Birthday Poems: A Strictly Not A Poem Birthday Greeting For Tara - Poem by Alison Cassidy

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A Strictly Not A Poem Birthday Greeting For Tara - Poem by Alison Cassidy

It is late afternoon
this first day of winter -
electric cold and amber warm.
Long shadows dapple
and the light twinkles.

It is your morning,
your first of summer morning,
your birthday morning -
dear Tara McHale.

Your compassion and tenderness
have lifted my spirit
time and time again.

Your pain and tears
have touched me
beyond words.

Your poems
reveal your life -
with honesty and charm.

Your comments
seduce without flattery
and inspire me to write.

Your hundreds of messages
are always 'interesting'
and often make my day.

The last year's soap opera
has challenged you -
demanded monumental courage

and patience from you,
but now you've turned the corner
and sweet love beckons...

Dear Tara,
poet princess,
spiritual child,
Have a Happy, Happy Birthday.

Comments about A Strictly Not A Poem Birthday Greeting For Tara by Alison Cassidy

  • Elysabeth Faslund 6/24/2007 7:10:00 AM

    Well thought out, with warmth, love, friendship. Birthdays are the most important day for anyone...only on this particular day, appeared for the first time in the whole universe, a person called Tara(inser your own name, now) , never has been, or will be, another Tara. No other day, or holiday, is as important for a person! Good, good, good! xxElysabeth Reply

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  • Robert Howard 6/5/2007 5:06:00 PM

    Way to go, Alison! ! I raise my coffee mug in toast to Tara, Alison and all the rest in our poetic community. Reply

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  • Careful with that dogma, my karma might hit it . 6/3/2007 8:06:00 AM

    Wonderful. You've absolutely hit the spot there.
    Ez X

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  • Margery Rehman 6/3/2007 3:02:00 AM

    Sweet, sincere and fond. Lucky Tara. Reply

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  • Jerry Hughes 6/1/2007 6:43:00 PM

    tenderly felt and written for our surrogate daughter Tara. However, I'm going to add this butch Aussie salutation - 'avagoodone' Love you Tara Kate, Jez Reply

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  • Marci Made 6/1/2007 11:01:00 AM

    [ps.>>> it's 90 degrees here! ! ! ! Will get some sun for you today] marci. :) Reply

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  • Marci Made 6/1/2007 10:59:00 AM

    Dear Alison, what a lovely tribute, what a beautiful poem from one great gal to another great gal, both of them inspiring writers to me... Happppy happyyyy birthday sweet Tara.......Hope it's ever so lovely and a reminder of a 'GREAT' year ahead. ~~~marci.xo Reply

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  • Sandra Fowler 6/1/2007 5:50:00 AM

    An eloquent gift of words for a cherished friend. Warm greetings to you.Tara!
    May your gifted pen continue to be blessed.



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  • Dee Daffodil 6/1/2007 5:17:00 AM

    Allie...That was a lovely tribute! ! ! I couldn't have said it better myself! ! Written by one of my favorite poets, for another one of my favorite poets! ! Happy Birthday Tara! ! !

    1 person liked.
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  • Marvin Brato 6/1/2007 4:27:00 AM

    I admire the way your friendship with Tara has bonded, same feather flocked together! Both of you (Alie and Tara) are skillful poets. Regards to you both. Reply

    1 person liked.
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Read all 12 comments »
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  1. A Birthday

    My heart is like a singing bird Whose nest is in a water'd shoot; My heart is like an apple-tree Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit; My heart is like a rainbow shell That paddles in a halcyon sea; My heart is gladder than all these Because my love is come to me. Raise me a dais of silk and down; Hang it with vair and purple dyes; Carve it in doves and pomegranates, And peacocks with a hundred eyes; Work it in gold and silver grapes, In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys; Because the birthday of my life Is come, my love is come to me.

  2. Poem On His Birthday

    In the mustardseed sun, By full tilt river and switchback sea Where the cormorants scud, In his house on stilts high among beaks And palavers of birds This sandgrain day in the bent bay's grave He celebrates and spurns His driftwood thirty-fifth wind turned age; Herons spire and spear. Under and round him go Flounders, gulls, on their cold, dying trails, Doing what they are told, Curlews aloud in the congered waves Work at their ways to death, And the rhymer in the long tongued room, Who tolls his birthday bell, Toesl towards the ambush of his wounds; Herons, stepple stemmed, bless. In the thistledown fall, He sings towards anguish; finches fly In the claw tracks of hawks On a seizing sky; small fishes glide Through wynds and shells of drowned Ship towns to pastures of otters. He In his slant, racking house And the hewn coils of his trade perceives Herons walk in their shroud, The livelong river's robe Of minnows wreathing around their prayer; And far at sea he knows, Who slaves to his crouched, eternal end Under a serpent cloud, Dolphins dyive in their turnturtle dust, The rippled seals streak down To kill and their own tide daubing blood Slides good in the sleek mouth. In a cavernous, swung Wave's silence, wept white angelus knells. Thirty-five bells sing struck On skull and scar where his lovews lie wrecked, Steered by the falling stars. And to-morrow weeps in a blind cage Terror will rage apart Before chains break to a hammer flame And love unbolts the dark And freely he goes lost In the unknown, famous light of great And fabulous, dear God. Dark is a way and light is a place, Heaven that never was Nor will be ever is alwas true, And, in that brambled void, Plenty as blackberries in the woods The dead grow for His joy. There he might wander bare With the spirits of the horseshoe bay Or the stars' seashore dead, Marrow of eagles, the roots of whales And wishbones of wild geese, With blessed, unborn God and His Ghost, And every soul His priest, Gulled and chanter in youg Heaven's fold Be at cloud quaking peace, But dark is a long way. He, on the earth of the night, alone With all the living, prays, Who knows the rocketing wind will blow The bones out of the hills, And the scythed boulders bleed, and the last Rage shattered waters kick Masts and fishes to the still quick stars, Faithlessly unto Him Who is the light of old And air shaped Heaven where souls grow wild As horses in the foam: Oh, let me midlife mourn by the shrined And druid herons' vows The voyage to ruin I must run, Dawn ships clouted aground, Yet, though I cry with tumbledown tongue, Count my blessings aloud: Four elements and five Senses, and man a spirit in love Thangling through this spun slime To his nimbus bell cool kingdom come And the lost, moonshine domes, And the sea that hides his secret selves Deep in its black, base bones, Lulling of spheres in the seashell flesh, And this last blessing most, That the closer I move To death, one man through his sundered hulks, The louder the sun blooms And the tusked, ramshackling sea exults; And every wave of the way And gale I tackle, the whole world then, With more triumphant faith That ever was since the world was said, Spins its morning of praise, I hear the bouncing hills Grow larked and greener at berry brown Fall and the dew larks sing Taller this thuderclap spring, and how More spanned with angles ride The mansouled fiery islands! Oh, Holier then their eyes, And my shining men no more alone As I sail out to die

  3. A Prayer For A Mother's Birthday

    Lord Jesus, Thou hast known A mother's love and tender care: And Thou wilt hear, while for my own Mother most dear I make this birthday prayer. Protect her life, I pray, Who gave the gift of life to me; And may she know, from day to day, The deepening glow of Life that comes from Thee. As once upon her breast Fearless and well content I lay, So let her heart, on Thee at rest, Feel fears depart and troubles fade away. Her every wish fulfill; And even if Thou must refuse In anything, let Thy wise will A comfort bring such as kind mothers use. Ah, hold her by the hand, As once her hand held mine; And though she may not understand Life's winding way, lead her in peace divine. I cannot pay my debt For all the love that she has given; But Thou, love's Lord, wilt not forget Her due reward,- bless her in earth and heaven.

  4. Poem For My 43rd Birthday

    To end up alone in a tomb of a room without cigarettes or wine-- just a lightbulb and a potbelly, grayhaired, and glad to have the room.

  5. A Birthday Poem

    Just past dawn, the sun stands with its heavy red head in a black stanchion of trees, waiting for someone to come with his bucket for the foamy white light, and then a long day in the pasture. I too spend my days grazing, feasting on every green moment till darkness calls, and with the others I walk away into the night, swinging the little tin bell of my name.