Beauty is many things. It is the sun rising above the timberline to give its light to a dark and waiting world. It is the sound of a loved one’s voice when an eternity has elapsed since you last heard the familiar echoes in your heart. It is the violet beside the road, the Sweet Williams, the rose petals and budding oaks in spring. It is the voice of a friend when you need someone who understands. There is a secret– the beholder of beauty must open not only his eyes but his heart if he is to see the total realm of beauty. Like the ivy across a trellis, beauty and love intertwine, the one depends upon the other. Together they stand out in all their splendor.
Tag Archives: beauty
An Autumn Rose
Among the thorns, I found a yellow rose;
its petals shaped in perfect harmony.
It grew inside a thicket, I suppose
awaiting lovers’ hands to set it free.
I wandered down a path to reach the quay
when autumn wore her wrinkled satin clothes
and there beside the restless, singing sea,
among the thorns, I found a yellow rose.
Its secret place I vowed not to disclose
as light of moon shone on a myrtle tree.
The rose appeared in Mona Lisa pose,–
its petals shaped in perfect harmony.
Although it seemed to beg in silent plea,
without a word I shook my head and chose
to leave the flower in serenity.
It grew inside the thicket, I suppose.
Recalling your last words that quickly froze
my heart like snow in northern Zuider Zee,
I left the yellow bud to decompose,
awaiting lovers’ hands to set it free.
I wish that you and I could still agree
and write love letters in poetic prose
so that our prideful hearts would always be
like autumn roses ready to transpose
among the thorns.
© 2014 Freeda Baker Nichols
(This poem is a Rondeau Redouble. The ocean picture is one I took at Rockport, Massachusetts.
The yellow rose bush grows in Arkansas at the home of Calla Linn. She graciously gave permission
for her picture to appear here on my blog. Thank you, Calla Linn)
From my Journal . . .
Beauty is many things. It is the sun rising above the timberline to give its light to a dark and waiting world.
It is the sound of a loved one’s voice when an eternity has elapsed since you last heard the familiar echoes in your heart.
It is the violet beside the road, the Sweet Williams, the rose petals and budding oaks in spring.
It is the voice of a friend when you need someone who understands.
This is a secret! The beholders of beauty must open not only their eyes but also their hearts to view the total realm of beauty.
Beauty and love intertwine, like ivy across a trellis.
© Freeda Baker Nichols
Two Tree Special — day 27 napowrimo
maple
dogwood
Maple,
dogwood
budding in spring,
displaying green,
great beauty to behold
as the new growth unfolds
in tender moments of rebirth
bringing much joy and happiness.
Two trees–
special.
Copyright 2013, Freeda Baker Nichols
Barefoot Flowers -Day 20- NaPoWriMo
Blue flowers, tiny,
and green-stemmed,
clinging to soft earth
as though your very existence
depends upon its dark soil;
your roots run at fragile angles
through red, brown, and black —
you are a symbol of many things;
among them, strength and beauty
that only the Creator can claim
as His Masterpiece.
Copyright, 2013, Freeda Baker Nichols
The Sleeping Muse
When no words gush from off the pen’s felt tip,
why do I feel discouraged in this way?
I think I might just book a skiing trip
where snow is slick and fun to ride in sleigh.
If that would wake my muse and start the flow
once more to roll new words onto the page,
then I would surely find a place to go
to feel as free as crows outside of cage.
But no! There’s not a place, where snow is deep.
No way to wake my muse although I try.
He snuggles tighter for long winter’s sleep.
It is my wish that no one hears me cry.
And so, downcast, I pull on cozy cap.
lean back into my chair and start to nap.
c Copyright, 2013, Freeda Baker Nichols
Buckets of Bouquets
This poem follows the Dorsimbra form. The form contains three stanzas. The first stanza has four lines of Shakespearean sonnet (iambic pentameter rhymed abab). The second stanza has four lines of short, snappy free verse. The third stanza has four lines of iambic pentameter blank verse, where the last line repeats the first line of stanza one.
Buckets of Bouquets
Pink hollyhocks and purple iris grew
along the garden fence of wooden rails.
The flowers bloomed in shades of deepest hue.
We picked bouquets to fill the old lard pails.
June bugs buzzed
in tune with Mother’s voice
lifting to strains of
“Rock of Ages.”
The wooden fence has crumpled to the ground;
the old lard pails are nothing now but rust.
Thorn trees, persimmon bushes stand where once
pink hollyhocks and purple iris grew.
c Copyright 2012, Freeda Baker Nichols
Freeda Baker Nichols 