing valleys on top of moonshine hill
where her legend became queen of the still
nights sneaked by with limestone production
tainting rocks purifying natural springwater life
distinctive strife between the rivers flavor
fetching mason jars of so much imagination to savor
imbibed in this old timer’s recipe of timely holiday tradition
amusing though granny always recalled vapors rover
hangover hill out where the hickory trees arch over
listening for nightfall you could smell the breeze
laughing with jolly sorts and passing out could freeze
balls snagged by Santa’s coat as the twinkle in his eye
the twitch of his nose smelled the grin of his mouth’s sigh
sipping on granny’s homemade brew disguised by eggnog
aquainted with him for so many years only the best mind you
for such a gracious man full of happiness granny knew
while sleeping deeply by edges of clear water streams
cooking up corn for medicinal purposes relaxant dreams
many searched for but never found knew granny grew
young at the ripe old age of 82 and could still shoot straight
between invisible eyes that laughed at visions of Santa’s weight
scoffing off a jolly gait this rotund fellow’s first stop, a chance to plop
decked the halls of granny’s shack one so generous who afforded to pay
hundreds to stay each Christmas season for poor vision and hard hearing
steering revenuers clear from the need of home-brew over store-bought cheer
glistening tears falling down granny’s cheek hoping to see him again next year
knowing the gift she gave eased stairwell creaks as he would fly reindeer
over Moonshine Creek.
Copyright © 1998 Princess |
Never Asking, Never Receiving
His gaze lifts
fizz days drifts
over heads
clover beds
and looks past
land crooks massed
around green-shrouded
town scene-crowded
primordial mountains bathed
polynomial fountains unscathed
afternoon’s fading
typhoons shading
sunlight present
midnight lament
forever confined
endeavor flies blind
by the past
why be surpassed
head fell back
dread swells black
against the tree
sensed plea Cree
and says,
“Grand as,
spanned blais,
life’s tough,
strife’s rough,
in a million ways,"
then a civilian daze
turns away
burns gray
face hollow of expression
glace calo love question
ironically said
sardonically pled.
Copyright © 1998 Sarah Picklesimer Wilson |
Harlequin Hill
She was the mountain with heart aflame.
A forest green that cradled momentary lives
with majestical peaks and short-lived looks,
feckless souls tried to claim her, a feral land.
Coral skies tamed fire opal stepstones
as transitory sickles cut her passion away.
A mountain in all her grace
let mortal man have his way.
Human spirits laughed without prominence
as hills resounded; rising they called her bluff.
Transients that knew nothing of the fire inside,
but before long, this peak would open eyes.
Ephemeral esprits tried to rename her after them,
and built domiciles on her headstones.
And when they dubbed themselves masters
she made them bow to her.
Drumbeats inside turned to a rumbling roar,
and bloodstone quakes gyrated powerful.
The masters stood pale and quiet, a setback
this harlequin opal dogstoned with tombstones.
Brilliant the plasma in her veins ruled kunzite sparks
and masters she referred to as dripstones
pled a bargain with her, but she was the mountain, relentless,
And conquered mere mortals with marks the breeze had blown.
Stalactite secret in her bed whispered as lodestones marbled
they were not the first and certainly would'nt be the last
to build domiciles and try to claim and rename her
for mounds forest green kept veils to blast cat eye’s to the unknown.
Only, elevated were their thoughts mere mortals were masters.
She was the mountain with heart aflame.
A mountain in all her grace
would never again let mortal man have his way.
Copyright © 1998 Sarah Picklesimer Wilson |
Amazing Woman
When she was born she walked like a piece
computer integrated by bird songs
video turned on
one you could stare at for more than a minute
an hour later you are still left wondering
five kids later her life’s intercourse
revealed three divorce decrees
papering the bottom side of birdie’s cage
deserted by three smucks who worked her
through depression years to support their habit
killing them to reveal her purpose
a balance of jilted life glowed from this lady
reflected by images of her home, children, flower beds,
(oh what flower beds she had)
seeping out walls she painted for herself
spread out still life pictures, lessons, grief, growing pains,
finally joy, courage, discovery,
that she was the better half.
Copyright © 1998 Sarah Picklesimer Wilson |
Fading Star
Many say the world is a sea, mountain’s glory awaits me
In my boat laying upon oceans of green a will to float
Dreams touching the earth, scented air, foreplay to despair
Smelling fresh overturned dirt is a simple joy so sweet
Visions seeing the cost birth has prevailed entailing
Questions of the worth; a price to steep to pay
Brave you must be to climb the hill barefooted
Dawn views across the valleys deep, wonderment of earth
Not lacking strength to reach out and burn your hand
Touching a fading star just so you may view afar
Morning glories open dripping the vines and wine of mirth
A strange quest in my boat digging toenail deep grasping
Many-colored coat of dreams, splashing rock-pebbled streams
Loveliness reflected by a dawn’s new day warm to sun reflection
Truth’s deep abyss denuding me a mortal for what was and is
Naked under my coat of dreams content with each new-born day
Dancing in the dew of thought, my boat secure with worms of truth
Tired I reach my destiny and spent my strength passion worn
No first mate to part the seas of mountain’s glory, just sight’s story
Swimming between the sea of earth, valleys of Heaven and Hell
Mountains majesty magnified by skyline clearly purged and deified
A burning hand outreached for the fading star weeping daylight afar
Dirt filled toenails thrust upright writhing on my back crying life
Burning eyes beheld a field, hostile hills, hemlock clamored strife
My heart now deep in prayer, boat rocking out of sea, moaning
Push on, no backward glance, I spoke, echoes forcing life
Just a climbing prayer, no sea for me, a mountain sprouting
Sin-sweet life overturned by the boat of flesh, burning hand
Outstretched stars of tears crying as I fell into a fisherman’s
Mesh between Heaven and Hell.
Copyright © 1997 Princess White Haired |
Railed Life
Construction daughter born
seemingly, Macedonia comfort bound
until her will torn
moved in seas of nun direction
traveled to Dublin town.
A reverent young woman
sat, waited, prayed,
humble in her style
knowing all the while
no man can draw boundaries,
nor foretell the measure.
Sand trickles through the hourglass
passing through a sea of warm approval
Sisters of Loreto helped her find
studies leading a Darjeeling convent
trying to sing hymns of tradition
donned tribute St. Teresa of Avila
a sixteenth-century Spanish nun in 1931.
Visions without affairs so well wrapped
sounding like the whistle locomotive etched night’s
cross ties of darkness layed sky-eyed
open to beggars, lepers, homeless dying children
abandoned train thoughts traveling tracks of her mind
brought cession duties of St. Mary’s halted
birthing care for the slums of needy
sea's of warm approval toil began in Calcutta.
Missionaries of Charity began with permission
from hierarchy that same year an Indian citizen
granted nun independent life
chosen habit plain white sari
with blue border and simple cross
pinned to her left shoulder focused efforts tossed
selecting poor children of the street
recruiting first a young Bengal girl and more
required devotion of simple life to serving the poor.
Without accepting material rewards in return
abandoned temple to the goddess Kali
Hindu goddess of death and destruction
reincarnated life for the dying
bringing a home fulfilled loving care
train track thoughts rolled a lone leper colony
brought lingering merit for her selfless work
acclaim far and wide awards on behalf of the poor.
A face bowed forward no longer young left
thin hollow-cheeked lined with memories
Unfolded life of drudgery, poverty, labors
deep devotion born from children
tugs at creases held threadbare clothes
playful souls not distracted - the prayer of thankfulness
and intent gratuity prays on her face
shows the world how rich her place
in this life seems
a place for everything
clean and well ordered a habit
out of so much experience
sand trickles through the hourglass.
History of the church unfolds
God's presence sustains a life
for which He provided from the origin
rolling through the ages quiet and genuine devotion
listening with rapt attention reverent appreciation
a reverent woman old
sat, waited, prayed,
humble in her style
knowing all the while
no man can draw boundaries
nor foretell the measure,
sand trickles through the hourglass-Mother Teresa.
(Footnote: Mother Teresa made the majority of all
her most worthy decision while riding the train.)
Copyright © 1998 Sarah Picklesimer Wilson |
One Life's Golden Years
Astonishment exuberantly stares in the dawn of a new day,
As the midnight posse moon state leaves narrow skies doorway.
Below a sight of a princess that sits atop Appalachian land,
Thoughts deep scurrying thousand years of peace on mountain sand.
Whispering trees speak seeking a touch of her lovely face,
No wrinkles left from life, love free from barriers, transcending space.
Where are the Golden Days questions a lone futuristic mind set,
Eyes searching light trailing evening dew left making morning grass wet.
Eluding open door thoughts consciousness guards the key,
Reminisce of years before golden ages scattered with laughter and tears.
Mystery doors a life’s longtime race between her and me.
Victories not so sweet traveled a crippling dirt winding road,
Pausing on a mountain top trying to rest her weary soul’s load.
Firmament’s joy written on her brow so bold with an eternal gaze,
Fading stars of the morning glowing like dim candles at night,
Shatters the darkness allowing sunshine to spread the light.
Newfound contentment warming taste buds of new life’s feast,
At least nature offers sweet perfume capturing a graceful tilted nose.
Time standing still smelling a single bloom of a wild grown rose,
Offered by a purple cloaked stranger with effulgent sad eyes,
Offering love to be savored she thinks he’s an angel in mortal disguise.
Suspended the midnight posse moon state in the moment rare,
A lone cry laugh on a mountain tall accepting her willowy call,
Lighting a torch for the so-called golden years in anointed air.
Hues of a new day flaming brightly on benevolent cries that await,
Imprisoned views of a torched life gone out brightly on unselfish ways.
Fate presented a time life-line that fell short of fortune leaving a daze,
Lingering a wilderness soul that trailed a midnight posse moon state,
Comfort strengthened a princess love found here life flowing without fear.
The Golden Years leaving her spirit refreshed like gentle rains,
Yielding an Autumn’s harvest tinting firmaments with gold grain.
Complexions shimmer drying evening dew filling her life with nectar still,
Perfuming horizons yet to come with one wild grown rose skirting the hill.
Copyright © 1998 Princess White Haired Child |
Cosmic Space
Golden fires moan out tonight
while lonely fireflies flit
in fearful spheres
and pint-size lights
seem to pierce and prick
feelings alive
waxing in irritation
left me tipsy to an earth
two-stepping age-old silence
which binded me into fandango-flings
under a chinaberry tree.
Queen of the meadow
lay gentle mysticism
sculpted by a mackerel sky
as cyanine blue eyes crooned
the tainted lullaby
and sleep won over
and settled in a way
the precarious music stabbed
a secpar of my glassy sea.
Copyright © 1998 Sarah Picklesimer Wilson |
Birthed From
Women who never walk their soles flat,
high flying women who dance on stars,
leaving high hopes lit up across the sky
pot belly breast women with bold strides,
pelvic thrust talking women,
fleshy hips, noisy grinning women
that let their hair down at dusk
who sow gifts that will always be reaped
women, yes those strong armed women,
men would rather lapse into death than lose,
women who never cry.
Women who never walk their soles flat,
hand clapping old crow's feet women,
women with toothless smiles
eyeing potatoes peeling to sound
holy roller music bean snapping,
collard green cooking women
who wave wands over magic gravy,
flowing from the springs of rocky hills
flowered women who hold
men's hearts wrapped around a pinky
women who never walk their soles flat,
mountain legends, women who never cry.
Copyright © 1998 Princess White Haired Child |
Rattle Charmer
My mother’s head swayed
flower braids white as larkspur
whose drawn-out looks
threatened to slide off her face
until she smiled, heavenly,
lifting them back into place.
In her protection I came to know myself,
and her memories of me became my own.
I recall being set out to play
on a widespread blanket,
drowsy heat turned my nods
slipping over into sleep.
My mother visits with friends
a slight reach away,
her hands busy with quiltwork.
People talked, the way they talk,
flapping tongues as thick as silken cocoons
while nature married me
as a baby the Indian way.
Our courtship being a snake dance
stars spinning and the sun turned
into a moon that whirled
flat as a dime as the snakes crawled
toward my shadow
allowing my legend to walk forever.
Two rattle snakes gliding
into my infant’s shadow,
where they coiled together,
joining me in a nap.
Senses remember their chalky smell
graceful with manners,
the feel of their cool glazed skin.
As I slept, I held each serpent by the tail
shaking them like a baby’s toy.
The rattler never struck,
being calm with me.
My mother and her friends hovered, horrified,
above their twisting heat
whispers were made not to move
breathe watched at how they claimed me.
Tiny clenched fingers
released the rattlesnakes,
and he and his companion left
the widespread blanket.
I think I cried for them to return,
but my mother pressed me into her arms
and I held her braids,
thinking they were silky snakes.
Legends left me with the name Rattle Charmer,
People talked, the way they talk,
flapping tongues as thick as silken cocoons;
but they have it wrong. The snakes charmed me.
Copyright © 1998 Princess White Haired Child |
A Rose
Crisp air with slanted light
sought flight where birds were still
and birth brought leaves on a stem
a smile and laugh to charm and dazzle
the birds and bees and butterflies
and humanity for beauty multi-hued
but alas came thorns with roots deep
soiled enough to tolerate
a wild-rabbit gardener
who poses in such a way
The winds rejoice
dances of the rainbow
sun’s prismatic
color palette
petal-filled and laughter-spun
leaves branches
Short-lived expressions
help humanity show
their emotions
love, sorrow, or joy
without words,
without statements
that pose in such a way
a play acts out
love-felt devotions.
Copyright © 1998 Princess White Haired Child |
Fall's Night
Rainbows without rain surrounded golden hues
apricot skies burst forth leaving perpetual summers
sprinkled blue on a lonely fall night’s birdsong.
Mirth-filled sprouts rye-grass amidst barren soil,
spraying rays cornflower blue,
and suddenly, sunbeams become pearled teardrops
stream linked to foggy morning clouds.
Unbridled a goldenrod world changes overnight
to leave patchwork freckles against fields of Egyptian green
forests where you lie so serenely and seemingly in wait
approaching winter’s guise as angel breast clouds wisp by.
Outstretched free spirit that grows strong and flys high
waiting adornment of golden rings rainbow-thoughts promise.
Flesh, flesh color fall night’s appear paler while your eyes focus
Mars orange with insight that promises do not shine anymore
with sunlight and moonlight sadness sets in
and you no longer dance in morning breezes.
An unfettered fate sloe-colored in sudden aftermath of a dying heart
seeking bliss of winter’s guise blossoming only to kill dreamclouds
that roosted high in evergreens rooted in the sky.
Face to face facts are mute and your ears are no longer deaf.
No words reveal love just fire flies fighting night lights
in a garden opening secret to doors that passed you by.
Albaster rabbits sprint away as grass beaten with paths
bend and nod heads in agreement life is temporary and grief forever.
Copyright © 1998 Sarah Picklesimer Wilson |
The Fury
Dreaming, falling descending fast, knowing this time you have crashed,
from unimagined heights, darkness spinning; a rippled gash.
You would think the fury of the fall would awaken all; laying your wake.
Rousing God to relent, the infinite world in which you minutely dream.
Storming silence grabs pulling you back from shock near to death,
facing reality unknown sight what your troubled subconcious meant.
Feeling after so many lifetimes you had wandered through you'd repent.
Knowing man was not made stupid; so that he might fight indifference.
Time whispers rock on murmurs improbable while nightfall dreams,
flying in on plunging angel wings, your hopes fall without torched light.
Thoughts tormented prompt blind wishes to curse the night.
Petty cares wretch haunting emotions to the dawn of morn,
falling no more for a guardian angel caught you, and brought you back.
Relent you must to save your life, and on your shock filled heart so torn,
Upon the floor of time, you will place your feet rested released; defeat of Satan's sleep.
Fury that troubled you is no more; the depth
filled darkness whispered away.
Swaying deams are now replaced; one guardian angel spraying thoughts to save nameless you from fury.
Held within, swaying streams of passion rippling still; foundation of your life.
Copyright © 1998 Sarah Picklesimer Wilson |
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