Sea Shell Memories
by Sondra Ball
A tiny and exquisite shell
rests on my palm,
gleaming purple and gold
in the chandelier’s light.
I close my eyes and hear
the crashing of waves on stones,
the moaning of wind
against barren naked cliffs.
A cold rain is falling,
splashing against my blue slicker,
dripping over my hood.
Lightning flashes through dark clouds.
I stoop for a moment
and reach down into a damp hole
between two large boulders.
I stand up and open my hand.
A tiny and exquisite shell
rests on my palm.
copyright © 2003 sondra ball
Poetry Is the Way
by Sondra Ball
Poetry is the way
I make my world.
The shape of a poem
becomes a branch trembling.
The beat of a poem
becomes cold snow
falling on an icy lake,
warm sun above maples.
The sound of words
becomes the song of a sparrow,
the sigh of ice skates,
the scream of wind.
As I describe people
parting and embracing,
I plumb the depths
of birth and death,
rape and delight,
hope and despair.
And that plumbing
creates meaning
out of the tender
and the terrible
moments
of my life.
copyright © 2003 sondra ball
White Antelope’s Song
By Sondra Ball
The children screamed before the guns at Sand Creek under autumn sun
while the death song of White Antelope rang out across the sands,
“Nothing lives long except the earth and the mountains.”
It was the only end could come from those who followed fife and drum
across the grasses waving through the miles of open land.
“Nothing lives long except the earth and the mountains.”
They only saw with blinded eyes an old man who seemed so unwise
to stand where soldiers’ raging guns would press him to the sand.
“Nothing lives long except the earth and the mountains.”
Their eyes were blind; they could not know the truth White Antelope
would show,
as he sang clear and loud across the miles of open land,
“Nothing lives long except the earth and the mountains.”
Their own fate and their children’s lives were predetermined by that
strife
to be a cry for peace destroyed by blood stains on the sand.
“Nothing lives long except the earth and the mountains.”
Published SQN, summer, 1997
Copyright 1997 Sondra Ball
