The Usefulness of Rain - By Anna McCarthy Hoffman

The Usefulness of Rain

The usefulness of rain is that
It speaks to every negative emotion
Millions of melodic drops
Thrown from the heavens
Dive-bombing steadily, gracefully
A cacophony of slaps and tings and torrents
Splattering against surfaces
Small fighting punches against the physical world
The white noise of a downpour
God’s tears in Morse Code
Tapping at the hardness of my heart
Gentle pats pricking my ears
Signalling to unconscious grievances
Inner struggles, hidden pain
Its time to let go
Its time to be washed of guilt,
Unforgiveness, disapointment
Let love find its way to parched places
Cracked and exposed crusts
On the skin of the soul
Those places ignored, remember
Nurture them, make peace with them
Release them
In the aftermath there is a great silence
A holy, lingering freshness
My spirit is enlivened with
The premonition of Spring.


- Written by: Anna McCarthy Hoffman

My poem may be published online as long as the author is given credit and a link is included to: regentsparkroad.wordpress.com

Musings over tea in the Morning - By Anna McCarthy Hoffman

Musings over tea in the Morning

What I like about writing,
What has always struck me
As a great modern truth,
Is that is knows no class,
No prejudice of person.
No age or qualification
Anyone can pick up a pen and
Many a hardened looser,
A forlorn deadbeat,
A crazy, insecure recluse,
The reckless youth
And flowery innocent
Many a wailing soul
Have put ink on paper
Type on leaflets
Words onto the screen
There is something just
In this conclusion
A fairness, a refuge
For the battered and curious
For the daunted dreamers
Sitting in secret places
Sending out messages of
Inner salvation.


- Written by: Anna McCarthy Hoffman

My poem may be published online as long as the author is given credit and a link is included to: regentsparkroad.wordpress.com

Little Candle in an Anglican Church - By Anna McCarthy Hoffman

Little Candle in an Anglican Church

The light of a solitary candle
Flickering in the church
A little light struggling
In the damp darkness
A warm flame against the cold stone
Of this quiet knave
Now a museum of departed souls
The mustiness, the ancient air
Breaths of generations lifted in unison
The melody of dead voices singing
Murmers of prayers collected, gathered
In the lofty corbelled ceiling
There is no sadness in the end of things
When the spirit moves from one place to another
Out of churches, into homes
Bowling alleys, theaters, humble community centers,
These new parishes love with the same love
Care and worship with equal fervor
I mourn not where candles flicker
For elsewhere they burn bright.


- Written by: Anna McCarthy Hoffman

My poem may be published online as long as the author is given credit and a link is included to: regentsparkroad.wordpress.com

Freemason - By Anna McCarthy Hoffman

Freemason

I hunger for stone
For modelled, sand cast brick
Fossilised marble and quarried rock
Carved lintels, doorways, window frames
Chiseled copings, stacked veneers
In precise patterns of arrangement
The work of the master mason
His rough hewn hands
Calloused fingers applying
Time tested ideas, ancient methods
Advancing his prospects
Accumulating knowledge
With respect for tradition
And a mind for innovation
In time, the laborer
Becomes the architect
Maker of human landmarks
Intellectual towers of achievement
Fit together, joined
Mortared in immortality
They didn’t let women
Inside the order of the compass
The Grand lodge, the fraternity
Guest houses with great fireplaces
Sacred meeting sites for the
Technically educated
Classically trained
You had to be free
A person of good standing
Most of all, a man
Many a proud and honorable fellow
Planned empires, birthed revolutions
Telling tales of knights and secret orders
Building Solomon’s temple
Under the banner of brotherly love
It took hundreds of years
Until I would become a freemason
A master of my trade
To have learned and earner respect
Through dedication to craft
To build my own temples
Make my mark at universities
Pursuing the good of mankind
By means of walls, shelters and roads
Planned cities, renovated waterfronts, public squares
I always wanted to be part of
The sacred meeting
To know the symbolism of the eagle
The cross, the star
The delicate pointed legs
Graceful curves of the compass
The right angle
The precise measurements of the rigid squire
In my own way
I have righted an ancient wrong
Taken my own oath
Stood under the gaze of the all-seeing eye
And been found on the level.


- Written by: Anna McCarthy Hoffman

My poem may be published online as long as the author is given credit and a link is included to: regentsparkroad.wordpress.com

Proms - By Anna McCarthy Hoffman

Proms

Classical is thinking man’s music
In melody without words
There is a void
The mind must fill
Those who are not trained
Despise the practice
And have no patience with it
The learned know
The beauty of the music
Is what the listener brings
The melodic sounds are
Merely an open frequency
Where creative thoughts
Befriend ideas
Mingle with imaginations
Finding love in lost memories
Latent wonderment
Without voices telling you want to think
The subconcious is allowed to feel
The sounds of the strings
The horns
The bass and winds
Take thoughts travelling
Far beyond the traps
Of this generation
We feel not slave
To the age we live in
To the times and the seasons
That pass and are yet to come
There is a transcendence
A rare opportunity
For the mind and heart to
Come into accordance
As if you were all alone
And not surrounded by
An audience, each individual
Silently computing,
Booting up and processing
Mental data stored
In deep containers of deliberate
Disregard
Rows of still statues
Seated in the red seats of the symphony.


- Written by: Anna McCarthy Hoffman

My poem may be published online as long as the author is given credit and a link is included to: regentsparkroad.wordpress.com

To burn - By Anna McCarthy Hoffman

To burn

I am tired of poetry
About death and aging
Reflections of time passed
And people long forgotten
Generations of aged writers
Chronicling late life
With tired words and
Sour stomachs

Where are the young voices
The brazen fires stoked
By pompous, passionate youth
The kind of leaping syllables
And laughing wordplay
That made the daylight
Break instead of wane

I am not young anymore
But youthful
In a kind of median prime
Searching for the milk behind the masters
The delirious honeyed fruit of our fore bearers
Drunk with adventurous diction
And feelings made audible titillation

I want to write about generousness
Fullness, the roundness of life
When years are still in front of you
Like mine are now
A crammed wallet of coupons
For unspent decades
Burning a hole in my back pocket
My fingers itching
Nights spent contemplating
Endless possibilities for travel

Grand ideas for second or third careers
I still experience
Wonder without worry
The thrill of life in
The possibility of change
To remember these days
When my grandparents still
Greet me in the drive
And the friends who knew me
From childhood are still
Bright burning path lights leading me home

I go outside to feel the force of the wind
Not eating at times to keep the hunger
It’s varied experience that get scarce
Tiredness sets in for the constant
Gathering, harvesting of fuel for inspiration
But one must stay burning
Crackling, flaming
Alight with possibility for something new.


- Written by: Anna McCarthy Hoffman

My poem may be published online as long as the author is given credit and a link is included to: regentsparkroad.wordpress.com
 

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