Poems by Patricia Cummings
The following is a selection of poems written by Patricia Cummings of Concord, New Hampshire.
Photo by Charlotte Croft
A poem dedicated to my friend, Charlotte Croft
Sunset Serenity
by Patricia Cummings
At the end of the day
the shadows are lengthening
across the water,
and the birds begin their chorus.
I hear the loons
in the distance,
their haunting calls
speak of alarm and mystery.
The rustle of a bush
and I see a deer in the dim light,
browsing the ground,
and finding clover.
The shrill tone of a Shriek Owl
stirs the evening calm,
and a breeze blows in the call
of “whip-poor-will.”
Soon the birds will cease
their noisemaking,
until the morning light.
For now, it is a time of peace and rest.
My thimble and my quilt
will await my return,
but at this very moment,
I must ponder this Sunset Serenity.
A golden thimble sits on a portion of a quilt made by Charlotte Croft for a wedding gift.
~~~~~
Where Has He Gone, The Boy We Knew?
by Patricia Cummings, May 2006
To where has he gone, the child of summer?
Once chasing
butterflies, or catching a fish,
or running along a beach, with a
kite that soared,
lifting our spirits in carefree wonder.
To where has he gone, the child of autumn?
Playing amid the
fall-colored leaves,
as noisy geese honked loudly,
overhead,
flying in their V-formations to another clime.
To where has he gone, this child of winter?
Bundled up tight,
in scarf surrounds,
sledding and skating, watching and waiting
for
Christmas Day to roll around.
To where has he gone, this child of spring?
So innocent he
looks while picking violets,
a memory now of a doting mother,
his
handmade cards, items she treasures.
To where has he gone,
this child of mine?
Elusively, Time
will never tell,
nor will it return that which once
it so freely
gave.
~~~~~
On Labeling
Patricia Cummings, September 2, 2000
At the cupboard, I try to decide, will it be soup or spaghetti?
The label that helps me to choose
precludes me from opening beets or confetti.
Labels for food would most certainly be missed
were a youngster, bored, to remove them
but labels for people, just don't seem to work
as much as we try to conjure them.
Until you are dead, you will all live in dread
of the words people say about you.
But you know who you are, and the gifts that you have,
so turn a deaf ear to the critics.
~~~~~
by Patricia Cummings, September 26, 2001
If I could be a chipmunk
if only for a day
I'd feast on seeds and nuts
and only seem to play.
The forest as my playground
I'd hop the live-long day
With troubles of the human kind
not part of my dismay.
Safety would be as close
as an opening in the ground.
The slightest hint of mayhem
would send me earth-nest bound.
Alas, I'm not a chipmunk
nor ever hope to be
but I feel a little envious
to see one romping free.
Inspired by a hike at Profile Falls in Hill, New Hampshire.
To read an essay about that trip, click here.
~~~~~
© Patricia Cummings, 2000
I can understand a lily pad
its glory to the sun
Putting down its sturdy roots
refusing yet to budge
Blooming when it feels it must
Hopped upon by frogs
seeking to sink its fragile leaves
more sturdy than "they" think.
Floating, floating, evermore
upon a sea of gold
Having sought the rainbow's end
and found no pot of same.
Upheld now and ever more
by the Hand of God.
~~~~~
The Dragonfly
by Patricia Cummings, September 30, 2007
I saw a dragonfly
upon the wing,
while autumn threatened
cold to bring.
I pondered the fate
of this lovely thing,
a gift of creation
that made my heart sing.
As seasons come
and seasons go,
There is but only
one truth to know:
Take each day
passing slow,
This way, again,
we shall not go.
~~~~~
The Wisdom of Age
by Patricia Cummings, 2000
Laughter is the key to a long life, says she.
She should know,
for she has seen eighty three summers.
She has buried a husband, only one,
no room for another, house still filled with the first,
silently present.
Her children say, "Sell it all." "Throw it away!"
"Give it away." "You are going -
Slipping, moment by moment, into an eternal abyss."
"We cannot save you."
"We do not want the things
that you saved for us."
"They only remind us that we are going with you."
~~~~~
Antique quilt - Lambertville, NJ
photo by James Cummings
Fifty Students
by Patricia Cummings, 2001
Fifty students traveled long distance
via the wires that connected them
to a source of knowledge.
Why, oh why, did the quilts get made?
Were they for comfort?
Were they for trade?
Were they for show?
All the blocks standing along in a row?
Were they coarse, from linen spun?
Gifts of friends, and perhaps for one
departing friend or minister?
Were they hung in homes of peasant,
or king?
How much joy did they bring?
Were they made from scraps
or wrought with gold thread?
Were they placed upon four-poster beds?
We seek the answers
We hasten to know
Oh, tell us, please,
all this...and more!
A poem inspired by a distance learning class, "History of Quilts,"
University of Nebraska, Lincoln, summer 2001.
~~~~~
On Turning Fifty
by Patricia Cummings, 2001
How does one begin to count
...the days of sunshine,
...the days of rain?
Or does the weather matter much
...when there is loss,
...or there is gain?
And what is fortune, if not measured
...against days of trouble,
...days of pain?
I've seen many days.
Many more I hope to see,
...with a little sunshine, a little moonshine
...within my heart, to sustain.
~~~~~
Blue Funk at Seventeen Degrees by Patricia Cummings - 1/29/07 Seventeen degrees out, a melody hauntingly plays, bringing me back to another sad day, when there was simply nothing more to say. Seventeen degrees, the temperature of my heart, Robbed of its joy, and left in parts, with no more wisdom to impart. Seventeen degrees, not warm enough for a toad. Feeling as though I could implode, As I wish away this burdensome load. Seventeen degrees, the numbers will increase; they'll matter not at all, when time has ceased, and wildflowers bloom o'er my grave. ~~~~~Miniature Christmas setting - Fireplace quilt, tree skirt, and ornaments hand-made by Patricia Cummings, 2006. Faux mantel by James Cummings.
A Christmas Poem
©2007. Patricia Cummings, Concord, NH
'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the manse,
the urchins were awaiting a man of expanse.
The stockings were hung with diligent care,
in hopes that the Gentleman, soon would appear.
Stevie was sleeping alone in his bed,
while Jackie laid, bug-eyed, hearing the tread
of reindeer and Santa, near the chimney they strode,
making dear Jackie run for the commode!
The mayhem on the roof was clearly proof certain.
Running to the window, Jackie drew back the curtain.
Alas, the old man made a quick get-away,
leaving Jackie to wonder, to hope, and to pray.
Did Santa leave presents or a black lump of coal?
To check this situation, could result in a scold.
For Mother and Father snoozed peacefully now.
To disturb their slumber could result in a row.
But he crept down the stairs, with nary a sound.
And, indeed, did see presents, strewn all around.
In the morning, over breakfast, he told his yearly yarn,
to complement the other story of the wee, lowly bairn.
Born in a manger, no room at the inn,
Come to save sinners from God-awful sin,
Redeemer and Savior, Emmanuel, too,
The Christmas tradition, ever old, ever new.
This poem is inspired by the antics of my oldest brother, Jack, who loved presents and did, indeed, report hearing Santa on the roof, each year. Anything is possible when we BELIEVE, and whether you call him St. Nicholas, Kris Kringle, or Santa Claus, “he” is the embodiment of the Christmas spirit. Please save a cookie or two for him, will you? And, while you’re at it, please set aside a carrot or an apple for each of the reindeer!
Blessings to you, this Yuletide, and peace, prosperity, and good health to everyone in the coming year.
~~~~~
Copyrighted material. All rights reserved. Comments? Questions? Write to: pat@quiltersmuse.com