Chestnuts

 Chestnuts Gathered on a Country Road

 

Chestnuts

Today, I walked down an old country road in Connecticut,

the same road where Sybil Ludington once road her horse

to warn farmers of the British burning the city of Danbury, 

a chestnut of a tale that is, but local families report it as truth.

 

An azure blue sky with wisps of clouds and a lovely breeze  

wafted through my slightly wavy hair as yellowing leaves 

waved back at me, as if they were smiling a friendly ‘hello.’ 

Some of the leaves having met their time of tumbling, danced

on the breeze, oh yes, more Prayers Answered! Thank you, God!

 

Then, my eyes caught a view of fallen chestnuts, a nice collection!

The winds and rains from the day before must’ve nudged them 

out of their spiny husks, for there they lay, just waiting for me

to admire their shiny, reddish-brown shells, gather them up, 

and celebrate another year with roasting chestnuts on an open fire. 

 

Some refer to old, favorite songs or hymns as ‘chestnuts,’ 

and isn’t it grand to begin a new season of autumn this way ~

with newly fallen chestnuts, singing old, favorite chestnuts, 

remembering old chestnut tales of courage and devoted love? 

 

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

Ugly Duckling's Pond

Years ago, Peadar's Poetry Jam prompt asked us to reveal an unknown from a fairy tale or myth. I chose one of my favorites, The Ugly Duckling's pond. 

Swans in East Lake, Danbury, Connecticut, U.S.A. 

Ugly Duckling’s Pond

Reeds sway

along the water’s edge,

 gentle waves

from graceful paddling

of a family of swans

lap up

heartbroken tears

as they embrace

the distorted reflections

of a duckling,

furtive and yearning.

© Jeanne I. Lakatos 

To hear me recite this, please click HERE. 

A Humble Creation

Photo from Google Images

A Humble Creation

With every minute
the Mighty Sculpture
molds and shapes me 
into that which will
inevitably 
become the fulfillment 
of my dreams ~
His promise,
and I can feel
the special pliancy
of His wondrous hands
as He blends
the Sorrow and the Pain
into the sculpted reality 

of Love and Joy 
in my life. 
I am a humble creation 
of the Almighty Artist. 

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

(To hear my reading of this poem is on Pod-omatic, click HERE.)

Take Time

Me, plucking the strings of my Celtic harp

Take Time

When the day has flown at rocket speed,

take time.

When the dog is barking in Kitty's face, 

take time.

When daily demands seem to overwhelm,

take time.

Take time to feel each moment's special glory.

Take time to hear the beauty in a sweet bird's voice.

Take time to love each task for its own story, 

and soon, the Infinite Beam

of life's loving Beacon

transforms the ordinary 

into extraordinary, 

creating simplicity

in time. 

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

(You can hear my reading of this poem by clicking HERE.)

Trains! A Phantasmagorical Journey

Grand Central Station, NYC

Photo from Google Images

One week, my poetry group leader asked us to consider taking the train. Well, my trains of thought below switch tracks now and then: from London's Victoria Station Underground to the New York City's Metro North, which transported me from Connecticut via Brewster, NY to Grand Central Station, NY City, a phantasmagorical experience, centered with love. 

Phantasmagoria

My train of thought travels

along rickety tracks

holding onto every second

of life, whirling images

in hues of benevolence,

common sense,  and innocence

trying to make sense of it all,

love

Thrilling, drilling,

milling, willing,

this train has made stops:

friendships, family,

laughter, tears

love

Dedication, rumination,

allocation, tribulation,

abandonment, containment

achievement, bereavement

love.

Once, I rode the train in London.

It stopped suddenly, and we

were told to evacuate.

The bomb did not detonate!

Divine Love

I stepped through a city of bedlam

eyes of fear, fearless, far from home

found my way to the British Library

back to my daughter’s smiling eyes

alive and satisfied, determined:

Loved

Clickety-click, the clock ticks

in synchronicity with New York City.

Passengers wait, date, relate, abate

whirling past the swans, evergreens,

quaint boutiques of Chappaqua:

country love

to Harlem’s door,

racing past graffiti,

colors smearing, words jeering

interlocking letters on a wall

textual shout outs: anxious, proud

confused, fused, words:

city love

Bridge to tunnel, dark, lights blink

so many tracks, interlace under

this train slowly squeals to a stop,

doors open; we walk through the gates

under a Grand Central firmament

to blend in with the multitude

and I am one...

love.

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

(You can hear my reading of this by clicking HERE.)

On a Cashew Nut

Once, the Poetry Bus poetry group request for us was to write a poem on something on which we would normally not write... literally.

Well, that particular week, we had been having a100+º heat wave here in Connecticut, and my brain had definitely melted.... So, I took my teeny tiny 'PreciseV5' purple pen and wrote the following haiku on a cashew nut. Graffiti for ants! A fun activity! Here is the photo of my creative endeavor:

Cashew Haiku

On this nut I write

I, this nut, write on

cashew deliberation

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

To hear me recite this, please click HERE.

Sydney Owenson: Weaving Threads of Culture Together

From my book: 

In Sydney Owenson’s national tales, she weaves together threads of disenfranchisement and enchantment, capturing the essence of the politically inspired Romantic era, in which the grand is intentionally written to be grander, where literary characterizations entwine with political forces within a civil society. 

The English aristocracy and the publishing community accept Owenson as a significant member of their elite societies through her writing and marriage to Sir Charles Morgan. Even though she takes the name, ‘Lady Morgan,’ she remains loyal to her Irish roots as Sydney Owenson. Her loyalty to both identities serves her expressive purposes well, for she carefully coordinates these unique influences into her text by merging the English tale of aristocratic inheritance with Irish ideology. 

Not only did Sydney Owenson bring innovation to Irish literature in the form of national tales written from a woman’s perspective, but also she included illuminating research in each of her works on the historical significance of her characters, their personal and political milieux, and their sociolinguistic backgrounds. She includes a wide range of socioeconomic and ethnic variables within the linguistic components of her characters’ discourse. 

For these reasons, she has been an excellent choice in researching the relevance of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries’ revolutionary period in Europe and America. Her interest in uniting political factions and social classes as a way to open communication for the cause of justice in Ireland during this era is clearly evident in her thematic structures and characterizations.