Alabaster. Nancy Pietsch

dare, call the sun yellow

      Without causing an uproar and controversy

      Look at the earth that is walked on

      How would you describe the dirt

      You wouldn’t dare, call the dirt black

      Without worry of causing some hurt

      Well, look at the beautiful rainbow

      How would you describe the colors within

      It’s a mixture of hues that are blended

      Describing it in colors is just not a sin

      So the people of the world are different

      Our skin is an example of such

      Our hues and colors are blended

      We are the rainbow because of God’s touch

      The Wildwood

      Out in the wildwood, it was rumored

      Was a woman who would come and would go

      Folklore had it, she was there in the spring

      But gone at winter’s first snow

      There was a tale, passed down through the ages

      Of this woman who lived on her own

      In a shack that stood in a clearing

      Belladonna was how she was known

      The few who had seen her never approached

      They had been warned, they didn’t dare

      They described her beauty likened to a flower

      With long shining black hair

      A boy who was lost had ventured to close

      Was overcome by her beauty and powers

      She bade him bring, the shining black berries

      From the reddish, bell-shaped flowers

      He was starving, he picked them with care

      She thus proceeded to bake him a pie

      After he ate it, he gave her a smile

      He closed his eyes then breathed a sigh

      The townspeople found him under fresh fallen snow

      His mouth stained berry black, then they prayed

      Because the only thing found in the clearing was

      The frozen plant known as the deadly nightshade

      Remission

      It started very simply

      The lure of things from long ago

      A memory of childhood’s gone

      Something to be proud of, something to show

      We called them collections back then

      We hunted all the sales

      Bringing our prizes home

      Putting up shelves with all our nails

      If we had time and money

      We’d make a day of our bargain search

      Racing from location to location

      Some of our best finds were at the church

      Many of the vases were of value

      Worth more, but we paid less

      On the ride home, some were broken

      We glued them together, I must confess

      The problems started early on

      When one of a kind was not enough

      We had to have everyone

      Then the addiction became real tough

      I collected ceramic pots

      My sister collected dolls

      We hit all the garage sales

      We avoided the shopping malls

      After years and years of shelving

      There wasn’t enough room to house

      All the things we gathered

      Not even the pewter mouse

      So boxes became a necessity

      To hold our new found treasure

      We had to pack them up

      For later viewing pleasure

      The boxes grew and grew

      We arranged them in piles

      We kept on adding more

      They soon became walking aisles

      We were so pleased because the boxes

      Were loaded with our collections

      People said, “Get rid of that junk!”

      We were offended by these suggestions

      They also made rude comments

      Like, “Your house smells very musty!”

      I told them the advantage of boxes

      Saves time on housework, nothing’s dusty

      Now it is the present day

      We have no place to sit or eat

      We can’t have people over

      Because we can’t offer them a seat

      I’m sure it will all work out

      They’ve come out with self-help books

      For all of us collectors

      Who no longer have empty nooks

      The flea market is here, but I’ve cleaned up

      I think I’m in remission

      Maybe if I sell some stuff

      I’d have enough for a ticket of admission

      They tell us we are hoarders

      I think we’ll still get looks

      My sister is up to seven

      Now she’s hoarding, hoarding books!

      Save My Soul

      I’m naked as a jaybird

      I don’t need to be clothed, it’s understood

      There’s no reason to dress for the ending

      It doesn’t matter if I look good

      Time has passed, this life is over.

      The normal aging has taken its toll

      Now it’s easier to bare my body

      Then, it will be to bare my soul

      Who will meet me when I arrive

      Will someone come to take my hand

      Am I important enough for God himself

      To walk me into the promised land

      At the end, we learn the answer why

      We’ve been given so much strife

      We find dying is not the mystery

      The mystery is the life

      If no one comes to greet me

      If no one offers me a hand

      I’ll