By the Pond: (Dreams, Imaginings, Musings)

By the Pond: (Dreams, Imaginings, Musings)

by Sidonamarie


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In Native American culture, they speak about individuals called Contraries. Contraries are considered clowns (not as we think of them) and doing everything backwards-except in battle, they are fierce warriors. They are also considered healers and teachers (especially of children). My poetry is a journey that began as an earthquake of the mind with a sudden traumatic occurrence in 1993. The kind no one else sees but you. As you read, you will walk with me from my now (my present) back to the first poem I ever wrote in 1977. For me, it has been a journey of remembering who I am, who I have been, and who I will fiercely fight with heart, soul, spirit, and mind to continue to be.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781504911481
Publisher: AuthorHouse
Publication date: 05/12/2015
Pages: 110
Product dimensions: 6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.26(d)

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By the Pond

(Dreams, Imaginings, Musings)

By Sidonamarie


Copyright © 2015 sidonamarie
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5049-1148-1


Now to then 2015 to 1993

"For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you made me welcome, lacking clothes and you clothed me, sick and you visited me, in prison and you came to see me."

(Matthew 25:35-36)

    By the Pond
    (my Lord and me)

    Jesus, for a bit,
    let us rest by the memory
    of the pond,
    where my poetry lingers
    watching in the shadows motion
    by the enticing sapphire of the water
    under the pearl and blue of the sky

    Jesus, for a bit,
    You put Your head on my shoulder
    and I rest my heart in your hands
    while we think of our pebbles —
    the what ifs
    the might haves
    the sorrows
    the ones thrown
    the ones held back

    Jesus, for a bit,
    let us sit by this pond,
    place of my poetry's birth —
    the ripples
    once fierce,
    once raging,
    now edges
    soft and fading
    into memory's shadowbox
    overgrown by time and weeds
    where silent stillness now sleeps,
    where cries once pierced
    the kindness and compassion
    of what began as a beautiful day

    Crosses in the Whirlwind
    (hold tight)

    thoughts and
    dreams and
    thoughts —
    a whirlwind that winds
    within our minds
    alarming, debating,
    and reflecting
    about traumas and missteps,
    about mistakes and slights,
    that bite at our spirit
    to become
    our burdens —
    our crosses
    that cause us
    to lose courage
    or move too fast
    out of fear —
    so slow down
    your steps and breathing,
    be mindful of your soul
    and who you are truly,
    then through the thorns go,
    holding tight
    to our Father's
    strong and gentle hand
    and watching carefully
    for those briers,
    brambles, and brushwood
    that cause us
    to forget our heart
    and that soon the thicket
    will turn to green grass
    with wildflowers
    in full bloom at last

    Captivating, Bitter Sea
    (a defining)

    Sidona Marie —
    out of a book
    of baby names
    my parents,
    Russell and Betty
    chose for me —
    no wished for child
    to be found in me —
    enchanting may be,
    the pitch
    of my voice,
    enticing could be
    the rhythm and flow
    of my heart
    as it matches
    the movement
    of the gossiping branches
    whispering in trees —
    rebellious and
    bewitching should be
    the mirror of my words
    reflecting the voices
    caught adrift
    in the deep fog floating
    over the churning and swirling,
    ever-bitter, alluring, and beguiling sea —
    which means
    I reflect and am
    a captivating, bitter sea
    forever to be called

    Of My Poetry
    (I would say)

    of my poetry
    I would say —

    the poems are the product
    of imaginings, dreams, and spirit —
    make no more or less of them
    read no more into the words
    than what they say

    that I have freely accepted
    the gift of them,
    the burden of them,
    and I freely cast them
    into the water
    as my pebbles into a pond
    to watch
    to what extent the ripples expand

    they are cocooned butterflies
    captured by a poet's soul
    waiting for open minds and hearts
    to bring in
    hold close
    and then release them

    that in arrogance
    they are born and abound —
    to think or believe that there
    be hidden in them
    any pearl or treasure
    not already found and spent

    they only speak
    of what is close,
    of what is past,
    of what is present
    if any prophecy
    they may contain
    it is this —
    they are a portion of
    a continuum of conception
    of whispers that ride on breezes
    passed endlessly from tree to tree
    that my words
    carry hope as a seed
    around a wildflower wanting
    to land in firmer ground
    than dry or saturated sand
    so always to be sought and found
    growing on the open ground
    never lost to wander
    or to drown
    in the fog above
    or below the sea —

    I would say
    of my poetry

    In My Dreams
    (my Jesus)

    my Jesus —
    how can it be true —
    as I sit watching a few rows away
    in this intimate theatre half round,
    a rock star with guitar and band,
    a venomous spider
    crawls onto Your lips
    as You form the words
    and sing Your songs

    my Jesus —
    how can it be true —
    what I see at the edge of a pit,
    You dangle with Your foot in a noose
    over an endless darkness and abyss,
    terrified of being loosed
    as You grasp toward my hand
    to guide You to
    my parapet,
    to my scaffolding
    raised near to and built by me

    my Jesus —
    how can it be true —
    You so angry
    and full with temper,
    You look right through me
    turning swiftly up the stairs
    in pursuit of a younger You —
    a corruption driving You
    deep into madness

    my Jesus —
    instinctually I follow
    concerned for Him,
    not the priests and church
    which He holds in His sights —
    we fall half up the steps,
    I find my hand around His heel
    taking us both in surprise,
    His head turns
    to see my face and
    hear my voice,
    my concern —
    no, my Jesus — You can't,
    You will become as what you hate

    my Jesus —
    how can it be true —
    You so sad and alone
    on a high mountain top —
    all I see is
    a gray fog
    carpeting the vast
    expanse of the earth,
    so I calmly touch
    Your shoulder
    and gently request
    You show me
    what troubles You below

    my Jesus —
    once my hysteria passes
    and I embraced
    the possibility of insanity
    and succumbing
    to my greatest fear —
    I allowed the clouded whirlwind

    to swirl around in heart and mind,
    to run its course,
    it then came clear
    and the song I could hear
    the trapped melody hidden
    singing out all around Him
    this dirge trapped
    in the songs airwaves —
    a torturous song of songs,
    with words of a love lost and sought
    they write in beauty
    but do not ascertain
    their words as pawns in a game
    meant only as a torment
    for His ears to hear

    my Jesus —
    how can it be true —
    You showed me how You sit,
    blended among the church statues
    of those by the world deemed worthy,
    idols forged in fiery brimstone
    and dressed in robes
    bronzed and burnt
    into a misty ashen-rose,
    while You are passed by
    as a museum piece
    not given thought or glance
    by visitors passing —
    I kneel,
    You move,
    we embrace —
    friends no one seems to see
    You, me, us,
    or how You trust
    our struggles,
    our battles,
    and the balance that comes
    from the pulls, tugs, and shoves
    when I with You disagree

    my Jesus —
    how can it be true —
    You standing in my hometown
    on a dirt-covered division street
    as children circle and dance around —
    You whisper to my heart
    to care for them,
    even if the need be
    to shield innocence from You
    because, in a state
    of post-traumatic righteousness,
    we forget the innocent
    to a vision's end
    that can never be justified
    by any means
    through which it is progressed

    my Jesus —
    how true it be —
    our Father always near,
    at times protecting me
    from You and us from them —
    of my dreams,
    of our Father,
    of You,
    I ask for the truth,
    how can these things be?
    That You aspire to be one of us,
    tempering Your deep-seated antipathy
    while trying
    to mirror the best of us in our charity
    while wrestling
    with the imperfections
    of Your treasured humanity —
    in my dreams,
    You show me a Jesus
    unlike the Jesus most others see —
    You are
    my stalker,
    my Celtic knight,
    my rock star,

    my Jesus
    in my dreams

    My Heaven
    (no limits)

    my heaven,
    a summer's leaf
    from which a butterfly peeks —
    inclines near
    as do a pair of robins perched
    smiling at the growing efforts of offspring —
    yet exists not void of tragedy or sorrow
    nor conceals the color of its countenance — always reverent
    of the rights attributed to freewill,
    prizes above
    all compassion and kindness,
    concedes humane acts
    as the most courageous —
    a divergent mind
    with no limits on possibilities —
    sees always a spark
    of rebellion ever-present in my eyes —
    defines love as a flow of action not the word of the day,
    perceives passion as a diligent peaceful pursuit of justice for all,
    leaves room for inaction to be the appropriate action

    Hope and the Memory-Keeper
    (a musing)

    innocence sheltered,
    a child that fled
    to hide to conceal herself
    inside an opened Pandora's box
    only filled with the left behind light
    of a child's wishes and daydreams —
    bolts her interior locks,
    stands with her ear to the door
    as time's precious moments pass away
    she listens intently
    for the warring pulse to slow
    so she might crack the door
    to peek through her self-imposed chains
    to glimpse the wages earned and demanded
    by the ravage of war's extravagance and despair

    Yet laughter,
    a medicine best shared,
    seeks and finds moments
    with the fierce, intrepid, and resolute
    memory-keeper stationed in the darkening fallout
    just outside the peace inside her door —
    a knowing smile shuttles from eye to eye
    as the memory-keeper,
    with the heart of a lioness and her cub
    and sight as keen as an eagle's,
    motions with a wink
    and a slight shake of her head
    while moving a quieting finger
    to her soundless lips to say — not yet,
    not this day

    Hope giggles
    from within her harbor
    at the relentless and staunch sentry,
    a seraph allowing none to pass,
    wearing armor protecting the gentlest of hearts
    amid a reign of oppressing and endless tears —
    the door closes,
    the latch clicks,
    the fail-safe locks,
    Hope sound within her berth
    to rest or to play
    in the contentment of her sanctuary —
    warm and day-lit,
    waiting for the wild-flowers of May

    (what if ... imagine)

    Imagine — what if,
    The Great Spirit,
    the God whom envisioned all
    in opposites,
    a balance of pairs,
    bestowed awareness
    on a daughter
    not just a Son

    Imagine — Her,
    dressed in rainbows
    and promises
    with the sun to color her hair,
    after the flood
    designed to protect
    and conceal
    a sleeping
    but once turbulent storm

    Imagine — Her,
    seated aloft and aloof,
    set apart,
    blind in a way and only able
    to see with eyes of the heart —
    watching with compassion and concern
    the seismic cost and desolation
    of oppression and war
    on smiles
    of the innocent,
    of the children

    Imagine — Her,
    not a player of the games
    in which the others
    near her station engage,
    until the wage on the pawns
    weighs too much on her heart
    and the rain pouring up
    becomes a sea in which
    she would drown
    were she to remain
    and apart

    Imagine — Her,
    to enter the game,
    where sanity the price
    laid out to be waged,
    calling to her friends,
    "East, North, West —
    it is time for us to play
    and hold all gamers at bay —
    hold the line on the shore,
    play to the draw,
    not showing our hand,
    we must pretend to want reign
    but permit none to claim the day —
    our Father has said
    the final hand and card cannot
    be allowed to be played"

    Imagine —
    The Creator of all that is good and not,
    after kissing the face of an innocent,
    as demonstration of the point
    at which His and Her hearts entwine,
    said, "Daughter, what of me do you want?"

    Imagine — Her reply,
    "Abba, if it only could be, let me —
    be no one's prize
    or bride beside which to own rule,
    nor pivot piece
    of some wayward prophetic vision —
    only to sit within
    the warm sanctuary,
    the white aura of Your cloud
    with the blameless
    and acquitted all around
    so that their laughter,
    their smiles,
    I may protect,
    help them heal
    as they
    soothe the storm surge
    concealed and sealed
    within my heart
    gently into its secret place
    of slumber"


Excerpted from By the Pond by Sidonamarie. Copyright © 2015 sidonamarie. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Table of Contents


Introduction, ix,
Before Going In, xi,
Now to then, 1,
2015 to 1993,
By the Pond, 3,
Crosses in the Whirlwind, 4,
Captivating, Bitter Sea, 5,
Of My Poetry, 6,
In My Dreams, 8,
My Heaven, 13,
Hope and the Memory-Keeper, 14,
Daughter, 16,
I, the Bow, 19,
Can a Voice, 21,
Among Us, 22,
Earth-Tone Angel, 23,
Heart and Anchor, 25,
Twilight, 26,
Ripples, 28,
Kyrie Eleison, 29,
Settling Dust, 30,
Love, 31,
She Who Walks Alone, 32,
My Fifteen, 35,
Wisdom, 36,
Peace, 38,
What to Bring, 39,
Clouds and Dreams, 40,
Occupied, 42,
Some Days, 44,
Then to the Beginning, 47,
1992 to 1977,
Poetry, 49,
Sheet Music, 50,
Wisdom's Disciple, 51,
Wisdom, 52,
Wisdom, 53,
Poets/Painters, 54,
Syllabus, 55,
Song Restrained, 56,
Timeless Breeze, 57,
Fragile Buds, 58,
Tears, 59,
Humanity, 60,
Ramblings, 61,
Somewhere, 62,
Ripples, 63,
Songs from the Rain, 65,
Peace Puzzle, 66,
Even in Stones, 68,
True Beauty, 69,
The Master Artist, 70,
Frustration, 71,
Poems for Parents and Their Children, 73,
2015 and beyond,
Rounding Up the Chicks, 75,
Ghosts of Halloween, 77,
Beyond the Presents, 79,
Let's Dream A World, 80,
Justin and the War of the Applesauce, 81,
Am I Awake or Dreaming, 82,
There Be Dragons, 84,
I Know Why!, 86,
The Eagle, 88,
Epilogue, 89,
About the Author, 95,

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