Connie Marcum Wong

Her music haunts me
in such a knowing way
it makes me weep
and causes my heart to ache.
...

Pele's volcanic lava glows
In the evening’s twilight hour
With passion filled desire
Surging with her power.
...

Our cold crisp air augurs an early snow before Thanksgiving. I need to look for my warm fur-lined gloves. The snow tires are heaven knows where in our cluttered garage, but they must be searched for now not later, when frozen fumbling fingers complain loudly from the cold. Every year at this time, daydreams of warm weather on a tropic isle are floating through my mind.

floating blossoms drift
like snow in the tropic wind—
...

I never knew I’d be in heaven
In the autumn of my years;
Or that I’d be immerged
In the brilliant art of words,
...

Oh giver of life, you glorious Sun,
You instinctively know what must be done.
I bask in your warmth to gain energy;
Marvel how you raise up each plant and tree.
...

At Ben Bulben’s feet Sligo stands
The home of such creative hands

Where poet William Yeats did grow.
...

Ballet is poetry...
And both share in
The magical movement
That is defined as art.
...

Take notice of your hand.
Each finger moves separately.
Each finger is a different size,
Yet all belong to the same hand.
...

When the rains burst forth
from heaven's lofty heights,
Apollo deigns to repress his golden light.
...

Point of reference never came.
I waited eons just to see
The clever end of destiny.
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Your glory touches
Silhouetted trees
Standing tall to embrace
Your scarlet sky.
...

To some, their youth was just sublime.
Then age crept up and over time
Their joy then faded with the years
As body changes led to fears.
...

I hear much joy in the music,
View great joy in the dance
Feel happiness in the laughter,
Soulful spirit in poetic romance.
...

Intention leads us to
spiritual revelations,
Serene contemplation
of becoming one
...

Oh let my soul flee
To the purple mountains
Where poetry breathes—
Where dawn's shadows
...

In solitude I dream tonight
And watch a moth in fevered flight.

It's drawn toward my quaint porch light
...

The familiar rhythm of the drums,
the beauty of the dance,
the haunting chants
are still whispered by the wind.
...

As eagle swoops at break of day,
Talons cling to wriggling prey.
Having hunted and found his quest
He soon returns to guard his nest.
...

An argentine sky
Adorns the woodlands
In a misty shroud.
As only slight remnants
...

T his great soul by the name of Steve Irwin
H as left this world doing what he loved most...
E nlightening us with the creatures of our earth. A
...