Tossed by swells, but held by anchor
I wish for the rock house
that still stands on doctrine.
But I can contemplate
as long as I’m still green
and nothing’s certain.
Not a warrior—not certain.
Pulled and tested, the anchor
slips. Can it be growing green?
There in the weathered house,
I can contemplate.
Do I need the doctrine?
Firm against the horizon is the doctrine,
an armored warrior, fortified, certain.
Nothing to contemplate,
secure as an anchor.
Arms across his chest, he stands before the house
regarding what is and is not green.
Bronze against the sky, he isn’t green
as copper tarnished doctrine.
The historic stone house
culturally solid and certain,
the foundation of my anchor?
Is it still possible to contemplate?
Everything should be open to contemplate,
my thoughts questioning green.
Writings provide no anchor,
that should be provided by doctrine.
The walls close around the certain,
of the stoic, social the house.
Not for me this sheltering house,
no bronze sword. I’ll contemplate
since I’m not certain.
Will I always want the green,
or will I need the old doctrine
to clutch the rusty anchor?
To be anchored,
can the doctrine
be green?
Lorraine Jeffery delights in her closeup view of the Utah mountains after spending years managing public libraries. She has won poetry prizes in state and national contests and published over one hundred poems in various journals and anthologies, including Clockhouse, Kindred, Calliope, Canary, Ibbetson Street, Irreantum, Rockhurst Review, Naugatuck River Review, Orchard Press, Two Hawks, Halcyon, Healing Muse, Regal Publishing, and Bacopa Press.