BIBLE STUDY

BIBLE STUDY

The people were tired 

of being held down,

tired of the collusion 

between the occupying power

and the religious power 

too prudent—or too timid—

to stand with them and declare

enough is enough.

 

They’d heard him bless 

the poor, the hungry,

the mourners, the persecuted.

They’d heard him curse 

the rich, the sated,

the scoffers, the praised.

So when he rode into town 

on a borrowed donkey,

the common people–

the ordinary people–called out

Blessing and Peace and Glory! and

Save us, please. Save us!

 

The powers were alarmed

and tried to silence the people.

And what did he reply?

Turn then, if you would,

to Luke 19: 40-41

and read what he said.

And read what happened next.

 

 

words: ZUIHITSU for a day when there should be no words

soil

flight

farther

tingle

 

ZUIHITSU for a day when there should be no words

1

After the scanty rainfall yesterday (or was it the day before?), I planted beans. Six rows of black beans. I crawled along on my hands and knees to set them in the furrows and cover them with soil. As I patted the soil in place, I left my handprints to show that I’d been there.

2.

On our morning walk, the dog and I noticed a red-tailed hawk watching us from a power line. As we approached, she took flight and landed in a dead elm tree beside the newly cut hayfield on the other side of the road.

3.

Most days, I walk a bit farther than four miles. Today I was cold and wanted to get home to start the laundry. When the washing is all in the machine, perhaps I’ll vacuum the rug. That seems about all I can manage these days:  walks and housework.

4.

Tomorrow—no—the next day—tomorrow is Tuesday—my husband and I will sit in my study and wait for the computer tingle that signals our son’s weekly call. It will be good to see the children. The three-year old tries to touch us through the screen. She has skin like a bisque doll, and enormous blue eyes. There are so many things she will never have to know.

STORYTIME

 

STORYTIME

 

If you don’t have fairy tales, how do you live?

The Miller’s Youngest Son answers the riddles.

The Serving Girl rises from the Cinders 

to marry the Prince. If you give a cup 

of cold water to the woman at the well 

you will receive a jeweled reward. If you don’t,

you will spit serpents for the rest of your life.

If the odds are against you, you will win— 

the youngest, the fool, the poorest, outcast, 

the least likely to succeed. Isn’t it

what you want to believe, you, who like me

are all those things and more?  If you finish

the witch’s tasks and don’t ask for  answers,

she will give you all the light you need.

words: SAME STORY

orange

happiness

shallow

line

SAME STORY

I’ve known the story since second grade,

that terrible year. The teacher checking

our fingernails and handkerchiefs,

teaching nothing but tedium. Gray

and marcelled, as chained as I 

to that small-town school.

The stench of hot-lunch goulash.

White bread spread thick with margarine.

The shallow patch of backlot gravel

where we tried to play. 

 

Reading was my happiness.

Sometimes I was allowed 

to sit on the windowsill with a book.

And where would I have found

such a thing in that barren place?

I can still see the drawing clearly—

the line of the girl’s dress,

the dragon’s orange flame.

And the prince—not St. George, I think—

but it was the same tale—

the monster demanding sacrifice, 

the unexpected release. 

 

words: zuihitsu–lists

fragment

fill

hollow

bristle

zuihitsu:  lists

 1.  Five beautiful things:  Yarn for a blanket. A gallon of maple syrup.  Ruthie’s blue eyes. The white-throated sparrow’s song. A fragment of a poem written on an old bookmark.

2.  Four unusual things: A hairbrush with broken bristles. A tulip bent by the snow. A rabbit hiding under the sandbox. The tube of tomato paste moved to the vegetable bin.

3.  Three things to do:  Plant three ramps in the woods. Fill the watering can. Write a note to David.

4.  Four unpleasant things:  A hollow feeling. The smell of gasoline. A sore thumb. Horsetails in the garden.

words: Zuihitsu for the 51st Day

Zuihitsu for the 51st Day

1.  I have never paced when I am in distress. I stand, rooted, staring, generally out the kitchen window at whatever birds I can notice eating the suet that we hang in little wire baskets from the canopy supports on the deck. This morning, I saw a pair of white-throated sparrows and a pair of catbirds and a pair of cardinals and a single male downy woodpecker.

2.  The route of my morning walk is flat for awhile, then slopes gently downhill to a worn-out barn on the brink of a gully.  Jim keeps old-fashioned electric Christmas candles in the barn windows. The road then slants uphill until on the left there is an unpaved side road going farther up past an old hillfarm cemetery before connecting back to a main road. My road flattens out again to a swamp where grackles and red-winged black birds and swamp sparrows are nesting now.

3.  Our granddaughter extended her hand toward the web camera to show us a book. She recited Robert Lewis Stevenson’s “The Swing Song” for me. My mother, for whom she is named, taught it to me when I was three, and our son taught it to our grandchildren.

4. I wish I could come up with an idea for a big project:  a play, or a series of poems. I simply don’t have enough energy to extend myself much beyond the usual “poem a day,” and even those are getting sillier.

5.  Nettles are creeping down the driveway from the little patch I planted ten years ago so I could harvest them for tea. I don’t harvest them. I’m trying to pull them up by the roots so they won’t take over the whole place. “Remember . . /the nettles that methodically overgrow /the abandoned homes of exiles.” (Adam Zagajewski, translated from the Polish by Clare Cavanaugh)

6.  I told our grandson I heard a towhee this morning. Our son asked him if he remembered what they say. “Drink your tee hee hee hee,” he answered, smiling his slanty little smile.

7.  My husband is extending his trip out into the world today—not just the usual route to the grocery store and home again, but a side trip to the pharmacy to get medicine for the cat’s hair loss and more milk thistle and vitamin D for us. He brought two pairs of gloves. 

8.  Linda emailed a poem to me, “the one she’s been waiting for,” she said. Nadine Anne Hura wrote it, “for Papatuanuku, Mother Earth.” She calls on the Mother to “Breathe easy and settle,” and tells her “We’ll stop, we’ll cease/We’ll slow down and stay home”  It would be a change of pace—hell, it would be a change of everything these days to have a president who shares poetry with us, or who even reads poetry. Or anything, for that matter.

9. Just after sunset, I took Julie down the driveway as usual. It was clear and pleasant, so I did not hurry, but strolled along at her doggy pace.  Watching her check the smells—deer? rabbits? that bear our neighbor saw?—along the way puts a fresh slant on things.

 

 

A zuihitsu is a Japanese form, consisting of loosely connected fragments written mostly in response to the writer’s surroundings. The word means “follow the brushstroke.”  For more see https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Pillow_Book

words: TO ARIADNE, WITH APOLOGIES

 

fractal

born (or borne)  or bourn, for that matter.

manipulate

stoic

TO ARIADNE, WITH APOLOGIES

Winding small and smaller

into this fractaled labyrinth—

this, and this, and oh yes

this again—I know this path,

this curve, this color.

No center, only pattern,

the bourn approached

but never reached.

If Platonic, I’d re-form

the beast, Cynic, manipulate. 

Stoic, I’d pay it no mind.

If there were a beast, 

something here not myself,

this endless ball of string.

 

 

words: Nesting

NESTING

 

wall

kindle

fragile

flight

 

This morning, something— a gesture?

a word? a scrap of dream?—kindled

a yen for flight beyond   

these walls of age and time 

and choices made. But I remain, 

grounded in every sense, rooted

in a garden of my own construction.

 

A robin is building her nest

outside the window of the room

where I write, shaping the sticks

and grass with her muddy breast.

In the budding lilac, her mate sings.

If fates and jays agree, nestlings shall fledge,

fragile as imagined wings.

April again: Line one, 2016

Rearranged, and the grammar changed to protect the guilty.

 

LINE ONE, 2016

I have forgotten how to sleep. 

I don’t do things I resist. 

I do not like beets or old goat cheese.

I know what is going on below the surface.

I think I’ll save the dollhouse that my parents made.

 

It was late winter.

We drove all afternoon and into the night

as if the only reality was the car—

He told me he’d killed the coiled dragon

here in this country called US.

So many trees across the path.

 

These levers, bellows—

Tonic. Sub-dominant. Every Good Boy. 

We preferred tunes in the Crixian mode.

 

Don’t think about walking down the stairs.

It’s bad enough falling, or being chased.

All the women in our family have affairs. 

 

If you’re wise,

forget the damned button—

it’s so small.

 

You know the watering can?

It reminded me of that morning. 

It’s best to pretend it never happened.

 

Thanks a bunch, Kari.  Just what I need —to focus. 

What, precisely, is the point?

Not so much the spot of blindness

I might have been. 

 

In the beginning, I thought I’d learn

the way they forget to.

Oh, my vice, my difficulty! 

 

Goldfinches edge the lawn.

Now, I am drawn to gray, November,

the gannets, 

cold chłodnik* green with dill. 

 

Sleep, little one, sleep.

When I was a child, I could fly.

   

*you say “whod-neek” 

words: untitled

cheer

fizzle

green 

seat

 

Rain, nearly snow, yet

the robin speaks of spring,

of blue eggs, of cheer.

 

Who am I, to let hope

and joy fizzle away?

The lilac is sprouting green,

 

the muskrat, seated

by her reedy lair,

is washing her face,

 

and in the gray dogwood,

the yellow-throat

has found a starting place.

COWBOY

This is an old one I just dug up.

COWBOY

 

Remember the Costa Rican cowboy?

He has returned, and was he always

a dream? He lay on the grass

and read poetry to children. He ate

caesar salad and believed in a god

who understood everything he felt.

Once upon a time, we talked

all night. He drank beer and I drank

sherry and smoked. He never smoked.

Did he kiss me by the water? Did I

marry him?And what if I didn’t?

I hear that he has learned

to play the mandolin.

ANOTHER WALK DOWN THE SAME ROAD

ANOTHER WALK DOWN THE SAME ROAD

 

I don’t understand “routine.”

Nothing bores.

Something crossed the road, here.

 

I don’t know what, yet. I don’t know when—

yesterday at sunset, or in the dark, or at dawn—

that’s what I’m trying to discover.

 

If you had the sense, I’d tell you.

If you would stop pulling and walk nicely,

you would not miss countless meadow voles,

 

chipmunks crouching in the roadside brushpiles,

the red squirrel peering from a hole in the dead pine,

the owl lumbering through the trees.

 

Stop. Sit. Wait.

Even now, in the woods 

at the edge of the long hay field, something stirs.

 

NAME THAT ROOT

NAME THAT ROOT

Knobby, greening,  hard white twists sprout in spring.

Planted, they draw stripy bugs who leave orange eggs

and thick red larvae that squash to a gooey mess.

 

Their poisonous leaves  draw spores of blights.

They soften, slime and perish.

So basic their absence can mean famine. 

 

Growing them is a chore, a back-breaker,

but in late summer, grabbling them 

with your grandchild means a feast.

SILENT

SILENT

. . . it is better to speak,

remembering

we were never meant to survive.

     ~Audre Lorde

 

And yet. . O yet, there are times,

this time, closed and tight together

or closed up tight alone

when it is better not to speak

to another, to ourselves,

of the distresses of mortality,

deprivation of company,

the small irritations undispelled.

 

Truth is speaking now—

her own voice 

pushing through cracks 

in the crumbling

towers and walls,

rising like magma

from the beaten ground,

spreading like water

and flame,

claiming her spaces

like returning birds.

 

For awhile now,

it is better

not to speak.

For awhile

to open

to her voice.

To be silent, 

if we would survive.

words: Work for the Day

favorite

billow

after 

container

 

 

WORK FOR THE DAY

Your assignment: design a container

for the sea. It must embrace each whale 

and fleck of plankton. Of course, you will think

of your favorite tropical fish, the rich

coral canyons, the deep kelp forests,

the sea otters and singing dolphins, but

you must must include the rest:

great white sharks and red tides,

the deadly stinging jellyfish. 

Your container must hold every calm

and billow, every island and basin

and estuary and brackish backwater.

Leave nothing out. The tsunami must be

there, and the pale blue impossible calms

after the storms have passed.

BIRTHDAY

BIRTHDAY

We’ll sing her the birthday song

we’ve done it three times now

for that girl named after my mother,

with my mother’s profile.

Her blue eyes that stayed that way.

Feisty from the beginning—

sure of herself, surefooted, sure

of her wants. Monsters beware!

Disguised as one of them, she conquers. 

From the tops of trees  and towers she reigns.

BADLANDS

Old prompts: “Imaginary landscape” and “grass”

BADLANDS

 

Gray hills like something

a child or an artist

dribbled on the gray plain.

 

Sunrise  dazzles.

Late summer sun crushes the air, the thin grass.

Sunset is unspeakable.

 

The moon is impossible.

I could watch the sky

for years.

 

 

 

PROVERBIAL

I’m reduced to looking up old prompts and combining them. This is the result of two: “make up the world,” and “new proverb.”

PROVERBIAL

 

In this world, nine stitches

hold Time together.

You’ll  need waxed thread,

a curved bookbinder’s needle.

When you have finished

sewing up Time’s spine,

all the eggs in your basket

will hatch at once. One swallow

will settle on your hand

to twitter up the summer

and two will call from a bush,

then lead you on.

Follow them to a meadow

where a red morning sky

is opening the roses. 

All the horses you have wished for

will thunder from the mountains. 

Choose one and look in its mouth,

but don’t believe a word.

words: Now

wring

blossom

restore

coat

 

NOW

 

Oh, stop wringing your hands.

There’s not a thing you can do

to restore what you foolishly thought

was normal. There is no such thing

and never was. You can’t bring back

a past that didn’t happen. 

All of it, all of it, every year of it,

every moment of it, is a construction 

of your wishes and beliefs, of your fears. 

 

Put on your coat. 

Go out into the world.

Listen to the song sparrows 

claiming their spaces. 

Look at the scilla blossoms

under the gingko tree— 

you say they are blue,

but who knows what they say 

about themselves?

words: POSTCARDS FROM THE ROAD

Wrote this one early on and forgot to post it.

 

flagrant

underneath

travel

lavender

 

POSTCARDS FROM THE ROAD

How travel assaults the senses!

Black pudding and grilled tomato

with a poached egg stealthily pocketed

for who in full jetlag could eat

such things so early, or at all?

And who would offend 

the dear old hosts of the Irish B & B?

 

Pushed underneath the lumpy bunk

in the smoky German hostel,

what might once have been

a chicken wing.

And who could forget

that rainful cycling trip through France,

the flagrant scent of lavender?

REHEARSAL

REHEARSAL

 

It was all rehearsal: ways to dampen

anxiety. Yoga, Qigong, prayer.

meditation. Long walks. Gardening. Art.

Old household skills: bread and soup and cookies

and soap. Getting along with others. I

recall how the Brits kept going during

the blitz, my aunts and uncles in Poland

after the war. You’ve had the dream, I think.

You’re in a play, about to go onstage,

but you don’t remember your lines or worse 

never learned them, or worst of all you’ve never

even seen this play, and the director says, 

“It’s theater, for Chrissake. Fake it. Make

something up! The curtain’s rising. You’re on.”

April Collage: Last line, 2015

The last lines from April poems in 2015, tweaked a bit:

 

LAST LINE, 2015

It never even entered my mind. 

Winter gone, and we are still alive,

hearing jackdaws in Ostrowy. 

You can’t miss them—

syrinx and larynx and lung.

 

My friends. And you, too. Definitely you.

One square inch, the world,

always knowing where you are.

Those goldfinches, newly gold, outside my window.

The music pours out.

 

Anyone who loves you will understand.

I’ve been killing for years.

The brown heat lingers

and the white cat won’t leave me alone.

I hold a pair of smooth gray stones.

 

Greek writers praised Donatis of Evorea who died in the 4th century,

a Thursday, at dawn, as oarless as his Nan. 

Always, we remembered his weeping.

He wore an extra-large, cold-weather hat.

He was a sacrifice; every tree paid in pain.

 

Our children are full of our songs,

bottles of water, cans of beans.

They lead me on

while my keys clack down and my strings resound.  

The blessed lick their fingers clean, and sigh.

 

Back when I thought 

I could do anything

the light congealed,

too steep to climb.

Rain.

words: NANA WASN’T A LADY

NANA WASN’T A LADY

I have lied about my Nana. 

She was not elegant. 

She was short and round and sweaty. 

In her old-time woolen bathing suit, 

twirling a red umbrella

as she danced down the beach,

embarrassing Mother. 

 

To guests, she served slabs of apfelkuchen 

with heavy mugs of strong coffee.

In spring, she made elderflower fritters.

When Mother was anemic,

Nana made her beef tea

and duck’s blood soup.

 

She snooped through the lives

of her younger sisters, 

telephoned them every day,

scolded them, loved them.

 

When she wanted to roast a goose

she went to the market

to buy a live one. She carried it

home in a basket. On the streetcar.

Mother wanted to be invisible.

 

Mother wanted to be a lady.

“She’s a real lady” was Mother’s highest praise.

It took me years to shed

the linen tablecloth and napkins,

the bone china teacups Mother

thought I should collect even though

I prefer coffee in a heavy mug.

April Collage: Line three, 2013

Not feeling very creative, so I went to old April poems and took the third line from a bunch of them and this happened:

 

LINE THREE, 2013

Coated with wax and buried, 

I have the power to heal others.

 

I’ve only just learned to be

driven to and fro by words and noise.

 

Don’t come lugging that bag. 

My mind is a jumper of passion and power—

 

not bad for a woman my age.

My hair, my fingertips

 

are ready with yellow flowers,

clouds in their colors:  yellow, purple, blue, gray.

 

I found another wad of wax under my armrest.

I contain you.

IN ISOLATION: AN INVOCATION TO THE OTHER ANTONY

IN ISOLATION: AN INVOCATION TO THE OTHER ANTONY

 

I am beginning to understand.

Alone among the tombs,

in the cave, in the fort, 

you had nowhere to hide.

Did every pebble in your path

become a boulder? Every

bitter herb a reproach?

Deprivation is the door

to the demons within.

 

We see our grandchildren

only on a screen. I have not

had coffee with my friends

for four weeks. I cannot go

to the studio to make things

no one needs. My husband

left the cellar light on. Again.

I want to read and the dog

wants to go out. I want

to go to bed and the cats

want to play.  We have 

run out of bananas.

Oh woe!  Oh woe!

 

Antony, remind me

that little devils are the hardest 

to catch. Teach me 

that this path is not untraveled.

Show me that even my darkest heart

is loved and forgiven.

Antony, pray for me.

GIVEN

 

The poem that I wrote this morning, for “poetry month” is pretty ghastly, even by my daily poem standards. So here’s one I wrote awhile ago.

 

GIVEN

God so loved the world that he gave. 

Please stop there. Don’t go on

about belief. Remember

 

what Jesus said before

conditions were applied.

A pearl. A treasure in a field. 

 

A banquet open to all who’d come.

The father who released it all—

Everything I have is yours.

 

The Samaritan gave. The fig tree didn’t.

Uncautious servants took a chance.

Take what is yours and go your way.

 

Give to Caesar his silver and gold.

Forgive us our debts as we forgive.

A dishonest steward did.

 

Some bridesmaids claimed

there was not enough. 

A lad assumed there was

 

and gave his lunch

for thousands to eat.

Twelve basketsful of crumbs.

 

A sower’s wild casting

made more and more.

And more: lilies and ravens.

 

And still: your cloak and coat.

Another cheek, another mile.

Blessed are you who are poor.

Words: April, First Peepers

blow

flip

scope

quicksilver

 

APRIL, FIRST PEEPERS

Just after dusk,

the moon was already high,

its quicksilver light

rippled in the brook

that flips along the edge 

of our scrubby woods.

I heard one peeper,

then another, and another, 

blow their wild love song

to Spring, to the world,

oblivious of the scope

of our human cares,

oblivious to everything

but their need to go on.

AND NOW, A LOOK AT THE WORD “NORMAL”

AND NOW, A LOOK AT THE WORD “NORMAL”

 

Routine, yes? Common.  Usual. Ordinary. 

No surprises, no unplanned happenings. 

Nothing up this sleeve. 

 

No secret compartments,

mysterious strangers,

unexpected doors behind bookcases.

 

No white rabbits with pocket watches.

No huts on chicken legs.

No novel viruses, homemade

 

masks, curbside shopping,

No fairy godmothers. No friendly giants.

No geese laying golden eggs.

PALM SUNDAY DREAM

PALM SUNDAY DREAM

 

It began with an egg I broke

for the baking. A half-formed

chick clung to the yoke.

It could not be alive,

but it was alive, and

 

the musician and the farmer

standing beside me

lifted it from the shell, 

and warmed it in their hands,

and told me what to do.

APRIL QUESTION

APRIL QUESTION

 

When birdsongs are slowed

they are not music but

 

imperatives, challenges, 

summonings, complaints.

 

If our whinings and shoutings

and ragings were slowed,

 

would we hear them,

I wonder, as song?

 

 

If you’re interested, here’s where the idea came from::  https://www.workplacegallery.co.uk/video/20/)

APRIL FANTASY

APRIL FANTASY

 

The sun used to shine early every morning.

At least, that’s how I remember it.

And the breezes were very gentle from the south.

 

I would stand on the front step and breathe

the air scented with white daffodils.

A bluebird would light on my shoulder

 

and whistle in my ear. I’d go inside

and make breakfast for the family

and we’d sit around the table

 

enjoying wild raspberries and cream

before we went out into the world.

I’d have another cup of fresh-brewed coffee

 

in the garden, and then the bluebird and I

would clean house with the other birds,

all of us singing all the while.

Words: Poetry Month, Second Day

 

bark

swim

respect

launder

 

 

POETRY MONTH, SECOND DAY

Bake the bread, brush the dog.

Feed the cats. Respect

the times. Comprehend

this chance to prove yourself.

Have you noticed 

that wet pine bark is purple? 

In the cold night rains,

the spotted salamanders rise up

from the muddy ground,

and slither to the pools 

where they’ll swim out 

their clouds of eggs.

It is Spring, despite everything.

Wash the walls. Rake the lawn.

Launder the sheets and

hang them to dry in the sun.

 

APRIL FOOL–and it’s Poetry Month, once more

APRIL FOOL

 

The trickster dances

through the opened fields,

scattering ticks. Maybe

 

later, snow. Lately,

they’ve been playing

with a germ, teaching

 

us that we need

soap and friends

and fewer things

 

than we thought.

That we can bake

and ponder. That

 

the world is very

small.

Words: The Erratic

tear

wind

stone 

stamp

 

The Erratic

Stamp the clay off your shoes!

Stand on the stone on the hill

where once the old pine stood.

This is holy ground, this boulder,

this plough-breaker. Remember

the ice that brought it here,

remember the long melt. You stand

on a rise at the bottom of the sea.

The clay on the bottom of your shoes

settled in those depths.

Remember the glacial wind.

Let the wind today purify

your winter skin. Let tears

open your eyes to the tears

in the ground. 

ODDNESS AGAIN

ODDNESS AGAIN  

  ~That Bluebird Fair is back

Oh, how the edges are odd! 

Bread from white flour,

coffee carefully measured.

Opera in the afternoons.

Friends on the screen.

Walking on the other side.

Stop, says the sage, and I stop

in the driveway when the dog

stops to pee. Before sunrise:

a robin is singing, a cardinal,

a dove. Look: the bare trees

against a gray sky. The house

with her red roof, smoke rising

from the chimney, a light

shining in the kitchen window.

 

(Brother David Steindl-Rast recommends practicing “Stop. Look. Go” as a way of remembering to be grateful.)

Words: Play of Passing Shadows

warp

sidewalk

twisted

cave

 

PLAY OF PASSING SHADOWS

Seventy years and more in this cave

learning to weave. Firelight flickers

shapes on the walls, twisted shadows

of things unimaginable passing

on the sidewalk wound around

out under the sun, or so I’ve heard.

What is the sun but a bigger fire?

All I know is here: shuttle, warp.

The threads are given, the pattern mine.

EXILE

This is the result of a writing exercise I’m doing with a couple of friends. Each of us offers a word, and then each of us makes a piece of writing using those words.  

WORDS:

latitude    embroidery     coil

EXILE

How, you ask me, do I live?

I have come so far, so very far

 

from the earths that shaped my bones,

the people who gave me blood and breath.

 

I make my choices, hold my connections.

I wash my long gray hair in rainwater

 

I catch in a bowl in my garden.

I dry my hair in the sunshine,

 

brushing it in the warmth

and light, the way Matka taught,

 

the way my sisters do

in my home place, in my latitude

 

of memory. I plait a four-strand braid,

coil it around my head. One by one,

 

in ritual, I lift the bone hairpins 

from the linen pouch Babcia gave me

 

as she gave to each granddaughter. 

I think of her, remember her

 

working the red embroidery,

the five-petaled flowers,the long-tailed birds.

REPORT: Let this be the Magic

REPORT

Let this be the Magic.

~Bluebird Fairy, February 21

 

This day, this cold winter morning,

this orange sunrise above snow

through bare-branched trees,

this cardinal singing despite

the evidence, this neighbor

leaving for her job in the hospital,

this neighbor driving off 

to build someone a house.

 

Let this be it:

coming in with the dog from the cold,

my warm kitchen,

the coffee ready and fragrant,

my blue cup, the brass lamp

on my desk, the collage

my grandson made, the pottery

fish I made to prove I can still

learn, the card from Sharon

acknowledging our mutual

crankiness. Do you

 

know anything better?

Is there a fairy godmother

or or genie in a jar

or angel or god who could

add anything to this?

MOTHERS, DESCENDING

MOTHERS, DESCENDING

~for my friends who have been here

Everyone has at least

one. As we get old, 

they vanish like dreams 

in the morning. They fall

back into the place of arising,

that holy or unholy womb

of world that held us all.

As they go, they show us.

They echo their beginnings.

Like the three-year old 

who awakens murmuring 

the sharkopuss is going down, down,

they fall asleep explaining how

we resemble their daughters.

Because, of course, perhaps

that’s who we are.

PRESENTATION

 

PRESENTATION

 

They killed the little doves

and poured their blood on the altar.

She’d taken the ritual bath

after her bleeding stopped,

but she was still sore.

Her breasts leaked

when the baby cried. 

The strange old man

came out of the shadows 

and put the seal on what

she already knew, 

what every mother knows:

This was only the beginning.

SWAN LAKE

SWAN LAKE

 

I was washing the supper dishes,

and on the radio came “Swan Lake.” 

Since I don’t dance, I conducted. 

As I waved my dishcloth in time,

it dawned on me like slow winter sunrise

that Pyotr was himself a swan

trapped by his times in the form 

of a bearded man. 

                                 If he lived today

he could dance in feathers and white satin, 

caught and steadied by a beautiful prince.

No sorcerer would do him harm.

He would be full of grace and celebration.

And at the end, he would ascend 

above the Lake, and shine. 

HUNTER

HUNTER

 

 

Life has given me a yellow dog

who noses the ground.

Shall we go hunting? I ask her, 

and she laughs.

 

She eagers her way down the drive,

shows me where deer trailed 

into the woods, where rabbits

skittered into brambles. 

 

She raises her head

to catch something in the air—

a whiff of owl? A drift of horse 

from the neighbor’s barn?

Fox, fisher, coyote, stray cat? 

There is so much out there

to track and find.

 

Hunter ascends at dawn, 

her crescent no longer

the crown of youth but

the mark of crone. 

 

She glows in the cold sky

above the house where

my husband still sleeps.

Her light is enough to see by,

and what shall I see?

There is so much out here

to track and find.

WHERE ARE THE OWLS?

WHERE ARE THE OWLS?

 

Last winter, they surrounded me, circled

my head, sat on the bedposts, 

 

nested in the mailbox, ate all the onions 

in my garden. They sang through my sleep,

 

their sweet trillings and warblings

coloring my dreams.  I wore their cast-off 

 

feathers in my hair, lined my boots

with their fur. Where are they now?

 

Did the angel who keeps the flower bed

decide I’d had them long enough?

 

Oh, send me an owl! 

Just one would do—

 

one dark-eyed barred owl

to sit in the ash tree across the way,

 

just one owl in the ash tree.

Please make everything all right again.

 

WINTER DEER

WINTER DEER

Through the trees they came

at twilight or at dawn,

bowing their graceful heads

beneath the snowy branches.

They left their heart-prints

along the drive awhile, 

crossed then into the pines.

Three doe with this spring’s young.

Every year I’ve seen them,

nine of them. The immortal

deer at the border of what

we think is ours, what has

always been theirs.

KINDERGARTEN CLAY

 

KINDERGARTEN CLAY

 

 

My clay things are childish, lumpy,

heavy-glazed. Jizus in ting chin

or whatever that brown glaze is,

with unglazed heads 

that don’t quite fit. A vase

dripping with blue globs.

 

I’m making crêche figures—

faceless fingerprinty Mary

and Joseph, a baby

the size of a kidney bean

who fits inside a tiny pod.

Animals from children’s dreams.

 

My favorite so far is a blue fish

with a red mouth and runny

eyes. It waits with baited

yellow tongue on my desk to remind

me that everything is process,

that perfection is overrated,

never attained.

 

 

TWILIGHT’S LAST GLEAMING

TWILIGHT’S LAST GLEAMING

Awoke this morning 

with the National Anthem

playing in my head.

I despised it in my youth

for its warlike passion, and 

I have changed my mind.

O say, can you see? 

 

I thought about my father,

battle-fatigued farmboy

who drank to forget how 

his B24 was shot down,

how his buddy blew up

beside him. How he 

always stood for the flag.

Does the Banner yet wave?

 

I thought of my Oma,

fifteen years old and alone,

wearing a red flannel petticoat 

her mama made to keep her warm,

how she saw Lady Liberty

standing in the harbor

in the dawn’s early light,

how she watched the Lady 

grow larger and larger, 

lifting her torch in welcome

to the home of the brave.