Read an Excerpt
Through the Eye of the Needle
A Book of Poetry
By Glade A. Myler Trafford Publishing
Copyright © 2014 Glade A. Myler
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4907-2852-0
CHAPTER 1
Cutting Strawberry Runners
In late spring brings certain
trepidation, but resolve
to assist a new generation
in sending down roots into
fertile soil carefully prepared
by many long since
returned to earth beneath
those tender shoots.
Older plants continue to
produce succulent berries,
red, vibrant and enticing,
while still sheltering
their vulnerable progeny.
Yet, now each begins
imperceptibly to wilt in life—
giving, but perilous sun.
In spite of mature vigor, all
feel inevitable loss as runners
are meticulously severed,
anchored and nourished
with anxious tears.
(Graduation Day)
Pavane
—A meditation on Ravel's "Pavane for a Dead Princess"
Peace, after rain, flows like the notes
from a melancholy flute as my mind
softly drifts into needful sleep after
spontaneous waves of purging sorrow.
Yet the echo of that sweet melody I
hear, like loving arms, encircles me
as gentle tears of grief for my dead
princess soothes this saddened heart
now searching for lasting solace.
When acceptance finally comes,
I seal my love with a tender kiss
to that forehead now still, and with
a whisper of farewell, I longingly
await that glorious spring when we
will again dance on velvet clouds
to the rhythm of this sweet pavane.
Opus in White Major
White on white brilliant as noonday sun
radiates through crystalline windows,
reflecting sparkling snow gently blanketing
a weary earth with welcome stillness.
Peace settles over all like transparent
dew, as morning's grandeur bathes once
again nature's music in dazzling brightness.
Darkness flees before this celestial exhibit
as warmth springs like soothing tears melting
the bosom of night now emitting rays pure
as diamonds to spark frozen air into luminaries
falling into drifts, then disappearing into
a symphony of white, intoned on the harps
and silver-toned violins of winter's morning.
"How Lovely is Thy Dwelling Place"
—Brahms, "German Requiem"
Las raras veces cuando se parte el velo
entre esta vida y el porvenir, se refleja
en las bellezas ocultas y escondidas
en cada nota de música celestial.
Mas, se quedan encarceladas y tristes
esperando otro instante de inspiración
cuando la musa toca la frente lista
para libertarlas a brotarse en gloria
y proveer esos momentos deliciosos
para los que tienen oídos para oír.
En tales ocasiones el ser conmovido
por la hermosura recién probada regresa
descontento y solemne a esperar con paciencia
otra ojeada más allá del velo esquivo.
"How Lovely is Thy Dwelling Place"
—Brahms, "German Requiem"
There are rare occasions when the veil
between this life and the hereafter parts
briefly to reveal the obscured and hidden
beauties in each note of celestial music.
However, those beauties often remain sadly
imprisoned awaiting the moment of inspiration
when the muse touches a brow prepared
to liberate them, allowing them to blossom
gloriously creating wonderful melodies
only for those who have ears to hear.
When these instances which bathe a soul in
exquisiteness end, one must reverently, yet
reluctantly return, only to patiently await another
glimpse beyond that ever mysterious veil.
"Peace Like a River"
Mirrors in still waters reflect the peace
of creation silently, unnoticeably spinning
through the universe while the mists
of the rivers converge into life-giving
clouds for parched earth awaiting salvation.
A lone, fallen leaf floating freely, aimlessly
in time forms ripples interrupting the calm
momentarily and attracting a swimming
bird anxious for another meal graciously
provided by the source of all benevolence.
"Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard,
nor entered into the heart of man"
the treasures held in store for all
who listen to the peace of a river.
Feelings
With you cradled in my arms, love
ebbs and flows from me to you
with contentment in each breath,
as evident in your eyes sweetly
reflecting fragile trust and devotion
planted within your tender breast.
Not wanting to disturb this fleeting
tranquility, I hesitate only a few
precious moments, to treasure
these delicate feelings of affection.
Unable to accept the inevitable end
to this bit of welcome serenity, I close
my eyes, now wet with tears of longing
for promised days of unending love.
Sinfonía de mañana
Una mañana sosegada despliega el horizonte
con las nubes coloradas y cielo pintado azul.
Sólo algunas aves interrumpen esta maravilla
volando como apenas puntos moteando cañamazo
del artista lista para imprimir otro día especial.
Brisa sedosa acaricia los árboles y criaturas
comenzando las actividades de otro día, ignorantes
de la hermosura amplia de nueva aurora replandeciente.
Más bién, en pinturas y fotos los artistas congelan
tal prodigio a fin de preservarlo para días oscuros
sin felicidad cuando cielos gris reinan sin cesar.
Así, lucho con afán con esta mi pluma a captar
la esencia de las mañanas brillantes que por siglos han
inspirado la alma impresionante hasta moverla a lágrimas.
Morning Symphony
On a serene morning, the horizon displays
red clouds in a beautiful sky painted blue.
The only interruption to this breathtaking scene
are a few lone birds appearing like small dots on
the artist's canvas, ready to capture this moment.
A gentle breeze caresses the trees, and all
creatures, beginning their activities of the day, are
unaware of another exquisitely beautiful dawn.
Artists strive with paintings and photos to freeze
such a wonder, preserving it for those gray days without
much happiness, when sullen skies seem endless.
With great effort, I too attempt to seize with this pen
the essence of brilliant mornings which have for centuries,
inspired impressionable souls, moving them to tears.
Jean Valjean
History disguised as poignant
fiction reveals an inherent truth:
Deep from within the sordid
labyrinth of inhumane excess
emerge saintly giants forged
in the furnace of affliction
to remind mankind that we
are endowed with innate worth,
to rally the forces of good and
champion the inevitable struggle
against blind, cruel avarice.
Just as warm spring rain melts
harsh winter's grip, so pure love
arises from the ashes of hatred
and despair redeeming those
caught in the web of bitter revenge.
Only then can true beauty return
as the flower of forgiveness,
transforming a world ripe for self-
destruction and placating the
yearnings of each penitent soul.
To the Forrest Gumps of the World
Some say heroes are not made from individual
circumstances, but from one's nurturing and
substance, when bravery comes naturally as
adrenaline shuts down self-preservation's cowardice.
Also, we know reasoning alone leaves many a battlefield
strewn with egos too proud to accept defeat and accomplish
those Good Samaritan rescue missions awaiting all of us.
Through perseverance and even stubbornness those
who have made themselves as humble, teachable
little children, become guardians for others who
have given up on life's seemingly futile struggles.
These saviors are strategically placed in our
lives to affect a rescue of the enduring part
of us, very often eroded by doubts and unbelief.
It only takes the resolute courageous determined
to succeed, in spite of the handicaps we all have,
to cause good to arise from the idiot in us all.
Nocturno Español
La música de una sinfornía de grillos de
verano produce nostalgia que me inunda
tormentándome con ambivalencia hirviendo
hasta reventarse en un poema colorado.
La noche con sus temores imaginados
me envuelve en sonido bello de castañuelas
cencerreando a la serenata de Don Juan
desterrado y enamorado en balcón oculto.
La Mancha me llama como una sirena sutil
aunque desconocida, sino por lectura
deliciosa e ingeniosa de ese maestro fino
que ha tentado probar esa fruta efímera.
Màs, pronto termina sueño extravagante
pero persiste el sabor dulce siempre.
Spanish Nocturne
The music of a symphony of crickets
in summer produces nostalgia which floods
me with seething storms of ambivalence
which burst forth into a colorful poem.
Night with its imagined fears envelops
me with the beautiful sounds of castanets
clicking to the serenade of Don Juan,
exiled and lovesick on a cloaked balcony.
La Mancha calls to me like a cunning siren
even though it is only known to me through
the ingenious and delicious text of that
master who strove to taste the illusive fruit.
Suddenly, this flamboyant dream ends,
but the sweet taste persists forever.
Scars
These scars I suffer serve
to remind me of past
injuries now partially
forgotten, but not buried.
If these scars encourage
me, like the fierce winds
goad me to cover myself,
and wait patiently for
merciful warming of spring,
then I have triumphed.
It is in the surrendering to
adversity and rationalizing
the causes of my misfortune
is when I sadly fall short.
The instinct to survive is
strong among all living
creatures, but the scars from
storms and predators can
only be softened over time.
Yet, some day, after much
contrition and humility, these
scars will surely be erased
by the tender touch of divinity.
"Considerad los lirios del campo ...
—ni aún Salomón con toda
su gloria se vistió como uno de ellos.:
(Mateo 6:28, 29)
Al contemplar esta maravilla llamada
naturaleza se disuelven las muchas
preocupaciones que inquietan la alma,
como la noche suaviza los remolinos.
El balance entre los elementos se
refleja en el intercambio de las plantas
y los animales cuando respiran lo que
el otro rechaza y, de cierto, disdeña.
El nacimiento de belleza en una flor
de la pudrición de otros organismos
inspira asombro aún en cada persona
empedernida por su propia importancia.
El cielo mismo entona este canto
e instrumenta la sinfonía de la puesta
del sol al destacarse el azul
entre nubes doradas y rosadas.
Con noche y la oscuridad, el silencio
de sueño reina sobre el mundo
de la naturaleza encubriendo
pesar de vivir en capullos de olvido.
"Consider the lilies of the field ...
even Solomon in all his glory was
not arrayed like one of these."
—Matthew 6:28, 29
Upon contemplating the many marvels
of nature, the frivolous cares of this world
which preoccupy our time and thoughts
dissipate, like night soothes the whirlwinds.
The delicate balance of the elements
is reflected in the interchange of plants
and animals as each breathes in what
the other rejects and, certainly, disdains.
The beauty of a newly-opened flower
born from the decomposition of other
matter inspires awe in all human beings,
even those hardened by self-importance.
As the sky also intones this natal song,
orchestrating the glorious setting of
the sun, the ethereal blue is enhanced
by dazzling gold and rose-colored clouds.
With night and darkness, the silence
of sleep rules the world, as a natural
blanket for grief and sorry, covering
us in cocoons of forgetfulness.
Metamorphosis
Longing to teach and warn from
my experienced vantage point,
with ambivalent eyes I see him.
Among many spurts of hormonal
activity and with a sponge-like mind,
he touches with his finger-eyes.
Stomach prone with palms supporting
his chin, shoeless feet swinging freely,
in a rare, quiet moment, he pauses
to contemplate a cocoon suspended
precariously under a teardrop leaf.
Too anxious to await the miraculous
change, he bolts to other wonders
leaving the pupa to unavoidable perils,
while he narrowly escapes the sting
of a bee frightened from his haste.
His mirthful childhood behind him,
he ventures forth handsomely
dressed with a bow tie and tuxedo.
He stops, unaware of a now-empty
chrysalis, to lean against a tree and
thoughtfully ponder the universe
before him, as the splendid butterfly
slowly flutters with wings still damp
and lights upon his youthful shoulder.
The realization that yesterday is
gone brings a knowing tear burning
my cheek as I see both poised upon
the threshold of life's fiery furnace.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Through the Eye of the Needle by Glade A. Myler. Copyright © 2014 Glade A. Myler. Excerpted by permission of Trafford Publishing.
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