A Nighttime Patter-Fall
The lovely lull of a parade of drops
cascading down in a staggered crop
of tuneful keystrokes singly played
in the waiting wood that dreams of day
sends lilting waves of calm to each
its downy touch extends to reach.
It steals into house-quiet, too,
and its melody, though muted, seeks out the hue
of a mind still alive with firework bursts
of delight and disturbance, distress and great mirth,
peopled with places and wonders of old,
arraying a painting of visions untold,
then tugged back to tremors’ and frettings’ thrall
in a struggle that threatens to topple it all –
but the rain finds it, and lays gentle hands
of sonorant cooling on these warring lands,
and soothed it is, to a resonant hush,
the deep-heaved sigh of utter contentment.
Yet why do the drops fall singly?
Would not efficiency demand a sheet?
But beside the need of room to breathe,
their separate specks serve to seek
each leaf, each twig, each flower furled tight,
and with its balm set the strain of striving aright.
And so too for the mind o’erteeming
with chafings of frustration and doubt;
for to each jagged insecurity, each rough-hewn pique;
every flaw, regret, recent hurt,
and wounds old and deep,
it assigns one of its myriads,
to smooth, to still, to keep.
Eternity
Ages endless – what better way to baffle
the else-matchless human brain?
That wondrous, yet time-bound
miraculous cosmic grain?
They multiply before us, extending
in exponential reach;
a stintless string unspooling
in terrifying reams
to the organ that beholds it –
master of all besides –
yet which reels at the immensity
in which it resides.
To avoid vertigo, some bury
their minds in the vise of “micro,”
exchanging the marvel of existence
for an infinitude of petty woes.
They obsess over messages,
unseat eyes in searing screens,
fixate on flickering images
that hold hostage the life they glean.
To them, a day is a litany
of grievances and gossip-gotten news;
an inconvenience is a disaster,
the weather an offense if a degree out of tune.
Yes, some trade in trivialities,
await tasks’ end and amusement’s numb;
But I have my eye on Eternity,
and speak to the ages to come.
Katherine Tencza has cherished reading and writing since childhood, finding poetry to be the most raw form of written expression. During high school and college, she actively contributed to the school literary magazine. For six years, she taught high school English, relishing the opportunity for profound literary discussions with her students. Currently, she is pursuing a Master’s in Creative Writing and Literature. Last summer, Katherine won the Jane Austen Society of North America’s essay contest.
Sparks of Calliope 