-Mary Peery Whittaker

 Beyond My Knowing

 A Night in June

I launch my lyrics on a sea

Where mammoth ships are crossing—

Eclipsed and frail the craft may be,

When Titan waves are tossing.

Not for the watchers on the shore,

This boat braves Neptune-thunder;

But far out where storm-voices roar,

Someone my watch and wonder.

Perhaps a mariner may hear

A cadenced tone, uplifting.

One hit of hope can banish fear

Where lilts of song are drifting.

My barque roams on through fog and mist;

But winds of chance are blowing—

Faith parts the veil of amethyst

In ports beyond my knowing.

He met her there one witching hour,

When honeysuckles, creamy white,

From trellised vine and latticed bower,

Dipped dewy fingers in the night...

When fragrance stirred on elfin wings,

And locust boughs half-hid the moon...

One line, alone, tells all hese things:

A man... a maid... a night in June.

 Wings

 Artistry

There is no song that I shall ever sing

That does not echo notes voiced long before;

The thoughts that seem my own are muse-thumbed lore

In fresher phrasing. There is no new thing;

And yet my unpretentious lyre may ring

With tones not stressed by wandering troubadour

Or classic bard whose fancy loved to soar

To vaulted rainbow realms on rhythmic wing.

What though I weave a tapestry of dreams

From warp to woof perhaps time-touched and old;

Could I but add that one elusive thread

That brings out living beauty, hidden gleams—

A subtle tracery with glints of gold...

The fabric would be mine when all was said.

 The First Dandelion

Old massive watch with battered silver case,

You ticked long hours when George the Third was king;

The faded figures on your antique face

Keep tryst with epoch years, remembering

A tall Colonial lad, a flag unfurled.

(He loved that waving banner— stripe and star.)

You shared his forest camp where wood-smoke curled;

He paid the price of freedom in that war.

The rhythm of your life-song ceased at last;

Your one lone hand is clinging to an hour.

And from the hush of decades long since past,

You grasp to call it back with futile power.

Old silent watch, when Time bids me adieu,

May I keep one transcendent moment, too.

He came with dandelion gold

Clasped in his chubby hand,

His face aglow with pride, untold—

But mothers understand—

He brought the bloom for me to share,

And skipped about in glee...

No orchid bloom could seem so fair,

As what he gave to me.

 Acorn Paths

When loneliness is muted sound

Too low for mortal ear...

When acorn-hush is all around,

Dusk leans to listen near.

Night chants a threnody of rain

That lasts the long hours through.

I shall not walk these paths again...

October gone— and you.