My Mark

I've never met them,

These silent strangers.

They are to me but

A name on a stone -

Or no name at all,

Just a depression,

A mound of earth,

Unmarked.

They lived before me

In a younger world -

Real people sighing

Through life

Before I took on

Flesh and breath.

They're gone now -

Unremarked.

It doesn't seem fair.

They might never

Have existed at all -

For good or ill,

They came to rest here,

On this windy hill -

Forlorn,

Forgotten.

I cannot know them,

I who am living.

God alone has

Decided their fate.

I walk from the place

And leave them behind.

I must make a mark

Not written on stone.

© 2009 by Janalyn Voigt

Nowadays

When I was young,

I sprang from my bed.

Nowadays,

I rise from the dead.

©2010 Janalyn Voigt

Journey

A train passes, ratcheting, whistling in the night to transport me from my bed.

© 2009 Janalyn Voigt

Wonderment

Children’s eyes

See marvels --

Creation born anew --

Wonderment

In each small

Everything.

Give me, Lord,

A child’s view.

 

© 1985 Janalyn Voigt

River Voices

Stones tumble and thump.

A fish jumps and plashes.

Wavelets overlap sucking mud.

A child laughs.

© 2009 Janalyn Voigt

Ghost Train

I pick up a rusted spike, passed to mine from a hand now dead. A trainless tunnel arches overhead. Rails and ties pass from memory to dust. Faint, a whistle sounds.

© 2009 Janalyn Voigt

Storm Song

The thrum of rain in the gutters, the swish of tires on the street, the purr of my cat provide music enough.

© Janalyn Voigt

Majesty

The mountains stand sharp, edged in green. Storm clouds roil in a summer’s sky. An eagle soars. I gaze, but cannot hold them thus.

© 2009 Janalyn Voigt

Poetry

It comes at odd hours without warning. A word – a sentence – elusive as a butterfly. And I, imperfect net in hand, attempt its capture.

© 2009 Janalyn Voigt

Life Imitates Art

After plowing and planting a virtual farm, I looked out the window and saw weeds growing in my real garden. My fingernails are now dirty.

© 2009 Janalyn Voigt

Morning Song

Birdsong chimed to wake me but drowned beneath a rush of commuter traffic.

© 2009 Janalyn Voigt

Rain

Sparkling drops caress blossoms and wash clean the street. Seedlings in the garden revive. Tree roots drink deep. How can I complain?

© 2009 Janalyn Voigt

Marking Time

The clock ticks away in my office, like a measured heartbeat, punctuating each moment, marking every “now.” I must do the same.

© 2009 Janalyn Voigt