In God's Time

Photo taken in Danbury, Connecticut

In God's Time

Taking my time, 
moving through a daily routine, 
I've come to that moment 
when I become anxious 
for answers to questions unresolved. 

Then, a thought enters my mind, 

moves through me, and reaches my soul. 

It becomes a prayer, guiding me 

to these feelings of love, peace, joy

that encompass me. 

No longer am I filled with doubt, 

for purpose supplants ache, and now, 

I feel Divine Love open my heart with His aim 

on a path, carefully tread 

in God's Time.

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

You can listen to me recite this verse in my 'froggy' January voice by clicking HERE.

Odes to Pancakes

Photo from 'Duck Duck Go' images

Below is a duet of poetry focusing on the pancake theme in the rondeau form and then a parody of e.e. cummings' poem, "O Sweet Spontaneous."

Ode to Pancake Temptation

There, on my fine bone china plate

Five pancakes can't be a mistake

and neighboring maple trees in a row

provide home grown syrup to amply flow,

as fresh, sweet butter on top does skate.

To eat this meal at such a rate

won’t help in my quest of losing weight

yet hunger’s there; it won’t let go

there, on my fine bone.

This morning sure has sealed my fate

through personal, philosophical debate

but now, determined to my pinky toe,

it's wisdom’s garden I must hoe,

and make these feet accelerate 

there, on my fine bone.

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

*******************************

O Sweet Pancake Temptation

(a parody of e.e. cummings' "O Sweet Spontaneous")

O golden pancakes

drip

               ping

with sweet syrup

extracted

from maple’s vein

and butter 

squeezed

from bovine's 

p

u

r

i

t

y.

Does humanity

know the 

sacrifice

from earth’s offerings

for gluttony’s

bliss?

My delight 

pours forth

dripping

                       sweet 

with

appreciation 

and a little

blueberry pancake guilt.

© 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. 

Be Leaf - Belief

An innovative idea is a call to action to make a difference in this world from a perspective of Love. A single leaf can be an example of a metaphor for the human condition. Since transformation originates from a single notion, I thought this little poem may contribute a genesis of belief.  

I took this photo in St. Stephen's Green, Dublin, Ireland.

One maple tree leaf in my garden

 

Be Leaf 

Here

remains the leaf

not insignificant

silent, 

well formed

turned over and over.

Suspended,

it resides in belief

of the sublime reminder:

 the Journey of  Love

emanates, embraces,

 enwraps, ensues... 

in God's time.

© Jeanne I. Lakatos  

The Mill

Long ago, a friend told me about this beautiful mill, located in Floyd County, Virginia. I found a picture of it in a history book and saw the serene beauty of this sight, so I took out my oil paints and painted my own version of the mill: Mabry Mill is its name. Below are two photos. One is a photo from Google Images. The other is my painting of the lovely Mabry Mill in Floyd County, Virginia. The poem revolves around this stalwart mill.

The 'melodious Lark' in the poem refers to Ralph Vaughn Williams' masterpiece, The Lark Ascending. You can hear the lovely melody if you click HERE. 

Photo of Mabry Mill, Virginia

 from Google Images

 

My painting of Mabry Mill, Virginia

                                             

The Mill

Quietly and peaceful

 The Mill does stand

In harmony with God's land,

and in its tranquil solitude

the melodious Lark 

sings its sweet etude. 

All the while, 

the Mill in steady repose sings: 

"I'll be here

as long as the wind does carry

His song through the realms of time. 

I'll be here for you ~ 

My love will ne'er weary

for your spirit 

inspires

my Joy. 

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

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

Finding the Way: A Revolution Within

                 

The pathway that I tread in Castleknock, Ireland 

from my hotel to the bus stop to catch the bus to Dublin.

Finding the Way

As we walk along life's path, 

eventually, we acknowledge

 that creative ground which supports our steps. 

Longing to find the way, 

we clear the path of debris, 

 as we accommodate His Divine footsteps

 that gently lead us forward.

 Fortitude emerges with the recognition

 that we have the power 

to

 adjust, adapt, attempt, achieve, affect.  

We evolve. 

We make a difference.

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

To hear me recite this verse, just click HERE.

Strength Within

Since transformation is part of my blog's title, I composed this villanelle, containing the poetic framework creating a linguistic form of life's ebb and flow. This poem's theme is that a loving, driving, force that emanates from the Divine, can bring a transforming strength, and I hope you enjoy it. 

Photo is of East Lake, Danbury, CT

Strength Within

Draw from Love that brings your verve its aim,

for gently comes the mission that will bring

the strength within that only you can name.

Your passion resonates hope; now proclaim

the song that desires your voice, and boldly sing.

Draw from Love that brings your verve its aim!

Intricacy builds clarity as the frame 

of delicately interlaced might, healing

the strength within that only you can name.

 

Travail with challenge evolves, as the game

of motivating resolve becomes your freeing.

Draw from Love that brings your verve its aim.

Benevolence and wonder: Adventure’s name

and yours when life moves on by loving

the strength within that only you can name.

Acknowledge from your heart that you can't tame

the Sacred Grace from unleashing torment’s cling.

Draw from Love that brings your verve its aim,

the strength within that only you can name.

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

To hear me recite this villanelle, please click HERE. 

The Slug: "Fortune Favors the Brave"

"Fortes fortuna iuvat!" 
(Fortune favors the brave!) 

~ Latin Proverb

Sometimes, with certain 'green-eyed' slugs, we have to take defensive action; other times, it pays simply to observe the power of Light. 

www.thisgardenisillegal.com/ 2006/07/how-to-ki..

The Slug

Hypocritical green-eyed slug

compulsively feeds upon

the entrails of authenticity.

Vomiting truth along its way,

its impish, soul-less self

solely thrives on

cunning insults and ineptness.

It binges on fictional fervor

slinking in slimy skin,

 blinded by its own limitations.

It lurks about for its next victim

to entice with fabricated promises,

while other small, spineless creatures

easily fall prey to its ‘virtue.’

However...

 the Truth that this slug rejects

soon takes on a life of its own,

swirling through the air with sweet fragrance,

fusing with fortitude.

Yet still, slinking along, the slug

slowly attempts to cross my path…

I lift my elegant boot

to squish it! Squish it good!

Ah, but there's no need to squish,
for below me, I witness:

evaporating in the powerful Light,
slimy innards,
consumed
from their lack of substance. 

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

To hear me recite this verse, please click 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

Memory Sustained

I took the photograph whilst driving south of Dublin, lost and 'blind' to the correct pathway to a professional conference at I.A.D.T. in Dun Laoghaire, Ireland. Thanks to a few kind gentlemen at Dunphey's Pub and their fine directions with a hand-drawn map, I was able to make it to the afternoon panel presentations. Having learned my lesson, the following day, I took the bus and presented my own paper on time. 

(I captured this church in the sunlight near Dun Laoghaire, Ireland.)

Memory Sustained 

A blinding moves her

to close the blind,

now shielded

from the brilliance

Outside-

The hour of dusk

palpitates

with a creative verve

releasing the gold

Within-

Shards of light

simply cannot blind,

for Memory sustains 

the weakest eye.

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

To hear me recite this vers, please click HERE.

Upon listening to "Fantasia on a theme by Thomas Tallis" by Ralph Vaughn-Williams

 

I took this photo of the moon in a cloudy sky, framed by the shadows of maple trees. 

The clouds seemed to form a landscape of their own. 

Click HERE to listen to the lovely, musical piece, "Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis," performed in the Gloucester Cathedral, where Ralph Vaughn-Williams first performed it in 1910. 

I wrote the verse below upon listening to the above piece,

 composed by Ralph Vaughan-Williams.

Fantasia

Yearning for serenity,

an unsettled mind

drifts gracefully, 

flowing in paralysis,

a paradox offering

of a spiritual triad:

sweet malady

sweeter melody

sweetest memory.

A core surge 

caresses

in Divine rhythm.

Echoes...

from arched bones,

guarding this heart

in solemn surrender 

to stillness,

fill the repose  

with sweet assurance.

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

(To hear my reading of this poem, click HERE.)

My Hands, a poem

 "And let the beauty of the Lord our God be upon us: and establish thou the work of our hands upon us; yea, the work of our hands establish thou it." (Psalm 90:17)

Below is a poem with the theme of my use of hands, 

which some may think is archaic in this current era of technology:

Harp and me, one afternoon

My Hands

Turning 

weathered pages of a centuries old book,

my fingers touch a piece of history,

for this page was once turned by the fingertips

of a lady sitting by candlelight on a blue velvet chair,

her linen dress, flowing around covered ankles.

Strumming 

the strings of a vibrating harp, melodic echoes, soothe

the mind of my precious dog who lives to protect me

love me, comfort me. It's the least I can do for her.

Kneading 

dough that clings to each finger until I apply 

one more dash of flour to create 

the soft ball that will miraculously rise

to form into the sweet, aromatic sustenance of life: 

bread, feeding others with joy.

Threading 

a needle with just the right length and color 

of waxed cotton,

slowly I turn remnant pieces of cloth

into a quilted memory to comfort 

through the warmth of artistry and pragmatism.

Digging 

into rich, brown soil, I plant a seed

water, nurture, protect until one day it grows

into a savory food, the source of a satisfied smile.

Holding 

an extended hand, I feel the presence

of tender strength, our fingertips, touching,

Loving 

 brushing the tear from a dear one's eye

fond memory of the gentleness.
Praying
palm against palm, I sing a song of praise.
Humbly, I give thanks to Him,
Knowing 

His Love is undying, strengthening, 

guiding each step to fulfillment of 

His Purpose for me:

Living 

from heart to hand.

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

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

The Song - An Amhran

Below, I've posted a small poem that I wrote having taken a few Irish Gaeilge classes. I'm still not sure if the grammar is correct, but I think you'll get the idea anyway. I took the photograph just as I was leaving a conference at NUI Galway. I didn't know just how gorgeous the beach was until I was on my way out of town and passed this view heading out on my way to Sligo. 

         I took this photo of Galway Beach, Ireland.

The Song                                                       An Amhran

On the wind, the song sails              Ar na gaoth, an amhran ag sceoladh 

to another who will hear                  do an eile an té cloistrail

the sweet language that blesses.       an teanga binn ag beannú.

Gathering the creed of Love,           Ag bailigh an creid de Ghrá,

the song is forever,                           ta se an amhran go deo, 

sweet and praising.                           milis agus ag moladh.

© Jeanne I. Lakatos                          © Á Siobhán I. Glasaire

My Joycean Journey

Quite a few years ago, on June 17th, yes, the day after Bloomsday, I intended to attend a conference held on the IADT (Institute of Art Design and Technology) campus in Dun Laoghaire, Ireland. Since I wasn't scheduled to present until the 19th, I thought I'd drive myself for the first day's activities. After carefully surveying maps and consulting Mapquest, I sat myself in the driver's seat and decided to drive myself. Since I'm left-handed, driving on the left side of the road comes naturally to me. I was set to go. FOUR HOURS later, I drove into the parking lot of IADT. The following days, I relied on the bus. 

Below is a photo I took whilst I was lost: 

Day After Bloomsday: 

My Own Odyssey in Dun Laoghaire, Ireland

I pass by Davy Byrne's pub 

And think, “I must go there for a pint.”

It’s just off Grafton Street, ye know. 

And there’s the Ormond Hotel (Sirens chapter) 

But I must get on the M-50 to Dun Laoghaire.

It’s now 9:30. 

I get off the M-50 and drive along the highway,

I go through a town and find another highway.

Water is to my left. So beautiful! 

I take a picture and miss my turn.

So I ask for directions from a lovely garda. 

“Oh, I know exactly where ye want to go. 

I used to pick mushrooms there 

when I was a boy. Shame what they’ve done

To that land now. A real shame. It’ll take you

no time at all to get there.”

I follow his directions to the T…

And end up at the Martello tower.

The Coast Guard tell me I’m almost there.

10:30 I missed the first panels.

I drive around Sandycove 

And around Sandycove

And around Sandycove 

And around.... well, you get the picture...

I see cliffs in the distance. I want to jump….

End up back in City Center Dublin!

I pass the Gardai station again

in Dun Laoghaire... and keep driving.

Eventually,

I see a little red pub: Dunpheys Pub

1:00 (I’ve missed Lunch.) 

I beg them to tell me where IADT is. 

“I’ve heard there’s a blue, boxy building,” sigh I. 

One kind gentleman says to another,

“Oh, I know where that is. 

Tom’s son goes there. 

Here, let me draw you a map.”

He proceeds to draw each traffic light, 

And tells me which lane to drive in.

I make it! Just in time for the 2:00 panel. 

When I return to my hotel room,

An email awaits me from my friend,

“Jeanne,” he says, “You MUST go to 

Davy Byrne’s pub, the Martello Tower,

(Opening Ithaca chapter-

where Buck Mulligan descends the stairwell.) 

Sandycove, the cliffs of Killiney… 

That’s real Joyce country.” 

I smile as my keys click the reply… 

Been there, done that. 

© Jeanne I. Lakatos 

Media Arts Building, IADT, Dun Laoghaire, Ireland, where mushrooms once grew.

Memories of My Dad

August 20 would be my Dad's 99th birthday. May he rest in Eternal Peace. A few years ago, I participated in a literary challenge to write about our fathers. This is not a poem; it's a reflection of the time that my father brought me some Siberian iris tubers, and each year, I feel his presence as the irises propagate annually. The ones in the photo are from this year's blooms. 

Blue Iris:

A Reflection of my Dad

I didn’t realize it would be the final kiss on his dimpled cheek, that the irises he brought would be his last gift to me. “They’re blue, like your eyes, and they have your name,” he winks as he carefully unwraps the newspaper and inspects each delicate tuber. 

Thinking back as if it were just yesterday…

* I was picking green apples in our backyard on a hot August afternoon. I glanced down to see my T-shirt covered with ants; I ran, screaming, “Daddy! Daddy!" Calmly, he brushed the ants off my shivering 4-year old self. “There, there, it’s nothing. See? All gone.”

* Glancing down at my hands now, I remember my little fingers clinging tightly to the rim of the old green wheelbarrow, as I sit atop a pile of fresh grass clippings, inhaling the sweetness. My own dimpled smile reflects his as he merrily sings or whistles a variety of tunes.

* His lap is the best seat in the house while we watch the Tigers defeat any other team on T.V.

* As a sophomore in high school, I can still hear his lighter click as he inhales yet another Lucky Strike and sketches lines and digits. Then, my Dad, the chemist, patiently explains one more geometry theorem to me for the night.

* Purple heart, bronze star, and a battle wound scar in his leg from the Battle of the Bulge that never kept him from running with the ball during many a neighborhood baseball game or a quick game of handball with my Mom.

Once, he brought a spray of blue Siberian irises for me to plant in my garden. There, outside my window grows a sea of blue, each year more irises than the year before, winking at me. 

                                                                Thanks, Dad. I love you. 

My Dad as a young boy with his dog, Snowball.

Be sure to save and label old photos. 

                                                                   © Jeanne I. Lakatos