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My name is Ann Gasser and I am the author of "AWAKENING THE POET WITHIN."
Here are samples of my poems illustrated by my digital paintings :
IN THE RAINBOW POOL
When my day is not going well
I let my mind swim upstream
like a salmon going home
from the ocean to the bay,
to the river, to the white-water stream
that empties into a quiet pool
where a rainbow shimmers in the sun.
But, unlike the salmon,
I do not lie down to die,
I climb out onto the green moss,
breathe the fresh mountain air,
recharge my batteries,
and I am ready to take on the world
again.
GARDEN ANGEL
Every garden
needs an angel
to watch the growing plants,
to make sure
the
soil is sweet,
the sun shines frequently,
rain falls occasionally,
bees do their
pollinating thing,
and wild rabbits,
squirrels and birds
have a small share
in the harvest.
If all is not going
well
in your garden,
perhaps your
garden angel is confused—
may have thought HE said,
“Guardian
Angel,”
and she is sitting
on your shoulder
right now.
After all,
no
one ever said
angels are rocket scientists.
RE-READING WUTHERING HEIGHTS
When lightning stabs
a frenzied summer sky,
her mind begins its devastating game.
She sees the flashing of your gypsy eye,
she hears
the whipping wind howl out your name.
The moor, slashed savagely by swords of rain,
bows heather
in obeisance to sleet.
She feels a chill that she cannot explain
while gauze of fog drifts in like a winding sheet.
Heathcliffe appears in that thick shroud of white.
Two wraiths swirl in a passionate embrace.
The luminesence
glows all through the night,
two apparitions out of time and space--
As if time slipped its cog from now
to then--
delicious pain comes flooding back again.
THE UNICORN
Beyond the Secret Garden,
over Blueberry Hill,
past Swiftwater Creek,
in a
golden forest,
a white unicorn
munches scarlet leaves
and waits for me
to polish his golden
horn
and comb his satin coat.
I will braid a garland of daisies
for his neck,
feed him sugar
cubes,
and he will let me ride
on his back
through the forest
into fields bright with poppies
and incredibly
blue
forget-me-nots.
NEVER AGAIN? ? ?
On a sunny blue-sky
September morning
that in some ways seems
like
yesterday, and in
other ways seems like
a lifetime ago,
we Americans
experienced the
sudden
shattering loss
of almost three thousand
innocents,
seven buildings,
three jet planes,
thousands
of computers,
desks, office supplies, and records,
plus many global businesses.
Families have grieved,
countless
services
have been held,
memorials are planned,
companies have relocated,
but the one thing we have all lost
that can never be regained,
is the feeling of living safely,
the blesséd assurance
we always counted on,
that
"it cannot happen here!"
A LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIGHT
They say early in the morning one Mothers' Day,
I did not squall as I emerged from a dark womb,
I seemed
to embrace the light--
cherish its warmth on my brand new skin.
And as I grew, my love affair with light grew too.
I
always feel a surge of happiness
when streaks of dawn banish goblins of night,
when sunlight breaks through peach-pink
clouds
beaming joy across the heavens.
And I revel in the golden slant of light
each sunny day when afternoon wanes,
rejoice
in the hour of sunset when the sky turns red
turning all the windows on the hill to molten gold.
In winter when flames
blaze in the fireplace
I sit before them mesmerized,
watching orange flames lick lengths of log
while embers glow
crimson, popping and sparking
like tiny falling stars, and yellow light flickers
on old damask walls.
To
me campfires are the best thing about summer,
and candlelight makes Christmas magical.
When I drive out on the By-Pass
past and present seem to blend in cloud-piled skies,
vague gray-blue banks arrange and rearrange themselves
before a bright transfiguration sun,
oblique rays stream from glory just beyond,
like murals painted on an altar
wall,
and it isn't difficult to sense vibrations of celestial tunes,
to image long-dead souls who wait
behind
gray clouds where all is light. I am filled
with awe as sun pours through small windows in clouds
and I am tempted
to say, "Scotty, beam me up!"
As the end of my life draws ever nearer,
I refuse to think of darkness. I
embrace the thought
of emerging into a dimension where no bombs burst,
no towers fall, there are no more tears,
and
we are one with Everlasting Light.
LONELY ROAD
I came upon a lonely road
one day in russet fall.
And there was not a soul in sight,
not anyone at all.
Some trees were garbed in golden leaves,
some
bare, their bright leaves shed.
Among the dark green evergreens
the road chalk-lined ahead
to run into a far-off house
small, white, with roof of red,
a place whose newly painted walls
said, "I'm inhabited."
I reasoned, if the road ran past
that house as my view showed,
It would no longer
seem to me
to be a lonely road.
But time and price of gas kept me
from driving farther then,
and now
I'll likely never see
that lonely road again.
FIREBIRD
When life is too mundane,
full
of -blah- and -duh-,
lots of -so what-
and -we do it that way
because it has always
been done that way before,
-
the firebird flies in
with flaming wings
to burn away dull and drab,
cauterizes old wounds,
separates
gold from dross,
and my mind renews itself
like Mt. St. Helens,
new grass in the meadows,
new forests of trees,
and the bluebird of happiness
returns to nest.
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I have created many more of these ekphrastic poems. The paintings can be printed out as 11" x 17" photos which
I frame in 16" x 20" poster frames or as smaller prints of 8 1/2" x 11" size. They also can be adapted for use as greeting
cards and souvenirs.
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THE DANCING CANVAS
Today, at dusk, I was painting,
dabbing color aimlessly:
ochre left over from sunflowers,
blue from a restless
sea.
I added a rich brown umber,
red of cadmium there and here,
and out of nowhere he watched me
waiting to appear.
He danced through every hue and shade,
he swirled in a frantic maze.
I watched as his ebony arms performed
and
his tailfeathers seemed to blaze.
He danced, I painted, not one word was said,
though I noticed he had no face,
I could feel the beat that shuffled
his feet
with a language of infinite grace.
As the last sunlight faded, he was gone,
and I was alone once more,
except for his image, dancing still,
making
my spirit soar.
All the bad days were danced away,
all the heartache, the pain, the strife.
And the colors on my canvas swirled
in
a glorious dance of life.
But as my elation slowly ebbed,
in the dark I struggled for breath,
and
I wondered, was this a Dance of Life,
or was it a Dance of Death?
THE WINDOW Sometimes in dreams I am in someone else's body standing alone and bare in
a room that is empty except for colors floating like a rainbow fog
or a psychedlic nightmare,
and there is a window
but it is locked
and the glass is
opaque.
Even if I can't see out,
that's O.K.
because no one
can see in.
SULTRY NIGHT
Raw heat drips terror
on an August night
in city
canyons
where night creatures
slither from their caves.
The crooked man we used to
read about
and laugh about
in the nursery rhyme as children
has proliferated
and he isn’t funny any more.
Now
that phone booths
have disappeared,
I am wondering if anyone knows
how Clark Kent
makes his quick changes.
AT SUNRISE
Along the horizon in cloud-piled
skies
the real and unreal blend,
arrange themselves
before a bright transfiguratiion sun,
and one can feel
the spirits of those
who have gone from this world
and wait for us behind dark clouds
where all is light.
We
forget about human hoaxes
and conspiracies—
in this magic moment
anything seems possible,
even
UFO’s or The Enterprise,
and one feels like saying,
“Beam me up, Scotty,
I’d like to visit one
of those
gold castles in the sky!”
NO ONE TO SAY "I TOLD YOU SO!"
The end could happen
suddenly-- no clue.
One minute and our world would cease to be
If earth's controlling
axis slipped askew.
All animals on earth and humans too
engulfed by
tidal waves and boiling sea
The end could happen suddenly-- no clue.
Hot
ash would blot the sun— no sky of blue,
no time to plan or pray, no place to flee
If earth's controlling axis slipped askew.
It would not matter what or whom we knew,
if
we owned gold or lived in poverty.
The end could happen suddenly-- no clue
A
sudden shift— the whole game would be through--
no solid land from Iceland to Peru
If earth's controlling axis slipped askew.
So love me now, the
days we have are few,
to waste them is a crime, don't you agree?
The end
could happen suddenly-- no clue
If earth's controlling axis slipped askew.
THE GAZEBO
Like the
top of an ornate wedding cake
it stands In swirls of
pink and white flowers,
a piece of Victorian gingerbread
with a finial like a lightning rod
attracting darker
memories
that are swirling too.
It is twilight,
and the gazebo
fades into these memories
until there is
only a blur of trees
and sky, and the last faint glow
of a setting sun,
while an old Victrola
plays, "What'll
I do?".
CLOUD-ANGELS
Sometimes in spring
when the air is filled
with the heady
fragrance
of lilacs,
and the sky almost matches
their delicate hue,
you can see cloud angels
in
purple sky
and the scent of the lilacs
and lillies-of-the-valley
will take your thoughts aloft
to float
with the angels
and watch a pink sun
bathe the world
in gold at that mystical hour
of Emily Dickinson’s
“slanted light.”
UNDER THE HILL
Wan light glows yellow,
flickers like
the light on a miner's hat;
the air is fetid, smells moldy, sour,
like rotting mushrooms.
Inner
ears hear far-off whistles
of a lonely train going away;
hollow echoes bounce insipidly
off canyon walls,
and
everything is slow-motion
like a replay on TV.
In green silence minutes hang
in listless bunches, shriveling.
But in the distance there is a tunnel
and the tunnel has a light
at its end.
TOP BANANA BIRD Perched atop a
nameless tree in a country where summer dreams fly free, he chirps and whistles, sings
to the sky, and to anyone who happens by. I test my binoculars, search every limb, but
the bird is elusive, the leaves hide him.
Just a flash of yellow, some freckles of brown--
I search with an ever increasing frown.
A flicker of saffron, a spot of teal.
My imagination? Or is he real?
I watch for an hour, an hour and a half--
I never knew a bird could
laugh.
AFTER WATCHING A SCI-FI MOVIE
FOLLOWED BY THE LATE NIGHT NEWS
My head is full of fractal fantasies:
elegantly engineered ellipses, metallic mountains,
crystal caverns, satin
spheres,
and I try to slow down, stop running.
The hooded alien is gone, the robot arms
reaching out to give me a lobotomy
have disappeared, but sharp images
remain:
bearded terrorists, camouflaged marksmen,
peace demonstrators holding hands,
chaining themselves to
recruiting station doors.
Skies are orange, gunshots echo.
Gradually, I drift into a dimension
between sleep and wakefulness,
where perceptions are changed--
where there
are no bombs waiting to go off,
no mountains to climb, no moles to rout,
no need to guess, to relate to,
feel guiltly
or elated about anything.
The world sits in the palm of my hand,
stops its mad spinning,
and everything is going
to be all right.
If the stillness is too still,
I turn a dial in my mind--call up my Muse,
share a thought, set a scene,
let
words bubble up in a frothy brew,
a delicious effervescence
that tastes like honeysuckle nectar
tastes to a honey bee.
Eyelids keep closing,
bones are like lead,
flesh melts into the mattress,
the hum of the air conditioner hypnotizes,
calms,
soothes, comforts,
and soon
I am
asleep.
THE MAGIC SWAMP
This place does not exist--not here nor there.
Pale ghosts of opalescent mist hang limp--
gauze curtains of a
white eternity,
in sweet electric air.
I feel drawn to attend a secret tryst
among stalagmites of dark cypress knee.
while overhead dark branches
tangle
eerily.
The hanging stalactites of Spanish moss
reach down to kiss the water's gentle flow.
I hear the voice of Charon
calling softly
from mystic worlds that ended long ago.
MID-WINTER,
CHINESE YEAR OF THE RAT
Gray days, ice nights,
a cold wind bites.
Our hemisphere exhales in silence,
contemplates man's greed and violence--
watches endless populating,
forecasting, prognosticating,
longing for sun's healing rays,
gentle breezes, warmer days.
Breathing deep as air will let us,
hoping spring will not forget us--
praying
RAT that rules this year,
won't wipe out our fragile sphere.
Clasping progeny we cherish,
pleading that we will not perish;
watching streaks that paint the sky
could this be our year to die?
seeing sky, first red, then leaden,
dreading, fearing Armageddon.
LOG CABIN WIFE
I picture her in mind's dark gallery,
her cabin, huddled on the wooded hill
with mossy roof 'neath spreading walnut
tree
where squirrels scampered as they ate their fill.
It seemed to spring up from the wooded earth
like some large mushroom native to that soil.
As if the soil itself
had given birth,
the cabin not produced by sweat and toil.
She told how they came there the day they wed.
He carried her across the threshold's sill.
He'd gathered flowers,
columbine, bright red
and yellow, from the rocks above the rill,
Jack-in-the-pulpit, cool and green as spring,
a tumblerful of purple violets,
gold buttercups to match her
wedding ring,
arranged with small ferns on oak cabinets.
Patch quilts served as an artful bedroom wall
dividing
it from other cabin space.
There, on a rope-bed, she had birthed them all,
five babies with her heart, his handsome
face.
It was a rough life, but they knew reward
of living with the gifts that nature gave.
Years later,
when he went home to the Lord,
she was a rock of strength, stalwart and brave.
As I approach the autumn of my life,
I think of them and of those days gone by,
that cabin and that Appalachian
wife
so strong, so unafraid to live and die.
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