Easter, Roses and Liquid Opal - Poems for the Spring...

 

Bench under the cherries in Descanso Gardens, 2014.

The spring is the time of change of generations. So many people are dying. So many babies are being born. Wave after wave, humanity persist on the discovery of what's possible when dealing with matter, nature, life on this planet. So being a part of one wave of humanity, we never know when and how the end will come. Do we? We never know if the angels that watch over us are benevolent or maleficient... We, frankly, don't know anything about anything, or, to put it differently, know nothing about nothing. We just stumble in the dark, trying to make the best choice possible, catch a sunray while we can...

Easter Apocalypsis

           ~ After "The Discovery of Heaven" by Harry Mulisch

It is coming. The angels know.

They dwell in their Piranesi castles,

twisted spaces where outside

is inside. They are not indifferent.

Not too smart for their own good.

Not cruel. They don’t tell us.

The end is coming, it is near.

Not death, mind you, not that

ugly spinster without its twin.

No. The end of the end. Finis.

The satin fabric of a wedding dress

trails behind the veiled beauty

as she glides towards her beloved.

The river’s end tastes of salt

in its own mouth, opened widely

into the waves of the ocean.

Nothing we can do will stop it.

Just stretch your fingers,

let the water cool your skin.

Why resist? Heraclitus

dipped his toes in this river.

Shape-note singers praised it.

Saints dove in and swam around,

luxuriating in incandescent glories

that passed us by.

The end is coming, flowing

swiftly down the slopes.

Let’s sit on the porch, doze off

in honeyed sunlight,

before it, too, disappears,

transfigured.

Let us believe there will be

light enough inside us - 

that kindling of kindness,

a half-forgotten smile -

to keep us afloat in the final flood

coming, coming to erase the world

and remake it, anew,

bejeweled.

(c) 2011 by Maja Trochimczyk, published in "Heaven and Hell" issue of The Scream Online.

I recently sent a translation of this poem to be published on the Pisarze.pl porta in Poland. The set included a new, original Polish poem that the editor did not select, so I translated it into English and placed here. 

A Rose Is a Rose

Petals, petals, petals,

keep falling, falling, falling,

free, sleepy, fragrant –

rosying, more rosy than the rose,

until only a stem, a dry stalk with thorns 

remains in place of bright blossom.

So it is in life - day after day

hours flow away from now into 

sometime distant, a long, long time ago –

when the southern sun shone 

pure gold in vibrant blue,

a long, long time ago –

before enemy planes turned 

the sky into a gray soup

of chemical poisons 

and the earth into a fallow field 

of aluminum dust in which  

Monsanto grains grow alone.

A long, long time ago

a flower opened into a rose

above all roses, a flower of one day

as beautiful as my life –

unique, original, without flaw

Years passed and I collect petals,

petals of memory – In words I cover

the faded skeleton with a vivid robe

of memories of kindness, love, joy –

and the petals, petals, petals

that keep falling, falling, falling

more rosy than the rosiest of roses 

(c) 2025 

The two favorite paces of mine are my garden, where my roses magically boom, and open spaces with ocean waves and hills on the horizon.  I take my kites for a walk  on the Oxnard beach or in the mountains, and look up at the astounding, vibrant sapphire sky.... 

Liquid Opal

I took two butterflies for a walk –

two colorful kites soaring above me 

while the ocean waves licked my toes and tried to 

tip me over so I’d roll down the soft, sandy slope into 

the seaweed meadows and kelp forests beneath. I would be happy

in the eerie  underwater light of aqua and aquamarine, 

the ocean whisper assured me.

Yet, I resisted, sinking deeper 

into the wet sand, holding onto my kites 

that floated overhead and pulled me up into the sky, 

the pristine, vibrant expanse of the azure. Endless peace.

No sorrows and no secrets. 

I look at the filigree patterns 

of seafoam lace, shifting playful shapes. 

Endless invention. The slowly setting sun colors

the ocean surface with metallic hues of titanium, nickel, chrome 

and liquid opal, changing with every wave, every wisp of the breeze.

As evening falls, the waves rise higher,

intersecting, crashing into each other, revealing 

their underbellies of pure, translucent jade, before 

disappearing  into the opaque beige of the sand, mixed with 

frothy water into an infinite, salty cappuccino.

The ocean caresses my legs 

and dances around me in a joyous display

of seduction and delight. I sigh and surrender.

Today, I found my Beloved on the beach,

in waves of liquid opal.