Chester Park Poets - Jacque Padula   

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Jacque Padula, of Maple Ave., has written numerous poems about life around Chester Park, particularly the natural beauty found in her own back yard.  Most of the works reprinted here have been published in the Iona College literary magazine, "Lirical Musings." 

 

 

 

Poetry published by Jacque Padula, Chester Park

 

Flowers of Spring  

 

Crocus     

Winter's snow still coats my garden,

shy, small blooms come peeping through.

Earliest hint of season's pardon

herald Spring's advent anew.

 

Andromeda     

Just outside my kitchen window,

graceful bells of purest white

burdening bending branches low,

tremble in Spring's gentle light

 

Forsythia     

Long before Spring's thaw is felt,

e'er they don green summer wear,

e'en fore Winter's snow is melt,

frothy yellow fronds appear.

 

Hyacinth     

First, the scent is in the air!

Color of my natal gemstone,

see them?  Standing gathered there?

Fragrant, lovely, gracing God's throne.

 

Tulips     

Shining in the sun's bright luster,

bobbing, nodding each bright head.

Yellow, red and pink, they cluster

glad that winter's wrath has fled.

 

Bluebells     

In a quiet wood of splendor

carpeted in brilliant blue

bowing gracefully to render

homage, as Spring burgeons new.

 
 

 

I close the door behind me and I'm home.
Comfort, familiarity, surround me. My feet
automatically guide me to the light switch. Without
thinking, my jacket is hung in its accustomed place.

I open the back door to let in a waft of
refreshing air. The sound of my neighbor's barking
dog creates its usual tingle of annoyance, but I call
"Hush!" and he's quiet.

The rose bush is blooming. Its delicious scent
fills the air. It mingles with the smell of wet, new
cut grass. It rained today. There's a softness in the
air that you can almost touch and the silence is
broken only by the gentle chirping of the birds as
they settle for the night. I kick off my sandals and,
barefoot, glide across the cool tiles in an
impromptu dance step.

I'm not lonely, I'm not really alone.

 

  

 

 

 

Laughing,
I watched
my usually proper dog
frolic
in the snow.
Demi was tiny;
making
up for bantam size
with studied
dignity.
But the wonder of
Winter's
white magic
brought out the 
puppy
he once was.
Prancing on fragile
little legs,
biting at icy
snowflakes,
sniffing, sneezing
in the cold.
Nose
dipped into
piled up drifts.
Shivering,
but unmindful
of the deepening
chill . . .
I remember
when I once
frolicked,
making angels
in the snow.

 

  

 

 

Eventide

The sun is setting,
turning tall tree tops
to burnished gold.

Birds, settling for the night,
sing prayers of thanks.

Squirrels still leap among the branches,
scolding as day is ending.

Over all a hush, a waiting,
for summer's silent night.

 

 

 

Hope

In the center of the heart a bird is framed.

The heart, circled by silent bells, hangs in my kitchen window,

'til now only an ornamental thing.

The bird is yards away, perched on a barren limb.

He'll stay a while, then fly away.

 

It's nearly spring.

Soon that bare branch will be adorned in palest green.

The bird will be there once again, his tiny voice will sing,

and hearts that hear will lift in joy

Perhaps the bells will ring.

 
 
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