Florence Weber Mann

Yucca Valley, California, USA

I am a retired school teacher. Attend UCLA where I received my Teaching Credential. After a few years of teaching, went to the University of Redlands where I earned my Bachelor of Arts. I was a member of Delta Kappa Gamma.When my son was five years old I became interested in poetry. I made up verses for his entertainment. It was only after my retirement that I studied poetry in earnest. I worked with Judson Jerome of the Writer's Digest, Jonathan Bracker of University of Berkley and Ann Hamilton.Writing poetry is a joyful and rewarding pursuit.

Silent Song

He has about him a faint muskiness
Not the musky aroma distilled
With floral oils,
But the fragrance of furrowed earth
Mingled with heady barley and damp alfalfa.
I know he is there
Even before the sight of him:
His power, his longing and tenderness
And scent of the fields
Call out in a clear, silent song.

Weary Pilgrim

I hold her feverish body close to me
To keep this nearness bright, to calm her fear.
From earthly trials He soon will set her free.
Like eternity these last days seem to be,
And I'm her first-born, know the time is near.
I hold her feverish body close to me.
My weary pilgrim knows that only He
Can take her cloak of sorrow, dry her tear.
From earthly trials He soon will set her free.
Into green pastures she will softly flee
And walk beside still waters deep and clear.
I hold her feverish body close to me.
She will take the Shepperd's hand, go peacefully
Into that valley when her time is here.
From earthly trials He soon will set her free.
My beloved will awake from sleep to see
The way unfold, the guiding light appear.
I hold her feverish body close to me,
From earthty trials He soon will set her free.

Fall Drama

Like myriad jewels October comes
Topaz and flaming red
The length and breadth of slopes
And canyons of the White Mountains.
Rays of morning sun glint scarlet-gold,
Leaves glow in dew-damp air,
Give promise of never-ending loveliness.
O opulent October,
You give us one last show before
November winds ravage leaf and limb
And all your red-gold harvest lies
In heaps upon the ground.
O, October, how can we feel gladness
Beguided by your pageantry...
When trees stand bare and mute,
We wil remember your grand performance
Was but the prelude to a death-like sleep.