by ST, early 1980s
This moment I stand on a promontory . . . I fill my lungs with breathlessness, my soul with the awesome, grandeur of the heavens. Though my world before me is only a dark silhouette and its details indistinguishable, I go forth with an explorer's thrill to meet the unknown future-- aware there will be sloughs, but expectant to find also a promised land.
by ST, early 1980s
That time of year thou mayest in me behold
When budding blossoms do splendidly unfold
And make all pink what rightly all is green;
A bird that flits from bloom to bloom--a hungry calf unweaned.
In me thou seest the bright forenoon of day:
Sun in full sight, yet not at apex,
Rises still upward, eager on its way . . .
And present sees few clouds, and they be but specks.
In me thou seest such kindling of a fire
That thinketh itself the darkness to light,
That yearneth for all t'once to be heaped on the pyre,
Though it knoweth t'would smother this fire of small height--
Still, it catches quickly each bestowal of the Master
Who warms to the glow of seeing me burn the brighter.
by ST, early 1990s & today
Spring Haiku Plump Spring rain drops plop On rich brown or green earth drop Yellow daffodils up pop.
Green Limerick We all like a touch o' the green: By bank it's a-growin' & flowin' in streams! Accounts do account, Amounts do amount, But then we awake from our dreams.
by Susan Ternyey, 2008
The earth and life are full of wrinkles. And so what that they are? Wrinkles are beautiful! From a fairly featureless molten globe, masses of stone coagulated on the surface of our earth, cooled and hardened into rocky mountains that collided as they rode the boiling undercurrents of lower layers. Such is the theory of our world’s beginnings. Without mountains, rain wouldn’t drizzle or pour, delicate crystals of ice would hardly have a chance to float and fly to us from celestial skies. The cycle of water that gives each life its turn is invigorated by those wrinkled, layered masses pressed up from ordinary plains by processes deep beneath the surface. Streams rush down, re-cycling rocks, bringing new earth and richness to the fields. Those same streams lend their mountain-made energy to man—once to grind the wheat to make the bread, now to churn electric power. Amid the mountains, hidden streams percolate, gather, concentrate the treasures of earth into ore- and gem-filled cracks and crannies. Mountain vents allow the earth to blow off steam and release built-up forces too hot to handle. Mountains grow under pressure, quake and tremble at their faults and slips, and bend their backs to support the flora and fauna of forests. They soar above the clouds and change mundane to spectacular sights. They take the grinding burden of glaciers wearing away at them year after year in dignified grace. Mountains are wrinkles, but oh, what wrinkles! Life has wrinkles—not just in the sheets and shirts, suits and slacks. Yet there’s no need to become wrinkle wranglers running manglers all the time. Lest we think our lives must be spent in straightening and ironing all to crisp smoothness, let us contemplate a moment why we impress creases in our dress pants and why we crimp and curl hair. Why did searsucker and other purposely wrinkled fabrics come into style? What about “scrunchies”, slouch socks, and the rumpled look? When life is too flat, it’s boring, stifled, uncomfortable. Maybe not all are attracted to the dogged looks of the Sharpei breed, but a certain looseness is not only a more relaxed fit, it’s critical. Why do elephants have wrinkles? Imagine how elbows and knuckles—even eyelids—would balk at bending if they had no slack in their little folds. There can be a time for straightness, but there can also be a cherished time of crumpling together in laughter at the wrinkles in and of our times. When life’s pressures and stresses seem to be wearing us away, cracking, breaking us down—eroding even what seemed most solid—it is thus that reveals our hidden layers, bedrock, and treasures from the depths of our souls, far below the superficial. Wrinkled raisins and walnuts are tasty little jewels we find in cookies, breads, and cinnamon rolls. Wrinkled icing decorates the cake and makes it special. Our senses delight in texture. Without bumps and bends, where would sculpture be? Two dimensions give us meaning and enjoyment, yet how often do we seek and simulate in them the depth of another dimension! We profoundly ponder that other side. We seek to see from many angles, many views. These all come from wrinkles and their cornered kin. Most beautiful of all are the wrinkles that give character to our countenances. What expressiveness and fun would we lose if we couldn’t crinkle our noses! How much more face has a wrinkled old sage than a babe! Experience has sculpted a masterpiece, to make fertile every field of man’s endeavor. Every life can enrich our own depths and gems of understanding. How many wrinkled old faces radiate hard-won wisdom! So I say, “Throw out those wrinkle creams!” Why should I be ashamed of my wrinkles and grey hair? I earned them. They express the search and finding of precious things in life. I love to see a wrinkled old face with twinkling eyes, and I don’t shy from attaining my own. Wrinkles are beautiful!
by ST, 1981
He faces Life as a force unknown-- his faith in God: that he's left on his own-- pain and loneliness have taken their toll, made barren the life, embittered the soul. I faced Life as one alone-- though friends had been, they'd spent each their day, and then passed on-- I asked of Life more than a friend on loan, longed for a heart to call my home. He faced me with the eternal question, I challenged the course of his direction, but the empty room begged me come-- no longer me, no longer he . . . Nous sommes.
for RMT by ST, 1982
No sudden inspirations
come flowing to my mind,
No metaphors, no similes,
No complaints that Love is blind;
No profuse allusions
to Love's delusive nature,
No mention how elusively, confusedly,
It takes one unawares.
Expect no flowery effusions
from Love's elated pen:
When my hand takes that instrument
Romantic utterance ends.
My love for you is simple,
a simple caring that has grown:
I've grown accustomed to your being there
When I need support and love.
by Susan Ternyey
I have within A Martha and a Mary. Master, wilt Thou judge them fairly-- For the one who serves Thee with her hands, Begs only Thy help in her weighty tasks, While the one who listens with all her heart For wisdom from Thy lips only asks. Shall she be denied? Which? Is Martha to be condemned? She serves sincerely as listens Mary. Master, please, do judge her fairy; I love her dearly as her Friend. These two sisters within me reside, Shall I cast either cruelly to the world outside? Are they not of one Father, one family? Love they not both their brother, and Thee?
by ST, 1980s-- remember I like puns and it's helpful to know Roman history & mythology.
I
January, the door, swings open wide;
A cold gust from behind meets the comfort inside.
To the hearth stumbles the aged of snow-white beard,
Kisses th'infant face, where his lost youth is mirrored.
He blankets and rocks the child, puts himself off to sleep;
The babe awakens and plays gleefully at his feet.
The fire dies 'til naught but embers
While moon-light sets the snow a-glimmer.
II
February was pure as its new-fallen snows--
'til there came a cherub without any clothes:
Sent flying swift arrows tipped in aphrodisiac:
Then lovers wooed, and woed, "Alas!" and "Alack!"
Such is our lot, to be Love's martyrs all.
Poor dears! To leap in ecstasy with the wound
causing our fall.
III
March, step in time, as a lion roar.
Blow bugle: to the battle; begin a war!
Vow to conquer or die, before the thing's o'er.
Yet a truce, call a truce, let the turmoil cease--
Calm the rage, settle gusty dispute, parley peace.
Gentle him like a lamb, like its baa, soft as fleece.
Return him to the planting, the plow, and the farm;
Make tools of cultivation of all his arms.
Set his mind to the meadows, the pastures, and barns.
IV
April: what a fool to be caught in the rain!
Such showers have such powers to drench the brain,
For the seeds now are planted, and Venus takes up her reign.
Mother of Desire, whom she sent before . . .
Mother, too, of a founder, in tales of yore--
She promises good fortune and victory
to those who win her favor,
Thus Irony's guardian of chastity makes lovers the braver.
V
May the earth in its course following season after season
And holder of the world--with seven daughter of light:
Greatest and brightest is Maia to spring,
A goddess born of nature but married to fire and craft
Lest a young man's fancy has not cupid's wing,
This Day weave the wanderings of his inclination to its cast--
Come forth now to renew nature's lease on
All that grows, and creeps, and has flight.
VI
June, O June, wife and sister both the same,
What difference to offer the change in her name?
Offer a diamond, for a chest of treasures will she hope,
Bring guests and make merry, she'll serve but cantaloupe.
Her well-being surrounds a simple gold band,
And its prefix, to fit the small finger of her hand.
VII
July-bright is the sun in height of full glory,
But the bands in the sky remember the story:
How through many a storm all this was won,
And the eagle's early flight was unsteady, unsure its first roam.
Now, even now, are murmurs from within--
Beware the false stroke of a supposed friend.
VIII
August majesty, dignity befitting renown--
Summer's triumvirate becomes the Imperator's crown.
He rules the world, around the world's sea.
He rules every man--slave, bond, and free--
He stretches his boundaries, expanding to encompass all,
Yet the Empire ripens, ever ripens, toward its fall.
IX
September remembrances follow the summer,
Of days and of deeds in months that were warmer.
Who can, makes the seventh into the ninth--
Procrastinating the age or hastening the birth,
For pregnant are the fields, ready to deliver:
Pause only a moment, now comes the day of labor.
X
October, the tenth (two later than its due)
Tithes all its increase by ripening much too!
When full are the days, the workmen, and the keep,
A dirge of a melody hints of shorter days, a longer sleep.
Chilling fingers pluck the strings, densely falls the aire,
A summons for phantoms: Let all beware
That icy touch that colors, for its touch kills
The fruit of the garden and cover of the hills.
XI
November, all in keeping, let us make a great feast,
Give thanks for the bread, the fruit, and the meat.
Humble our souls for those who haven't plenty,
Offer our hands to lift the sorrowing gently.
Remember our pilgrimage, the troubles we trod,
Give thanks for the Mercy of All-wise God.
XII
December, when full dozen months are now come,
We'll celebrate and decorate the hearth, heart, and home.
Holidays, Holy Days, gifts and good cheer,
Old-age's old days' acquaintances come to be near.
Whitened bows the head of the retiring year,
Yet not sorrowful but joyous carols does he hear:
The old fellow smiles, for the long awaited peace . . .
whispers in his ear.
by ST, 1980s
Born one night-- no room in the inn: crowded--every place filled full. The burden of the taxing: Payment must be made. The Only, the Humblest abode where the Lamb was kept: the Stable, the Christ was there born one night. Bourne one night in agony while others slept, a Man of constant sorrows the weight of the world, in expectation of Deliverance-- of Life.
by ST, in the 1980s
From early spring, in the season of the Lamb, We waited for news from the distant land: How fares the Vineyard, shall the tree give the fig? When harvest time is here, shall ought fill the crib? The month of Julius, then Augustus, the days were wasted, To pregnant fields, in the ninth month, laborers were hasted; Still, only ghost tales and phantoms of the Truth-- In those dark days all that was civil fell to uncouth. But thanks be to God who made the way to reform, For in December we heard truly that a Son was born.
My Stories