The Dove
Signaling to his mate, a taupe beauty struts with his belly full
nodding in a dance of joy.
Coo, coo, caroo, coo, coo, caroo,
sounds the downy warble of the softly lulling coo.
A mourning dove close to Mother Mary and Aphrodite’s heart.
In a soulful ascension his sweetheart swiftly flies to the rooftop
and gracefully back again,
a flirting dart within an infinite realm of love.
Her mate struts and bobs his head. They play, a concert encore,
a flute-like cadence of whispers floating in the sky.
Coo, coo, caroo. I love you.
The music of day and the night—a soulful sound
slowly and delicately flowing from a symphony of two.
Coo, coo, caroo.
"The Dove" © 2022 Betty LaVelle
Revised and published in The Reprise of Rooster Rockstar. Betty LaVelle,
2022.14-15. Print
Resurrection
Then:
My love, above the clouds I soared—
A passion, some may say,
can be restored.
When all was lost, when all was lost,
my heart claimed its place
among the broken relics of time
and space,
and the sorrow within me roared.
Now:
Passion, passion, where are you?
I climb the highest steeple
banishing gravity to its earthly view.
Passion, where are you?
Echoing, resounding, the vibrations cascade
like lightning’s aftermath.
Grab onto my hand, the scattered sound compels.
I reach out, lifted to a new height—
And my passion and I unite.
Captive
Joy and I dance, not believing the chance
that Sorrow will knock on the door.
I hear the tap tap, and ponder the rap
It becomes a bellowing roar.
Disguised as a friend, Sorrow enters in
and Joy from my heart disappears.
The dancing is done. Sorrow has won
And my heart is shaking with tears.
Sorrow smiles at me with her guiles
I am yoked in a small burrowed cell.
There I remain, in the remnants of rain
Locked in this dark, dank well.
I return Sorrow’s smile, yet know all the while
I join those souls who pretend,
To be unaware of the pain that we share
A soulful journey of days without end.
Can I forget, the pain that was set
in my heart like the blazing of fire?
Let the flame of such pain refuse to remain
And Hope reclaim my desire.
Ah, I know it’s a ruse—this ploy to confuse
to enter my soul and my being.
But Hope is a friend and Sorrow the end
Of the path I refuse to be seeing.
God is my muse, I seek his wisdom—and choose
to loosen the haunting of Sorrow.
Relieve me my Lord, I deeply implored
Release me for Joy in the morrow.
© 2022 Betty LaVelle
Published in The Reprise of Rooster Rockstar. Betty LaVelle,
2022. 23, 16. Print
Then:
My love, above the clouds I soared—
A passion, some may say,
can be restored.
When all was lost, when all was lost,
my heart claimed its place
among the broken relics of time
and space,
and the sorrow within me roared.
Now:
Passion, passion, where are you?
I climb the highest steeple
banishing gravity to its earthly view.
Passion, where are you?
Echoing, resounding, the vibrations cascade
like lightning’s aftermath.
Grab onto my hand, the scattered sound compels.
I reach out, lifted to a new height—
And my passion and I unite.
Captive
Joy and I dance, not believing the chance
that Sorrow will knock on the door.
I hear the tap tap, and ponder the rap
It becomes a bellowing roar.
Disguised as a friend, Sorrow enters in
and Joy from my heart disappears.
The dancing is done. Sorrow has won
And my heart is shaking with tears.
Sorrow smiles at me with her guiles
I am yoked in a small burrowed cell.
There I remain, in the remnants of rain
Locked in this dark, dank well.
I return Sorrow’s smile, yet know all the while
I join those souls who pretend,
To be unaware of the pain that we share
A soulful journey of days without end.
Can I forget, the pain that was set
in my heart like the blazing of fire?
Let the flame of such pain refuse to remain
And Hope reclaim my desire.
Ah, I know it’s a ruse—this ploy to confuse
to enter my soul and my being.
But Hope is a friend and Sorrow the end
Of the path I refuse to be seeing.
God is my muse, I seek his wisdom—and choose
to loosen the haunting of Sorrow.
Relieve me my Lord, I deeply implored
Release me for Joy in the morrow.
© 2022 Betty LaVelle
Published in The Reprise of Rooster Rockstar. Betty LaVelle,
2022. 23, 16. Print
As a runner or as a writer you know, you feel the rush, above the clouds, the spirit within. At the finish line there is a tangible reward. It is a fulfillment of you. No matter win or lose. It is propelling to the finish line, creating your own personal best.
My Sweet Butterfly
This doleful silence we evoke,
when warily we do not stroke you
to encourage your beauty.
but tenderly should touch and comfort you
Sweet Butterfly.
Yet –
You ignore our naiveté
and continue fluttering in the secret garden
among the essence of yore
to discover what was before, not what can be.
You are elusive to our insensitivity
and we ground your flight.
We design you to eternity.
Our memory of love is now silent thoughts
of yesterday, the garden and you.
"My Sweet Butterfly" © 2022 Betty LaVelle
Revised and published in The Reprise of Rooster Rockstar. Betty LaVelle,
2022. 21. Print
Poetry is a diverse and liberating genre, a completely personal expression full of sounds, emotions and images.
GHOST TOWN
The quiet broken street, the dry forgotten spaces
reveal no remnant that once there was a tavern here,
a bustling saloon, where Grandpa served
his drafts of foamy beer to fellow townsfolk
in the little town of Leigh.
I’ve heard about that tavern and the tales it has told.
It was a grand hotel long ago, before it was sold
to Grandpa when he entered this midwestern land
and wowed the town with his Moravian ways--
festive days, tankards, and dancing to a live polka band.
But where are the vibrant folks who sat at tables
upon the sawdust floors? I watch. I listen.
Clouds feather the air and a small blue breeze slips free.
Today is not yesterday and change was not expecting me.
I see blistering bricks and splintered doors.
Quiet says everything in this small Nebraska town.
That stir of breeze whispers history, ignites my memory,
without a spoken word. I hear two dozen voices sing as they
join the rousing band. I turn and look around. As I walk away,
my mind preserves the stories of everything I have heard.
" Ghost Town" photography and revised poetry
© 2022 Betty LaVelle
Published in The Reprise of Rooster Rockstar. Betty LaVelle,
2022. 28-29. Print
reveal no remnant that once there was a tavern here,
a bustling saloon, where Grandpa served
his drafts of foamy beer to fellow townsfolk
in the little town of Leigh.
I’ve heard about that tavern and the tales it has told.
It was a grand hotel long ago, before it was sold
to Grandpa when he entered this midwestern land
and wowed the town with his Moravian ways--
festive days, tankards, and dancing to a live polka band.
But where are the vibrant folks who sat at tables
upon the sawdust floors? I watch. I listen.
Clouds feather the air and a small blue breeze slips free.
Today is not yesterday and change was not expecting me.
I see blistering bricks and splintered doors.
Quiet says everything in this small Nebraska town.
That stir of breeze whispers history, ignites my memory,
without a spoken word. I hear two dozen voices sing as they
join the rousing band. I turn and look around. As I walk away,
my mind preserves the stories of everything I have heard.
" Ghost Town" photography and revised poetry
© 2022 Betty LaVelle
Published in The Reprise of Rooster Rockstar. Betty LaVelle,
2022. 28-29. Print
No Pasar
I amble up the long crooked path,
the rumpled grass and weeds grasping the edges
of the passageway to grandpa’s farm.
NO PASAR
The gate is locked ten times with metal,
a broken limbed barbed wire roadblock,
the fence a sharp-tacked barricade. A wooden sign
bars admittance to the fields, the majestic black walnut trees,
the almost-level foundations of a two-room house,
chicken coops, and the outbuildings
where all manner of order was made.
NO PASAR
to memories of trying to hand milk the cows
squirting the warm, white milk into tin pails,
casting squirts onto my tongue.
To memories of times in the high-stacked corn crib, barefoot,
corn pellets between my toes,
hanging out with “Patsy” my rat terrier
who knew the little girl did not fathom that there were rats
feasting beneath the tower of corn.
NO PASAR
to decades gone by. The only sounds at this sign
the nocturnal shift as crickets strum
and rabbits bolt down their hiding holes.
No admittance but for the work crew
who now borrows these fields,
fields that once held glorious crops to sustain a family.
The family whose center of earth was a two-room house
a hovering windmill, outdoor plumbing,
and the symphony of the barn and fields.
¡NO PASAR!
I amble up the long crooked path,
the rumpled grass and weeds grasping the edges
of the passageway to grandpa’s farm.
NO PASAR
The gate is locked ten times with metal,
a broken limbed barbed wire roadblock,
the fence a sharp-tacked barricade. A wooden sign
bars admittance to the fields, the majestic black walnut trees,
the almost-level foundations of a two-room house,
chicken coops, and the outbuildings
where all manner of order was made.
NO PASAR
to memories of trying to hand milk the cows
squirting the warm, white milk into tin pails,
casting squirts onto my tongue.
To memories of times in the high-stacked corn crib, barefoot,
corn pellets between my toes,
hanging out with “Patsy” my rat terrier
who knew the little girl did not fathom that there were rats
feasting beneath the tower of corn.
NO PASAR
to decades gone by. The only sounds at this sign
the nocturnal shift as crickets strum
and rabbits bolt down their hiding holes.
No admittance but for the work crew
who now borrows these fields,
fields that once held glorious crops to sustain a family.
The family whose center of earth was a two-room house
a hovering windmill, outdoor plumbing,
and the symphony of the barn and fields.
¡NO PASAR!
