Janice F. Booth
Janice F. Booth is a poem of form. See here the grace, the pantoum, the villanelle, an elegy. Nature is her muse. And the muse is better for it. —Grace Cavalieri
Janice F. Booth is a writer and teacher living near the Chesapeake Bay. Her long-running garden column and published poems reflect Jan’s reverence for Nature in her varied guises. Jan’s poetry is included in The Song In the Room: Six Women Poets, The Antioch Poetry Retreat: a Gathering of Poets, The Road Beneath or Feet and periodicals, including S/He Speaks and Avocet. As a journalist she authored Crofton: Images of America. Janice taught English courses at high school and college levels.
Conflagration
(a villanelle)
What is there to fear?
Warming glaciers, blistering winds
Whispering “Fire” in my ear?
Ripe orchards turning sere,
Fewer apples in the bin
Such small things; I needn’t fear.
No salmon in our weirs,
Fishing eagles grown too thin,
Screeching “Fire” in my ear.
Without clear air to breathe,
Coughing children - such a din.
So much now I’ve come to fear.
Our earth struggles more each year,
Losing fur and scales and skin.
Gasping “Fire” in my ear.
What use all my tears?
I am old; the end is near,
Whispering “Fire” in my ear.
What is there to fear?
© Janice F. Booth, October 2022
After sunset
the grass sighs
katydid hatchlings
hang on blades
awaiting deliverance
while silent
dew settles
on worn step
on broken doll
assuaging loneliness
while tenderly
a child yawns
unguarded breath
of joy and sorrow
accepting sleep
while I lie
body supine
firefly thoughts
acknowledging
the dark
At dawn
cock crows
hens’ eggs
devoured
plucked hurriedly
from nests
and still…
sunflowers stir
lifted heads
swivel and rise
describing day’s journey
and still…
an old man rasps
pulling smoke
into clogged lungs
dying breathlessly
and still…
I walk
immersed in Gaia
daily balm
deflecting grief
© Janice F. Booth, 2023
Elegy
Where do we go from here?
Sighs the wave as it breaks on the shore.
Where do we go from here?
Cry the acorns as they strike forest floors.
Where do we go from here?
Call the doves as they mourn their mates
and the men as they meet their fate.
Waves break and are broken.
Acorns drop and decay.
Doves sing sorrow’s token.
Men tuck their fear away.
Go back to the sea
Become the tree
Teach the young
Other lives have begun.
© Janice F. Booth
6 Tiny Poems
Cattail dips,
red wings. black breast
rise.
Sunset’s stillness,
mourning dove’s
one note repeating.
Giggling children
hurtle into the river
one more time.
Careening cars,
Queen Ann’s Lace
bends to the whirlwind.
Red Delicious
Each slice
cool tears
on crisp wedges.
.
Crumpled paper
discarded words
in the wind.
© Janice F. Booth, July 2022
Pantoum to Life
Turn and read the old clock’s face,
As if waking were enough.
Time will be both web and lace.
Beauty’s real, the web is tough.
As if waking were enough
I walk out into the morn.
Beauty’s real, the web is tough.
My child walks beside me, spirit tired, body worn.
I walk out into the morn.
Feel the wind among the branches, hear the crow’s insistent caw.
My child walks beside me, spirit tired, body worn.
If we walk this way together, perhaps she will not fall.
Feel the wind among the branches, hear the crow’s insistent caw.
Life is short and full of grace.
If we walk this way together, perhaps we will not fall.
Turn and read the old clock’s face.
© Janice F. Booth
Wild Mercy
Colors turn,
A blush, a flash of fire,
Leaves falling – kept promises.
Spring’s promises:
Robins’ breasts on fire,
Bulbs bursting – their turn.
I rise and turn,
Old hands toward the fire.
What do I bring to spring’s promise?
Like the leaves, it is my turn
To feed the fire
That helps the stars to turn.
© Janice F. Booth
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Comments
Sue Silver (not verified)
Janice's poems capture the fear, sadness and strength we must bring to bear witness at the careless hands of our present day populations and governments, our earth caretakers.
I like her line if we walk this way together, perhaps we will not fall, speaking to the strength in our togetherness.
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