Joan Teale

Holmes Beach, Florida, USA

Born in Wales of Welsh parents, Joan was educated in England, and returned to her roots to graduate in philosophy at the University College of Wales. Her husband is an oil engineer, so travel has deeply influenced her life. She has lived in Australia, Nigeria, the Netherlands, Sarawak[Borneo] and Oman, the most easterly of the Arab countries. Joan and Graham now live May thru August in Florida, and October to March in Spain. The remaining two months are spent visiting their children in England. Joan says, "Poetry restores vision, blind from the kaleidoscope of travel".

Drowned Village

By hidden river bank sweet cowslips blow
fanfares for elves; pale golden primrose, palled
in pleated green, vaults the shy violet.
My phantom foot falls upon trodden earth
and guides me to a rustling wooded dell
where trembling shade flutters each tall bluebell.
These ghostly feet of mine conduct my eye
to limpid light filled pools, braided with fern,
where rainbows kiss the gently sculptured stones,
until I find the swaying bridge that led
once, from great foot smooth rocks, beside worn steps
and linked the village street to church and grave.
There many lie who daily plied their trade
and on the Sabbath found familiar pews
pondering appointed rest in lychgate calm,
or conjuring the faces of their loves.
Calamity has fallen on the stream
until both street and graveyard sadly lie
in waters, deep beneath a man made lake.
On droughtful days poor seeking village spire
points to lost joy of humdrum paradise
that I have known and cannot know again.

Mountain

Fire licked my mountain's
molten lambent seams,
spinning unvalued tokens
to his chuckling streams.
Cloud seduced his tall peak,
pale dawn blew a kiss,
scattering grey ghost petals,
promises of bliss.
Snow softened his ridges
through long, frozen days;
thawed, he could not follow
down the waterways.
He may crave for burning
lava in his veins
and long to rock the river
down on the plains.
Do not waste your pity.
He lives a billion years,
indifferent to any
animistic tears.

Internet

I met an old woman who lives on a hill.
The path to her house is a dreadful treadmill.
Now, you may imagine she has not one friend,
for none would be willing that path to ascend.
In fact she has thousands who come fine or wet,
for she is an expert in surfing the Net.