Mary Spain Poems
|41.||The Prisoner's Wife||8/2/2006|
|43.||Homes Or Gardens?||8/4/2006|
|45.||The Phoenix Needs The Ashes||8/7/2006|
|47.||How Thomas Felt||8/1/2006|
|51.||I'M Sitting Here...||8/5/2006|
|52.||An Early Night||7/31/2006|
|54.||A Deaf Musician||8/5/2006|
Comments about Mary Spain
A Deaf Musician
As though a deaf musician, I am part
Of some great orchestra I cannot hear.
The only notes that fall upon my ear
Are those which rise unbidden from the heart
And offer teasing glimpses of the art
Of harmony. Yet have I heard, in clear,
Still moments of perception, what appear
As distant drum-beats; pulses that impart
A rhythm to the cosmic melody.
Then, with a quick'ning joy, I see that I
Am moving to creation's symphony.
As birds that wheel and dart across the sky
To secret music, so it seems that we
Can sometimes see the patterns as we fly.
The Prisoner's Wife
She sits there, fingering her wedding-ring
With restless hands, while counsel for the Crown,
Urbane and skilled, concludes his questioning.
She listens, keen and anxious, quick to frown
At each obtrusive sound that might distract
The judge's ear. They speak of violence
In passive tones, as men play out an act
They've played before; where one man's innocence
Or guilt is held contained within the scope