Diane Prebula Poetry

Years of Watermelon Ice Brushing the Blue Fall & Recovery Wild Horses Run Beyond the Sugared Hills

More than anything, this poetry is a reflection of my relationship with my creator. When I commune with Him outdoors, in nature, I feel complete. My joy is also full as I express myself through poetry because I learn a lot through what is released. My prayer is that I will be an instrument that releases the joy, peace, and strength that helps to draw you closer to the God who created you, and that you may be all you were created to be.

Ocean

Diane Prebula 1. She finishes her drink---the pain
of arrangements , road and weather conditions
that change daily. With early April
the possibility of a spring blizzard is always a risk.

And when she travels alone
she unravels in the stress of it.
Still, she anticipates the break
in the tough shell of her year---

to breathe the fragrance
of the almost unreachable core.
The weather recedes. The road clears. She steps
into the pungent mist of the Oregon ocean air.

Lifted by this and the sudden sun
glistening long streaks on the water,
she settles into the tantrum screams of gulls
claiming home where she can only visit.

2. The trail to the high rocks blows through the evening
with a spray of salt, and opens to the tall stands
of evergreens across the bay, the flickering lights
of town, and the infinite ocean horizon.

Waves fall, shedding heaps of lace
in the spill. Some race and crash the rocks.
Some slow down
and draw back.

She stands on a prominent rock
that watches the dark green ocean. The moon
spills some light on her dress.
She turns and the wind lifts her hem and hair.

Pulling the lace of a wide tide over her shoulders,
She walks off with her shawl and leaves
a train of fragrance from her open shell
in the wake of a generous spill.

Years of Watermelon Ice

I think about days where we hiked
the creeks or rode horseback
through fields and desert
until we reached the river and hills.

Years of watermelon ice
and strawberry lemonade—spring
and summer dripping
like ripe, red fruit over lips.

Smiling faces washing over
the canvas of those days—
heartfelt welcomes
arriving like an easy September rain.

When You feel distant— though I know
You’re still close— and I walk alone
just a little too often, You wash me
in these cascades of renewal.

Running the Rocks-Naked Poetry

How silently the air moves—but it silvers
through me and around me since I
lay your book down. Of all the poets,
you are the one, the only one, who takes me—
who strikes me like a match; I’m off

and running through the choreography
of poetry like a mad dancer on fire—
the rusty gold fox runs the rocks out back
and watches me, his small black feet trotting,
his dark ears and tapered nose on alert.

Only Bob Dylan could rival you—but
a songwriter responds to the call
of a different gig; his music dances with his words—
But you, your call to write is closer to mine.
God bless our naked poetry.

And He does. You with your Pulitzer and more.
Me, I’m just walking out His pilgrim plan
and He shatters me—shards of flickering silver—
to fall down the shaft and slide through the mine
of your inspiration while the fox fades through the gold leaves.