‘The First Day of Spring’ and Other Poetry by Lorna Davis

The First Day of Spring

The first day of spring started rainy and cold,
But new greens were sprouting, defiant and bold,
And daffodils nodded their bright heads of gold,
To make the day not quite as dreary.

As I, winter-weary, looked out though the glass
And wondered if ever this winter would pass,
A rainbow of songbirds alit on the grass
And watching them, soon I grew cheery.

On closer inspection, I noticed the gray
Was lighter, and brighter indeed was the day,
As the storm clouds were parting and drifting away,
And sunlight began to break through.

And then, as I watched, winter’s grip on the world
Was loosened, as though its cold fingers uncurled,
And outside my window the spring was unfurled
In a glittering light on the dew.

Taking leave of my window, I stepped to the door,
And into the garden I went, seeking more
Of the warmth that all winter I’d been longing for,
And out in the sunlight I stood.

The air was still cool, but it smelled fresh and clean,
And the tips of the branches were all dipped in green.
Wherever I looked, signs of spring could be seen,
And on such days – oh yes – life is good!

Stuck in Everyday

Set me down by the shores of the sea
And grant me some serenity
And time to break these shackles free
That choke my creativity.

Oh, I can deal with the paper chase,
The constant hurry, the daily race,
But somewhere in this maddening pace
A part of me has lost its place.

It seems to me there was a time
When all I had was peace of mind,
When boredom was my biggest crime,
But boredom now is hard to find.

And people pass me every day,
Scurrying frantically on their way
Like mice that run from a cat at play
As the time clocks tick their lives away.

I’d like to tell them all to wait,
To take a moment to meditate,
But I don’t have time, it’s almost eight,
And I’m already running late.

And so with pre-recorded smiles
We drive each day our daily miles
To stack the hours in neat little piles
And tuck the weeks and years in files.

But somewhere, deep inside, it seems
There’s somebody still dreaming dreams,
Some little imp that plans and schemes
Escape routes from these stiff regimes.

Sometimes you’ll even see one there,
That tiny light behind the stare,
The playful spark or defiant glare
That lets you know they’re still aware,

Still holding on for Saturday,
Still working for the sake of play,
Still certain that they’ll find a way
To break free from the Everyday.

Know Thyself

I dreamed I stood before a marble hall
With veins of gold that ran through every wall,
And heavy doors of bronze and ebony
Beneath a polished dome of porphyry.
The walls were lined with windows jeweled fair;
Within, a million whispers filled the air,
As if a million Wise sat in debate
Of all the questions pondered by the great.

I stood and wished the doors would open wide,
Yet knew there was no place for me inside.
I have not walked the road that hall required;
The life that’s lived will trump the life inspired.
The paths of learning must be duly trod
Before the Traveler can expect the nod
That says, “Come now, and claim your seat within.”
No, that’s an honor I’ll not likely win.

I fear I’m too distracted by the sight
Of stars and moons.  I’d rather catch the light
Of setting suns, or wander through the trees,
And even now I’m pulled away by these
Much like the inattentive child whose gaze,
Throughout the lesson, out the window strays;
Whose ear might strain to listen for a bird
As words of learning flutter by, unheard.

To ask my heart to stay from every urge
Would be to stand before a tidal surge
And ask the oceans to resist the moon;
My heart and mind will leash themselves as soon
As waves will cease to wash up on the shore.
I am myself; I can be nothing more.
And yet, to know what brings the soul release
May lead the heart and mind to inner peace.

I dreamed I stood before that marble hall,
With doors that stood unwelcoming and tall.
But in my dream I understood my fate,
And turning, found an ivy-covered gate
That opened to a garden walled with trees
Where only leaves were whispering in the breeze,
Where flowers bloomed, and birdsong filled the space,
And, still in sleep, a smile o’ertook my face.

Lorna Davis is a poet who is happily retired and living in California.

Featured Image: “Primavera” by Sandro Botticelli.

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