Saturday, October 1, 2011

Mercy and Judgment

Mercy and Judgment kissed.
No longer to divide again.

No more killing each other
with our indifference and hypocrisy.

Rub the oil of mercy
Into our cold condemning stares.

Sunday, September 18, 2011

My Silver Dappled Apple Tree

By Molly Blaisdell

Out my back door,
across the yard,
My favorite tree stands tall.
Her leaves dance with silver light.
I skip in swirling shadows.
She lobs clouds across the sky.
I pitch a ball toward the sun.
Her branches shimmy in the breeze
My arms twirl and whirl beneath.
I stretch out by her trunk.
She murmurs splendid secrets.
I close my eyes and listen.
She is a good friend to me,
my silver
dappled
apple
tree.

Seed to Tree

When a tree is a seed
it’s hard to see.

When a tree is young,
The wind blows,
and the tree bends
but does not break.

The tree grows.
It is easy to see.
It does not bend.
It will not break.

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

Volcano

By Molly Blaisdell

Inside the earth,
rocks melt
and pour like syrup.
On the earth,
ground cracks and vents open.
Lava oozes, sprays, shoots --
making mountains,
rainbow sunsets
and rust red moons.

Monday, April 18, 2011

THE EDGE OF THE SEA

By Molly Blaisdell
______________________

The edge of the sea.
Listen.
Pounding surf. Brown. Gray.
Turbid waters.
Foam arching in a steady wind.

My name loses meaning here.
I still exist. I still stand.
A sentinel—but not stone cold.
I stand at the edge of the sea. I
have felt the erosion.
The wounds of time.

I’m walking now.
Searching for stones.
A striped one, yellows, golds,
shiny blacks chestnuts,
flecked granites.

My pockets should be full,
but the stones
tore my pocket
and slipped away
-- falling.
Driven into the sands of centuries.

These stones were never mine.
I called them mine,
but they were never mine.

They belong to the sea.

Friday, March 18, 2011

Weave My World

By Molly Blaisdell
___________________________

Ebb and flow, the wind blows.
Wax and wane, times change.
Woof and warp, I weave my world.

The wind is speaking things.
I'm supposed to believe.
I cry out.
A thread in my loom is pulled.
I walk in ruts.
It takes time to untangle strings.

I walk in the middle, the road disappears.
The cloth is warped.
A rocking cry at night.
Me? A palm tree.
The weather? A hurricane wind.

I must reload my loom.
After the storm, I begin again.

Ebb and flow, the wind blows.
Wax and wane, times change
Woof and warp, I weave my world.

Friday, February 18, 2011

Pipe Dream Junkie

By Molly Blaisdell

I'm a small time crook.
A ten shekel shirt.
Two cents short of a dime.
A dirt track full of potholes.

I'm a pipe dream junkie.
A Santa Claus flunkie.
Insisting on Angels,
Relying on miracles

Saturday, January 1, 2011

Look at Me

If I have to be a giraffe,

I'll be the best that I can be.

I will put my nose in the air.

And say, "Look at me!"


By Molly Blaisdell