Journey through Darkness

 

Frame of Flesh

 

Frame of flesh

that seeks to bind

the wild stampeding

of my mind

 

I roar – you tremble

I stretch – you groan

your walls are of earth

my horns are of bone

 

yet feeble prison how you crush

the angry beast your walls confine

the more I beat your bars to rust

the more your fetters tighten, bind.

 

Depleted

 

I was riding as bravely

as a knight as the fair

charging the banners

of jousts to be won

 

but you blunted my lance

knocked down my shield

threw earth in my eyes

laughed as you said

“that’s enough riding so high.”

 

Motor Vehicle Accident

Killed instantly

I come back

some minutes later

missing a piece

 

that segment of memory

cut from my mind

fell into the abyss

between consciousness

and my surprised return

from the void

nothing remains

except an image

of two arcs

curving towards meeting

 

time is wrenched

out of joint

like the mismatched pieces

of bone

wandering beneath my skin

where blood and bone flowed continuous

 

now I move

as carefully as the elderly

my body has become baggage

 

in the art gallery

seeing red veins slash

across black paint

I see the abstraction

as my story.

 

 

Nightmare

 

Above the Place de la Concorde

a silver papercutter floats

and I am dragged up steps

that surely cannot end

in this hollow

my neck forced

below the blade

 

sudden dropping

the rushing edge

plunges me

into the basket for heads

 

I grope

to touch the metal bedpost

and fingers climbing from collarbone to ear

find my flesh stitchlessly resewn

 

but for an instant of dark

I was dead

 

I must get up

and climb into another life.

 

 

 

Adult Class in a Kindergarten Room

 

Color more vivid than my life

in children’s artwork on the walls

 

on a child’s painted sun

eager fingers grow

from an open yellow hand

 

on the blackboard

“See how well I color

I take my time and stay

within the lines”

 

long past the ability

to earn gold stars

I bump my knees

on the metal tray

of the small desk.

 

 

Lament of the Invisible

The elevator stops and opens
but no one moves aside
their eyes are focused elsewhere
ignore my wish to ride

when I go in, a woman speaks
complains but not to me
“How rude not to excuse oneself!
How selfish can one be?”

no one sees me waiting
when I want to cross the street
traffic roars across my path
they've someone else to meet

I dash across to blaring horns
cars swerving left and right
I wish they all would tell me
if they swerved for a visible sight

I know that I'm transparent
a drop in urban sprawl
umbrellas rise like barriers
On someone might I fall?

I'm not lost when all alone
in a forest among the trees
but in a crowd I feel compelled
to fight or try to please

I am the invisible, yearning
for a voice from the other end
“Come in, I've been waiting
to know you as a friend”

to be reflected in others' eyes
hold outstretched hand, be hugged or kissed
be welcomed in by words and smiles
and know that I exist!

 

 

Adirondack Hike

 

I have kept myself free

of romantic entanglements

since the last bruising encounter

so why did I agree to a hike

with this man?

 

he has dated women

from singles groups

whose idea of hiking

is strolling

hand in hand

in the park

when magnolias are in bloom

 

his test of whether I am

a rugged outdoors woman

does not faze me

 

accustomed to Rocky Mountains

and Himalayas

I know the wrong side of crevasses

and parched places

where the only water

is precious spoonfuls

from mud puddles

 

in the Adirondack wilderness

our feet post-hole in April snow

we sink to our knees

in crystalline mush

old snow

slippery mud

 

our steps up the mountain

slip back down

 

I do not want to climb

this mountain again.

 

Awake, Asleep

 

Awake, I plan the most efficient route

for errands, organize my calendar

prioritize my tasks, make daily lists

so tell me why I cannot

get my act together

when I sleep

but mire myself in troubles

in my dreams

 

wading across water

where waves hit high and strong

back and forth across the endless lake

I push the viscous water

never going anywhere

 

hiking in a forest

I throw away my possessions

to make my load less heavy

but when I go to find them

can't remember where to look

 

returning to the city

I seek a place to rent

descend a subway entrance

dark and narrow underground

where the signs are Greek to me.

 

 

The Condemned

 

I am dying as slowly

as the men on death’s row

I am my own jailer

I protect my own foe

 

my intelligence shackled

my will to live gone

am I truly depressed

or just a big con?

 

locked into the chamber

my poisonous room

with tortuous thoughts

mind’s voyage of doom

 

I yearn for reprieve as

bound into the chair

I tighten the knots on

the straps of despair

 

I pull down the lever

make cyanide drip

no one can prevent me

from taking this trip.

 

Structure for Grief

 

I kneel on the dirt

push myself under our car

 

its hulk above me

if moving

would kill me

 

I spread my arms

helpless

searching for

a structure for grief.

 

Unable

 

Unable to read other people’s poems

I can only write my own

 

unable to love those who love me

I can only envy a child in its father’s arms

 

nothing is wrong with my life

but desire is not sparked

by nothing wrong

 

nothing is wrong with my life

but sand slipping

through my fingers.

 

 

Delilah and the Anorexic

 

My mother brings me milkshakes

trying to lure me to eat

 

but I fear indulging

will cut off my Spartan stoicism

 

one taste of mother’s milk

I might never again

starve myself thin enough

become unable to squeeze

through narrow passages

my legs huge as barrels

my breasts

ripe as watermelons

 

as Samson lost his strength

I will lose my grip.

 

 

A Delicate Cruelty

 

Her actions have a delicate cruelty

retribution impervious to rebuke

she didn’t say that, mean that, do that

her knife in glove-clad hand

her pistol under folds of silk

out of sight but sensed

before the thrust

you can’t accuse the drifting cloud

that makes you cry

the knife slips in and twists

together we deny.

 

What my Friend “Shared” with me

“I can't talk now, I have to leave
let's talk by phone on Sunday eve”

I phone her then but hear her say
“I'll not stay on; What a day!
I just got in. What do you say
we meet for lunch tomorrow noon
talk with each other really soon?”

I hurry to the meeting place
wait and wait, don't see her face
oh, there she is, she wears a frown
“I had a thought on my way down
I didn't really want to meet
and talk of problems while we eat
you talk of colleagues and your job
your problems hit me like a glob
I know your life has lots of stress
but don't include me in the mess
especially while I chew and drink
I feel like I've become your shrink
You know I think of you and care
but that is what I had to share.”

 

A Riddle

What’s the difference

between her and a friend?

 

you call her and say

I had an awful day

she says

I had a great day

and tells you all about it

her words are acid

etching your soul

 

you call a friend and say the same

she understands why you can’t write

why words would dissolve your soul

her response strokes your heart

her words are balm

between your two souls.

 

My Lunch with a Bird

I take my brown bag lunch outside

sit on the concrete wall

I’d like to hide from everyone

but then I hear a call

 

“Let’s do lunch - the dove to me

flying from the nearby branch

you analyze why your life’s so bleak

I’ll gobble with my pointed peak”

seductive voice that’s more a coo -

“I have some thoughts to share with you

 

“you grieve that years are wasted

and you are growing old

this is the only year I’ve known

and now it’s getting cold

 

“you long to show your inner self

through poems or making art

I’ve got to watch lest local cats

stop the beating of my heart

 

“you’re frantic to find answers

(I see you turn away and sigh)

I only know I’ve got to eat

if I am going to fly

 

“you fear to trust those that you need

but still you crave their love

I’d love that crumb with poppy seed

it’s just the thing to please a dove

 

“I saw it fall from what you ate

so it’s below, your foot’s above

that morsel which I do await

like other crumbs that from you fell

but one thing more I have to tell

when you digest my thoughts on life

you’ll see there’s lunch amid the strife

 

“giving food for thought is this dove’s fate

and would you like another date?”

 

Autistic Child

A child screams anguish

and utter isolation

from the black pits of her eyes

 

her sobs and grimaces

beckon and repel us

though she cannot see our faces

through the swirling mists of chaos

 

her body flinches

from my arms

I hold the shuddering creature

and want to reach

across the gap

but even when she quiets

I am still fumbling in the dark

and my voice is bouncing back

from unseen walls.

 

 

Our Prophets

Our prophets are children

in the back seats of cars

with beer and joints

standing in school hallways

with their father’s guns

smiling and shooting.

.

 

Item in a Tabloid

The newspaper ink

blackens my hands

reporting a doctor

from the back of the police car

offering a check

“Is there any way

to make this not have happened?”

 

how to make the photograph

slipped into his briefcase

at the art gallery

not a theft?

 

a photograph

need not be developed

                        unless put into fixative

                        the image dissolves

 

but this event is printed

and public

the doctor cannot fix

his reputation.

 

 

In the Subway

The train stops

in the dark of the tunnel

only its nose in the light

of the subway station

 

the driver emerges

ignores a platform of passengers

runs for the phone

 

police materialize

uniformed and capped

run the length of the platform

start down the tunnel tracks

a stretcher held between them

 

other cops

herd everyone upstairs

 

outside

I lean against a wall

red lights rotate through the rain

a cop walks past with an empty shoe

 

two flights down

the public subway

is now a private place

a stranger’s life

dripping from a sieve.

 

An Early Morning during the War on Iraq

Through my window

half a moon is fading

in the pale sky

over the Taconic Mountains

traveling west

through the branches

 

I read of a soldier

with legs blown off

half a body left

to live his life

 

helicopters crash by accident

are blown to bits by “friendly fire”

those left behind ask

“Did they die in vain?”

 

my soul is sick

hearing the attack

called a “surgical strike”

a doctor’s first is “Do no harm”

when I last heard

a surgeon heals but does not strike

 

my anger is a wild

and desperate flowering

like fireweed flaring

from burned wood.

 

 

Seen on TV

The TV reports another hostage killed

the horror of the death today

of the man who yesterday pleaded

for his life

 

we make daily pilgrimages

to this wailing wall

it is a two dimensional window onto calamity

where cheetahs bring down the young gazelle

and lions eat lion cubs

where Islamic militants kill

not seeing the terror of the prey

any more than do our priests of war

crusading against Terrorism.

 

 

Ciphers for the Cause

 

The hostage stands inside a cage

before they burn his body

a message to the world

lives end, crusades endure

 

scores of captives cry

“don’t let us die out here!”

but sabers strike

more mighty than the pen

telling the world

heads cut from bodies

are mere ciphers in the cause

small cubes of lead typeset by Death

 

before a chance to answer

the poet’s question*

“What will you do

With your one wild and precious life?”

 

*(Mary Oliver’s)

 

Evil Urges

His face looks

not so different from mine

adolescent who first felt

the urge to harm a treasured child

 

my jealous demons pushed

but I pushed back

and did not do the harm

 

the demons deflated

like plastic Santas, air let out

but lurk

misshapen mounds on fertile ground

and wait the restoration of their power

 

I hold them back

until they lose their shape and power

but stare amazed

how thin the line

once crossed

becomes a chasm

no return

no tears

no penance can restore

the world one had before, now lost.

 

 

At the Halloween Parade

You stroke the side of my face

woman with an emasculated torso

strapped to your chest

 

Amazon

bearing your trophy

a relic

with limbs cut off

you send me a message

 

not knowing your language

I flinch

 

you turn away

and the question is forever unanswered

did I fail the test

or escape?

 

 

Halloween

Carrying

under a mask

my hidden darkness

I forget

that this night

is one of flickering spirits

that venture out

behind demonic

plastic masks

but not completely hiding

thatches of tousled hair

and childish hands

that open shyly

their treasure sacks

to my equally fragile

offer of candy

 

so many apparitions

their strange masks

like the grinning pumpkin face

in the window

disguising and revealing

emerge from underground

and cut lighted shapes

out of the night.

 

Seagulls follow the Lobster Boat

Seagulls follow the lobster boat

screaming for pieces of flesh

 

men haul up metal lobster traps

tourists buy the wooden ones

for their lawns

 

the newspaper photograph

of the killer as a boy

his slender neck so vulnerable

his young eyes so innocent

are irreconcilable

with his nonchalance

about collateral damage

so like our murderous indifference

while children die of hunger

and species disappear

from the earth

 

a thousand shades of green

a thousand shapes of rock and sand

give beauty

though seagulls soar and scream

and wars continue to crash

on the shores of our lives.

 

Great Spirit

 

Our world is the wind of your voice

the storm of your breath

blue sky of your vision

purple mountains of your bones

 

green trees are your hair

bare hills stripped for firewood

are your sunburned skin

 

your eyes look out

from cat and startled bird

 

our guns and bombs

echo your thunder

our missiles

connect life and death

 

we pile logs on lumber trucks

un-pile mountains to reap treasure

rain destruction that ends cities

but cannot revive a slain child

 

we are Delilah

cutting your hair

the source of your power

 

you suffer like Samson.

 

 

Distant Upended Feet

 

My distant

upended feet

are perpendicular

to the ground

where step by step

I drag

then lay myself

overweary

on the earth

 

the back of my skull

tells me

I must crane myself up

a long haul

to answer ringing obligations

 

in my mind

I set myself again and again

upright on those feet

but still I lie

held by the network

of branches overhead

 

they will bud into leaves

travel from green to autumn

fall to the ground

cover

and take me

into the earth.

 

 

Born to Stand Guard in Museums

 

I was born to stand guard in museums

with my back to the wall in a n entrance

to guard the strength of rusting swords

and the wisdom in helmets long vacated

I tell you unused spoons do not hunger

nor silver tarnish under locks

but no one stops to listen

new strange cries of Cuckoo

when I bruise my hands

to hold the pendulum still

 

sidestepping my books and my bayonets

piercing my uniform with eyes of disdain

they climb to see out the window

and draw their own pictures

in the dust of my pain.

 

 

Rapunzel

 

Rapunzel in my castle

guerrilla in my cell

anorexic, suicidal

in public, private hell

 

captive of Witch and Queen

I am an orchid bloom

denied the chance to touch the earth

my epiphytic doom

 

Dean and DeLuca’s rich desserts

my lover buys - I cannot eat

I throw myself at empty eyes

and at the Queen’s  impassive feet

 

I slash my fondled body

I hurl myself downstairs

I am adored but flee the scene

when someone turns and cares

 

on the stage of others’ longings

my actress plays her part

I auctioned off my freedom

before I knew my heart.

 

 

An Anorexic Explains

 

Everything is eaten twice

once by others’ mouths

before my emaciated eyes

collect the white cascades

from their ice cream cones

yet hating their tongues

curling through my eyeballs

 

stopping before the mirror

to put ice water

on sun-burned flesh

I tell my eyes to stop

burning out their sockets

hungry holes

to a consuming fire

barely confined

by bones and skin

 

I don’t want peace

prefer the world

crashing down around me

 

a day that could have been quiet

I throw myself at empty eyes

have to find all doors closed

rebound off a brick wall inside myself

before I will go home.

 

Whirling Dervish (After Reading Sylvia Plath)

 

I try to come down and land

but something keeps circling

flashing warnings

 

some small creature is screaming

I am holding it in my hand

trying to extend my fingers infinitely

trying not to be

the only one in the universe

 

locked shut by day

nightly I swim out

in my iridescent skin

dark-finned

secret

 

as the lowered jaws

of the monster

suck me in

I am another

who is inhabited by a cry

 

in the bitter hollow

of an empty night

I see myself

close the closet door

and lock within

an empty body

to be found

sometime

when I am gone

 

returning in the pale dawn

I must have many lives

and another one is slain.

 

 

To a Therapist

As slippery as a fish

I land on your plate

you recognize the species

though I provide the hook

 

I am dinner and

an addition to your aquarium

a salt water creature

in a brackish pond

my gills clogged with silt

my flesh poisoned with mercury

 

you show me glimpses

of a vaster ocean

I want to play dolphin

in the bow wave of your boat

 

I want to smash the walls

between us

I want to be the fish that breaks free

the shark that devours your blood.

 

Psychiatrist's Recipe

To make a depressed neurotic stew
you're a chef of the Cordon Bleu

an insistent claim that depression will fade
and months of pills make a fine marinade
pour in some insights and add some advice
leave it to jell while I try to act nice
hoping to please you with offerings of rhyme
while paying per minute for patties of time

chop me and toss me around in your wok
for 45 minutes a stir-fry of talk
you draw out my feelings, I fear you will scoff
(your gas burner ranges from high heat to off)
you praise the humor in poems that I write
a thin coat of icing on my rawness and blight

drop me in oil and starting to beat
you are the cook and I am raw meat
grill me by smoking over the flame
my angst and turmoil and feelings of shame

thrashing and casting for someone to blame
my demons are raging as you call them by name

when “ding” goes your timer
I'm shown to the door
my outside is blackened
my insides need more

for I bring my guts
and you bring your knife
for you it's a living
for me it's my life.

 

A Hand Opens

I am trying to stand

in a new place

to unclench my fists

into an open gesture

 

you see where I am

and speak to me

 

my gesture closes

into a knot

 

a fist forms again

in the old place.

 

 

Returning to Group Therapy

In Japanese lore

the 47 samurai

loyal to their lord

hid their intentions

to kill the one

who caused their leader’s death

 

I am the 48th samurai

I drink your advice like sake

 

your hands cover mine

on the sword

 

but alone in the skirmish

my sword

knocked from my bruised fingers

is turned against me

 

I drag my bloody and disgraced body

from the slaughter

 

when I return

and sit cross-legged on your cushions

I thrust a needle into the sewing

that I brought to occupy my hands

concealing invisible weapons

within my well-guarded castle.

 

The Good Therapist

I want her to tell me

where to put my mind

my desires

 

she does not

 

she explains and does not explain

 

she refuses to jump line

tells me to answer

the knocking at my own door

 

she sees the figures in my drawings

both coming and going

twisting this way and that

 

she stands behind me

hands on my shoulders

helping me face

what I cannot

 

she catches my wrists

as I sink under the water

 

understands my climbing

to high balconies

my urge  to final descents

 

she tells me

that my pain is

 

she walks me to the door, says

there is a wonderful sunset

over the water

you can see it

from the end of the street

 

there is!

 

 

You dim the Lamp

 

You dim the lamp

and in its gentle shadow

words venture cautious

and then creep closer

 

you strike a light

the cigarette

taps off its ashes softly

not to interrupt

what I am saying

to the red glow

held

in the fingers

of your hand.

 

 

One Star in the Night

Scanning the unpeopled sky

night-clouded

I am felled to the earth

by a sudden shaking

that knocks the cover from the telescope

I didn’t know was lidded

 

now I look

through the opened telescope

inexpertly held

upside down

watching a distant star

a pinprick of light

 

but for me

it is an incredible discovery

there is any light at all.

 

 

Temporary Spring

When April peels heavy clothes

from others’ backs

and I see bike wheels

laughing in the sun

why am I dragging

beside this turmoiled river

flooded with discontent

from a winter of introspection?

 

You listen and say

“something may come of this”

 

after we talk

I go outside

and see emerging crocus

vivid colors

in the still withered grass

 

in sudden kinship

with them

I lie down on the cool earth

and bring my eyes to the level

of their green leaves

and purple petals

 

a bee

crawls out of an opening flower

flies away

and I look into the inner chamber’s

radiating lines of ivory

 

it will not last

but in this temporary spring

I buzz with bouquets of words

to bring to you.

 

 

Taking my Poems to my Therapist

I fear she will think

“Like a cat

bringing a dead bird

to lay on the back porch

my client brings a poem each week

 

by herself is not enough”

 

this is my answer

to myself and to the scorn I imagine

“Beyond posturing

beyond neurotic elaboration of pain

my poems are made

like steps in snow

going somewhere

 

“and despite my fear

and self-protecting disparagement

the making

and the showing

has become more crucial

than the intangible

potential of perfection.”

 

 

Your Therapist Climbs up on the Shelf

Your therapist climbs up on the shelf

as you go out the door

ensconced with books of Freud and Jung

she lives with psychiatric lore

 

she spends her days in armchairs

doling wisdom pearl by pearl

she’s always Mother, Goddess, Queen

you’re the teenage girl

 

between the armchair, door and shelf

no further does she roam

it can’t be she who washes sheets

or gives a cat a home

 

she doesn’t fear, deny or flee

(can't be the species that you are)

she’s solved the riddle of life’s goal

and lives inside a jar

 

that she should doubt or need or cry

doesn’t fit the mold

nor that someone comforts her

and takes her hand to hold.

 

 

Art Therapy

 

Kneeling childlike on the floor

stabbing with my paintbrush

I splatter pigment

making a dry page wet

 

my storm

flung on an empty page

black as my despair

gray as my grief

red as my rage

gives color to a spectrum

I never saw

shape to a loss

I never mourned

 

rivers of color

cascade down the canvas

and drip on my knees

jumping up to escape them

I know there are worse things

than many-colored skin.

 

 

Fragility of a Whirling Dervish

 

How fragile the necks of new-hatched robins

how distressed the parent bird

when I approach too close

how glorious the wind

breathing into blue sky

the air that lifts the robins’ wings

 

how fragile the lungs

of a newborn infant

struggling for breath

as nurses rush him away

how anguished

his mother’s cry

as he is airlifted

to distant healing

how glorious the gift of life

breathed into a tiny body

 

how fragile

the whirling dervish of my sanity

trying to flee the pain

how passionate the chords

on the church organ

how glorious their power

slowing my wild gyrations

breathing into my agitation

the Spirit that neutralizes my fear.

 

 

Questions

 

Where is my soul when I fall into sleep?

Where is my heart when I forget that I care?

Why is the forest more serene than the pavement?

Is its color the same for me as for you?

What was my name before I existed?

Where was my story before it was told?

Why do I seek what I never have had?

Why do I yearn for what I never have known?

 

 

On Good Friday

 

Walking home from church

I pick up a pencil that only needs sharpening

a bottle to turn in for the deposit

a crocus broken off by squirrels

 

I think of the Russian orphan

who never had anything of her own

and picked up bottle caps, ticket stubs

to have something that was hers

 

every night as she slept

adopting parents emptied the little knapsack

they had brought from America

 

I have collected

term papers from college

letters from decades ago

clothes from my youth

but carry the pencil

bottle and broken blossom

towards my home

layering still more

on my naked vulnerability

as if my thin-clad body cannot withstand

the winds of aging

and my inevitable mortality

 

those winds

of aging and illness

that forced my friend

to give away her cats

her beloved home in the forest

her ability to help others

 

the German martyr Bonhoeffer

gave up safety in America

his pacifism

 

and on this day

the social revolutionary Jesus

gave up his cloak

his life

 

but I dream of travel

trying to return home

tangled in the dilemma

too much to pack

everything too difficult to give up.

 

 

Musak Life

 

Everything was huge

when I was a child

 

when my parents made me clean the cat’s litter box

or sort through rotten carrots in the cellar

I was Cinderella

abused by a wicked stepmother

 

traveling with Grandma

she let me eat pie for breakfast

a glorious feast

 

everything mattered so much

in my teens

my adolescent worship

and longing

 

casting my lost soul abroad

I climbed into tree branches over surf

swam at night in phosphorescent seas

drank champagne, watching sunsets

on the sacred mountain

 

returning, I did not become

a Nobel scientist

Pulitzer author

doctor saving lives

or war correspondent

but keep an agenda book

of weeks slipping by

lists of tasks

and meetings

saying “That worked out well”

as if life were a project to manage

but fearing I will slip

into an old age

of muted colors

and muzak

 

no Gibson guitars

trumpets

clashing cymbals

keeping myself from the delirium of rage

the intensity of grief

the giddiness of joy.

 

Pillars of the Church

 

When I was a child

“Pillars of the Church”

formidable adults

towered over me

in their gray suits

Sunday dresses

and veiled hats

or looked down from the chancel

like a blue-robed army of righteousness

singing all the correct notes

 

now on Sunday

I see a choir member

use sheet music

to fan air

up the sleeves of her gown

as Mrs Emmett did

50 years ago

 

on weekdays

we adults come for Bible Study

and stay

to scrub the kitchen floor

on our knees

 

we sit on little chairs

the kids use on Sunday

to polish silverware

 

in the ladies room

one of us

crawls underneath the door

when the stall needs unlocking

from the inside

 

for Halloween

she’s a witch

with cobwebs and rubber rat

in her hair

 

I wonder whether

the adult dressed in bed sheets

for the Christmas pageant

the one lying on the floor

looking for someone’s lost earring

and me sliding down the water slide

with the kids

at the church picnic

are formidable

to the slender boy serving as acolyte

and the little girl carrying the offering basket.

 

 

The Offering

 

At the back of the church

offering plate in my hands

beside me other deacons

in front two children

carrying Sunday school offerings

 

as we wait for organ music

before carrying the offering forward

an ant runs zigzag

in front of the children’s feet

 

the solemnity of the occasion

speaks against my kneeling

to rescue this tiny

scurrying being

its vibrant life suspended

before we march

 

but impulsively

I kneel and scoop

with a check from the offering plate

 

the creature runs from rescue

legs flailing off the folded paper

the other deacons chuckle quietly

but the 4-year old now sees the ant

I watch his giant sandal rise.

 

 

God is my mother

God is my mother

I have everything I need

 

she calls me

by my full name

 

she follows

stops me from eating dirt

before I know better

and after I learn

but still do what harms me

 

she comforts me

when I fall

 

she recognizes me

through my angst

 

gives me comfort

when I deprive myself

 

she takes me by the hand

to reconcile with those I fought

 

she continues sending messages

even after I run away

 

I return

and lay my head

in her lap

 

I am made in her image

my children are hers

and her children are mine.

 

Chevron

God

is glory

rays of sunset

tell of beyond earth

our eyes reach for light

skies are our yearning

before the night

and stars

emerge.

 

 

 

In a Room at the Veterans’ Home

 

In a photograph on the wall

he is a tall and robust skier

modeling for an ad

 

in another photograph

a beautiful woman

his wife when young

 

the beautiful wife

I knew only with wrinkled face

her arms leathery sticks

her smoke-rasped voice

saying “I mustn’t talk”

but talking on

an outpouring of pain

unmitigated by senility

 

all that is left from a house

full of a lifetime’s accumulation

are the contents

of a single room

 

his failing legs

mind falling into confusion

could he shrink into the single cell

he started from?

 

what will I become

when it is my time to let go?

 

 

Visiting an Old Woman in the Nursing Home

 

She has no interest in eating

breakfast now cold

on the tray bridging her chest

 

she is my grandma

I did not visit as she declined

excused by parents who wanted me

to remember “the way she used to be”

 

she is my daughter

I brush her hair

glitter her fingernails with polish

 

I would shelter her fragility

with my robust body

for she is my sister

we are just

at different places

on the ribbon of time.

 

 

On the Death of a 90-year-old

 

Those who knew the boy

of eight or nine decades ago

are all gone

 

few remember the man

who grabbed a pitchfork

and jumped between his son

and the angry bull

 

but even in his eighties

he had a boy’s round face

and mischievious laugh

 

like a child

he loved his pets passionately

rescued and treasured cats

neither young nor beautiful

cats abandoned to the feral life

that ends with coyote or starvation

 

by day, he stroked their fur

by night, he warmed them

with electric light bulbs

suspended over their beds

 

like a child

he knew his grandchildrens’ delight

riding the go-cart

that he brought to life

with one of his motors

 

he treasured those old motors

old cars

and the family homestead

 

a half century of marriage was sewn together

by many threads

cups of tea

rooms of antiques

and coins he collected

in old prescription bottles

 

in the garden he grew red poppies

that forever flutter in our memories

 

he knew pain

was never more thoughtful of me

than when hot oil splattered my hands

raising a field of blisters

 

near the end

he would not lie down to rest

without hearing his son’s voice

 

and in his mind

his daughter became the eternal “Mommy”

mother and mate in one

 

though we lay him

father

grandfather

great-grandfather

neighbor

friend

into the embracing arms of Mother Earth

he remains woven into this place

and his memory a thread in our lives.

 

 

A Toy Kitten

 

My friend Pat in the nursing home

asks me to buy a stuffed animal

a kitten

for a resident

who is blind and almost deaf

who sits with arms

folded across her chest

retreating into isolation

 

“close your eyes”

Pat tells me

“and choose the kitten by feel”

 

in the store,

like an analytical Goldilocks

I experiment with stuffed cats

the first is too hard

the next so floppy soft

even its whiskers are limp

but the gray kitten is just right

silky fur, bristly whiskers

 

Pat takes the kitten

down the hall

“Emily,” she calls in

“I told you I’d come back

and bring you something”

 

sightless blue eyes search for our voices

Pat’s hands giving the kitten

intertwine with Emily’s gnarled fingers

stroking the fur

 

a gentle smile

emerges on her face

slowly she lifts the kitten

to her breast

knowing it is a toy

but letting it enter

and be welcome.

 

 

In my Life more Deaths than Births

 

 

I stop to see my friend, now in hospice

so recently in Rehab, but that reprieve revoked

 

“Could you come back?” the nurse requests

“But, not much later; there’s not much time”

 

on my way home

I stop to buy a card

angry that I anticipate her death

provoked to shame by cheap condolence

yet end up buying more than one.

 

 

Lenten Procession

 

At dawn

down the center of the street

purple-robed priests

walk on carefully constructed

holy carpets

made of flower petals

yellow

red

green

blue

 

down the center of the streets

the shuffling steps

obliterate the portraits

of saints and martyrs.

 

 

Maundy Thursday Footwashing

 

Out of all the congregation

only six of us are here

all women

 

we peel off shoes and stockings

and our feet rest

in a circle

below our chairs

 

each woman reveals

intimate details

feet pedicured with pink

or silver nail polish

other feet are unadorned

or embossed with purple veins

 

as Jesus washed his disciples’ feet

each of us kneels in turn

and holds another’s foot over the basin

pours water from the pitcher

and dries the foot tenderly

with a soft towel

 

our feet are

not dusty from the desert

not harsh from sandals

but clean even before washing

 

more naked and miraculous

than on summer beaches

they are eloquent

in the chapel’s dusk.

 

 

Hale Bopp Comet

 

Each night

when the comet is briefly

close enough to earth

to be seen

my friends and I

caught between astronomy and mystery

watch the comet

because it is new to us

and fleeting

 

in a few weeks

it will be gone

to return only

when we are gone

and the earth

unrecognizable

beyond the furthest grasp

of our imagination

 

astronomers measure

and analyze

as the comet

makes an incandescent plunge

towards earth

shining by light

reflected from the sun

 

two thousand years ago

astrologers followed

a star in the east

that may have been a comet

a sign leading them to Jesus’ birth

and returning each Christmas

in our imaginations

a repeating blaze

across the ages

 

on this visit close to earth

Hale Bopp was a sign to some

of “Rapture”

the “catching away into the air”

of the true believer

forever fulfilling Christ's promise

about the End of Time

 

they wrapped themselves in shrouds

and ended their lives

sure they would take wing

but instead

they hurtled into death’s dark eternity

their fanaticism

had Jesus’ passion

but none of Easter’s light.

 

 

“Never put a period where God has placed a comma” -                                                                                                                              Gracie Allen

 

Cinderella and the king’s first son

lived happily ever after. All said and done?

 

after the honeymoon, realities taint

a marriage where neither is a saint

Prince starts to gripe and Cindy is mad

(no Happily-every-after on earth to be had)

 

Prince wants to divorce and Cindy is freaking

but listen! God is still speaking -

“Fairytales they are reading

my words they aren’t heeding

 

to continue life’s unfolding

is what they are needing

 

periods end ‘glass-slipper’ tales

but life’s tumult never fails

to add a coda to what you write

joy or sorrow ... dim or bright

the end of God’s sentence

is never in sight

 

a period is round - there’s no way out

a comma’s a comet that leaves room for doubt

so, be wise, leave a comma

allowing for change

as bride becomes Momma

and Frog becomes Prince and Dad over time

for fairytales end -- they all stop on a dime

the Eternal Now is much more sublime

 

infinite commas

made into a crown

encompass this day

the next and on down

 

after a period, the unbridgeable rift

 

a comma lets you keep giving the gift

of living now but leaving room

for what may come, not saying ‘Doom’

is certain, for as Ye live

I am the One to take, to give

to save by miracle, to forgive

 

and you the one with open hand

whose task it is to understand

the comma is God’s grammar

your period is but a stammer

 

look up beyond your certitude

and watch the sunrise, hope-imbued

 

the Divine, beyond punctuation, see

and hear who is still speaking... ME!”

 

Where I was

11/22/1963

My friend goes home from school for lunch

comes back with news

“the president’s  been shot”

I laugh, but it is not a joke

“Say something, teacher, help us through”

but that is not is the schedule

9/11/2001

My husband starts to drive away

but stops the car, comes back with news

“A plane has hit a building

(maybe Middle East?)”

no time to check it out - I rush

to meetings where I lead a prayer

including pleading for our enemies

before our structured world gives way

before I know who are our foes

 

at noon, I learn how colleagues doomed

hold hands and leap from blazing towers

I flee to swim, the uncrowded pool

a refuge from the unflinching eye

of news - of bodies

falling forever in our minds.

12/14/12

Standing in our kitchen

with tears for kids your grandson’s age

you tell the news; it strikes us dumb

for each one slain was someone’s child.

 

 

Correspondence with the Dead

In his mailbox

solicitations mound up

 

“Time sensitive - Open now!”

 

“Emergency - immediate reply requested”

 

“Free gift inside!”

 

slashing envelopes, I release the white sheets

 

“Dear Friend,

 

we recently shared with you

exciting news

When we didn’t hear back

we wanted to check

that you didn’t miss out”

 

“we will be telephoning”

 

“it is time

to schedule your appointment

if you no longer need it

or are being seen elsewhere

please call and notify us”

 

“now’s the time

to make a difference

with Your Body

Body Shop Gym can help”

 

“our records indicate

that you have not yet sent

your financial support

your help is needed today

your contribution

at this time

may save us the cost

of a phone call”

 

“your pre-approved card is enclosed

the card  for all your needs.”

 

 

 

The Search for Every Quarter

Stored for a decade after his death
under the workbench in the cellar
plastic pill bottles
are heavy with coins

searching for one quarter
from every state
he examined each coin
selected the newest
for the display
a map of the nation
with empty slots
for each state's coin

the extras he entombed in plastic
hoarding the treasure
until, in hospice
he no longer cared about it

I use tweezers to extract the coins    
jammed too tight to shake out
and roll them in paper
40 per roll
18 rolls
so many bouquets for his wife
never bought

death gave no quarter
nor could he take any
where he was going

I carry the bag

heavy with coins
exchange it at the bank
for paper money
walk away lighter

will I spend on myself
or others?
or hoard until I no longer care
and someone else transforms the money
into a new state of being?

 

 

Tag sale

They spread pieces of their family history

on the front lawn

 

sitting on a chair

marked “Not for sale”

a woman in kerchief and curlers

points to what is

 

toys outgrown

clothes cast-off

photographs buckling in their frames

with the children of decades ago

objects exposed

in the hiatus between owners.

 

 

Wineglasses from a Tag Sale

 

After a summer of collecting

from tag sales

I have more wineglasses

than I can use

 

lip prints and fingerprints

have all been washed off

the transparent glasses are clean

glistening

empty as amnesiacs

waiting to be filled

 

living among taciturn vestiges

of other people’s lives

I ignore the cascades of liquid

that have flowed over their rims

ignore the ghostly lip prints

and finger prints

under my own

 

I fill my wineglass

with Beaujolais Nouveau

as if it was a lover

whose past is beyond me

 

I have no plans for a tag sale

when I no longer want my wineglasses

I plan to hurl my wineglasses

and break every one.

 

 

Welcome

 

So welcome at our window

the new snow falling, the cardinal

so red against the pristine snow

never hiding his color

 

and welcome babies newly born,

their unknown lives so newly kindled

 

not feeling welcome in my youth

wrong gender, too intense

I hid my flame

until refined by years’ experience

and kind forgiveness

 

now burning a softer light

I give

for all life’s blessings

robust thanks

and receive

the long-awaited

“You’re welcome.”

 

 

At the Poetry Reading

 

He goes before the audience

in his old shirt

carries a suitcase with bulging pockets

full of his books for sale

 

takes off his title of Professor

when he takes off his tie

 

reads a poem about

someone in an audience

 

I compose a reply

translating his poem

into mine.

 

 

After attending a poetry reading by Billy Collins

 

These people paid to hear him read

now a hundred stand in line

and wait for him, their books in hand

for him to sign

the line’s not moving when I pass

the poet not yet here

I imagine sitting down to sign their books

but would  I sign his name or mine?

 

The Poet

 

I never hear the word “escape”

without some thought of Emily

who did not flee from home’s four walls

or confines of spinsterhood

but breaking free of usual shape

and rhyme and  subjects  others used

she so appareled her escape

with images she refused to soften

but left their mouths agape

 

her pen, unfurling poems that look

like rain and dew and roots that cling

lifting beyond decorum’s book

as ladybirds unfold their wings

her soul had moments of escape.

 

Blues Band

 

Bright lights on gold guitar and saxophone

colored shadows on silver cymbals

motion blur on red drums

sequins and sweat on black muscles

make music for our African souls

 

the musician

dances high-booted

above the crowd’s applause

their disjointed heads frenzied

in a soundwave trance

 

Cry our stories, man

and make each solitary pain

an ecstasy of tribal blues!

 

 

Music Festival

 

Like moths to the flame

to this hillside we came

gathered in throngs

kept here by songs

 

we lie on Mother Earth to hear

music’s heartbeat draw us near

 

soaring on kite and songster’s word

bright-colored pterodactyl, moth and bird

 

the evening sky’s exploded curls

azure clouds are shattered pearls

 

vast sanctuary of air and sky

we sing, we yearn, we praise, we cry

 

music lifts our souls to open praise

how different from our usual days.

 

 

Community Contra Dance

 

I walk all alone

through day after day

searching for healing

at work and at play

 

always surprised

when the band starts its song

how daffodils bloom

where all was so wrong

 

how the first do-si-do

washes out pain

like a morning in springtime

a shower of rain

 

what is it in dancing

that helps me let  go

to swirl in the currents

to move with the flow?

 

when I dance with a partner

who adds twirls to a swing

our bodies converse

our creation takes wing

the eyes of a stranger

reflect my delight

enclose my aloneness

put stars in my night

 

I guide a new dancer

I flirt with a friend

I laugh at my mis-steps

celebrate winter's end

 

when I dance in a circle

I feel balanced, not odd

I share my aliveness

with other fragments of God.

I Know

 

I know when I was 6

and traveling with my father

(one of the few times

we did something together

just he and I)

he introduced me to a marvelous game

my mission to alert him

to zeros appearing on the odometer

so that he could “shut” his eyes

and avoid seeing the dangerous zeros

 

when a zero disappeared

I could tell him

“you can look now”

 

in the mountains

not far from where the Frank slide

obliterated a small town

he alerted me one morning

that the three 9s

were about to change to four zeros

 

having watched for that imminent event

anticipating the blissful moment of warning him

“Daddy, the zeros are coming!”

I said  “I know!”

in emphatic agreement

 

I know that he replied,

“It’s not polite to say ‘I know’

you should just say ‘Yes’ in affirmation”

 

I know that half a century later

I am most circumspect concerning

with which exclamations

I express agreement

 

I know my friends

with children and grandchildren themselves

but unencumbered with that admonition

blithely say “I know!”

several times a day

I know I envy them.

 

Childhood Home

 

I ride my bike

as when a child

to see our former home

barren now of family life

transformed from house to inn

its mountain ash tree gone

its lawn replaced with mulch

 

 I ride the lane around the back

but house so changed

I pass it by

 

turning back to look for it

I climb the fence

to seek the berry patch

thorns tear my skin

as I steal berries

bittersweet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Moons in Memory

Still glows so full the moon in memory

from decades past when I, the seeker, gazed

in Himalayan mountains night by night

 

and brightly beams that moonlit memory

on board an ocean liner with my mother

watching the full moon gleaming on the waves

 

this night once more the moon is splendid

full and golden,  climbing skyward into night

another layer lacquered

on my memory of moons.

 

The Cat’s Christmas

 

After my family

arrives to spend Christmas

the cat pees on the rug

hides behind curtains

strikes my passing leg

 

I sponge the rug

hold the smelly cloth

ready to retaliate

but relent

drape the rag

to dry on a pipe

leave the curtain in place

and the cat’s food close by

exchanging my dominance

for a taste of the cat’s fear

 

on Christmas morning

only a silent ripple

behind the curtain

I fill the cat’s bowl

feel a shadow at my feet

the cat curving around

my legs

 

slowly I lower the bowl

watch the cat

dare to eat.

 

 

Day Moon

 

The night moon is Cynthia

golden and sailing across the sky

lighting clouds into the shimmering fabric

of evening gowns

 

the day moon is my mother

her slender crescent

is the color of sky

 

a faint curvature of light

circles her shadowed side

her path

travels through the branches of trees

 

pale in the winter sky

delicate against the clouds

she reflects the light of the sun

and I

her daughter

reach toward her.

 

 

My Mother's Jewelry Box

 

My mother gives me two half coins

she says were cleaved so long ago

her father wore his

through the war to end all wars

his bride-to-be kept hers at home

they vowed to join their hearts to whole

 

but one is bronze, the other silver

and never were the same

no more that he the artist, she the saint

he loved science, she loved song

the chain of marriage was their link

 

when she was barely two

my mother picked a coin from campfire coals

her father soldered it to make a brooch

she gives me now

 

with a locket bearing the image

of a high-school boyfriend killed in war

whose name my brother bears

 

my mother kept these

with my father's Christopher

the saint of those who travel

like my dad

who sailed across the ocean

brought the saint to Mom

and knew his voyage done

 

these treasures fit the hollow of my hand

yet dwarf the jewelry box I fill with bling.

 

 

My Mother's Life in her Address Book

 

Old roommates' names writ large
in her flowing youthful script

crossed out addresses

new ones written in
as friends married

moved away

her husband's family added

in-laws, nieces, nephews

 

her own chicks fledging

flying on to adulthood

addresses

writ over those of long gone friends

in smaller shaky script.

 

 

Testing my Mother's Pacemaker

 

Electronic equipment from the clinic

lets us test at home

an old and failing heart

avoiding a trip to the doctor

 

I take the metal donut in my hand

and seek below her blouse

the round plateau beneath the skin

my mother's monitor

guarding her heart

 

her skin like paper, so fragile thin

eyes dart with life I know will leave

though cannot know how soon

we share a laugh, a memory

I see her old, more frail than her mother

my grannie, ever was for me

 

I hold her bony body

and wrap my arms around

as she held me so long ago

I see a future with her gone

but then our never knowing comes to mind

I could be gone before.

 

Adirondack Pilgrimage

 

Morning stillness lures me

to kayak down the lake

through early mist

 

a tail wind speeds me to the east

to blunt-nosed cliffs

where ancient glaciers cut the straits

whose narrow passage draws me in

to forest depths of moss and bark

to berries bright with autumn's hue

 

my kayak glides through water lilies

the Buddha's flower grown from muck

sunlight mirrored on their pads

 

island stumps

with fairy woods of tiny plants

lushly thrive

ignoring the  limits

of their Lilliputian world

 

I leave the bay

turn back for home

fighting the wind

and waves that spray cold water in my face

and fling a dash of fear

upon my soul

 

I welcome struggle on my way

from holy place to everyday.

 

Sleeping Child

 

Sent to wake the child

I bend over her sleeping body

and my hand reaches out

to touch her shoulder

 

but she shakes it off

and turns away

into the dark

 

so young a child

already holds power

to keep me out

unless I break down doors

as zealous lovers

knocking at the doors

of my own sleep

have broken in wildly

to pull me out.

 

 

At a Wedding

 

The first couple

to arrive at the reception

we sit outside in your truck

which smells of our hiking boots

and wet kayak gear

never completely dried

like we’ve been together

and never married

 

on our scratched dashboard

the embossed card

says the celebration starts at 7

with cocktails

dinner

and dancing

 

so why did you bring up

that maybe we should get married

start us talking about it again

and then say maybe we shouldn’t?

 

outside someone else’s marriage

we sit in your truck arguing

plunged into intimate conflict

 

we feel the orange alert

know the heavy artillery is sliding into place

treading with trepidation

aware how easy to start firing

hoping neither of us escalates

declaring a truce

to go to the banquet

 

low lights

and plastic candelabra

disguise the styrofoam hall

and artificial bower

the fluttering flame above the bar

is a cloth blown by a fan

muzak slithers over our disharmony

 

the bride’s roses

and equally red lilies

cascade

like the jeweled train

of her gown

 

glowing

bare-shouldered

hair swept up

she has attended to every detail

 

the men are tuxedoed

the women’s gowns

like elongated swim suits

make them elegant mermaids

but my bleak-tinted glasses

look through to the morning after

men unshaven

women without make-up

 

as soon as drinks are available

I order one

remembering how a woman

at another wedding

got drunk

BLOTTO

and had to be carried out.

 

 

Dancing with the Handsome Husband

 

Many women line up to adore him

ask him for a dance

while his wife sits out

or dances with another woman

 

when he asks me to dance

we circle

not yet touching

until he leans his forehead on mine

sweat on sweat

whispers

“remember how as kids

you wondered how to kiss

noses get in the way”

 

with other men

I am an egg, a larva, a pupa

with him I am a butterfly

antennae aquiver

but not alighting

 

his wife and I

take hands to circle, pass back to back

she is my sister, closer bond than eros

I want to tell her my desire

is not to seduce her man

but only to entice

my longings to emerge.

 

Bridge

 

After the game of bridge

your friends put on their coats

to leave

and I go too

into a separate night

before I realize

how much I want to stay

curl my body around yours

closer than when

our passion made us strangers

 

I want to reach

across the distance

as East-West partners

we bid cautiously

as if your limbs

were never entwined

with mine.

 

 

For Arms that Reach Forever

 

The way you sit

your legs drawn up

flares my anger

 

I want to yank

you off your throne

put my fist through

the chair’s stuffing

your choosing not to see

 

I want to put my head down

to hold your tan-clad knees

 

you touch my hand

raising from the floor

my face within

your arms around

my great desire

to be held

in arms that reach forever

reaching me out

from my depths

directly to your eyes

open sky.

 

 

 

The Japanese Bowl

 

I finally unwrap your gift

from across the ocean

 

a Japanese bowl

lacquered

multilayered

intricate

 

the accompanying card tells me

you have one just like it

 

I see us as two beautiful bowls

on opposite sides

of an ocean

 

I regret leaving my bowl

too long encased in its wrapping

 

eating off old china

from other people’s cellars.

 

 

Nail Polish

 

I want to make it last

the color you paint on my nails

bending over my feet

as we sit on the floor

leaning

towards together.

 

 

Lights and Shadow

 

The trail of a jet

so close a line

beside the full moon

that we stop

to watch them cross

unsure

which of the two is moving

 

when we walk

the branches of trees

pass across both

our shadows

cross and uncross

under the streetlamps.

 

 

Glitter Glue

 

“Renaissance” is the theme

of an evening cabaret

at the art museum

 

dressed in a long velvet skirt

brocade jacket

and my hair piled high

I drink mead from a goblet

and mingle with princes

abbots and courtesans

 

beyond the bar and dance floor

I join court ladies

decorating cardboard crowns

with glitter glue and plastic jewels

 

prudent damsels

lay their completed crowns

atop the bookcase to dry

but I staple mine into a circle

and set it on my hair

dancing until midnight

when our carriages return home

and turn back into pumpkins

 

when I remove my crown

it is again cardboard

only a scattering of glitter remains

on the pale surface

 

my hands search

and find a circlet of drying glue

encircling my head

 

I shampoo, rinse

and in the hot wind of the dryer

clouds of glitter

cascade from my hair

tiny stars

night’s cloud of magic.

 

 

Fireworks

 

Lying on hillside grass

while adults photograph themselves

with smart phones

trying to be

here

now

doing nothing but watching children run

 

trying to be an empty vessel

for the sunset’s changing fire

as sky mutates and darkness falls

 

watching the fireworks

comets of cascading colors

so brief each skyburst flower

 

trying not to miss the fleeting moment

not to seek permanence

in digital diminution

not looking at my own

rectangle of  virtual reality.

 

 

Volcano

We climb the slopes

amongst a group of vigorous youth

subtly competing

to pass each other

 

a sweaty struggle

to the ridge

where everyone stops

where the earth drops away

to rivers of volcanic ash

halted in time

 

across the chasm

a black cone erupts

cinders and smoke

 

climbing another slope

we go higher

into dusk

then darkness

that transforms the cone’s eruptions

into incandescent fountains

 

with the full and constant moon

at our backs

we raise our faces

to the unpredictable

geysers of molten lava

 

our homage

is the clicking of cameras

held steady on harsh edges

of solidified lava

and the flickering

of electronic flashes

miniscule as fireflies

vanishing into the vastness

 

the group starts to descend

I long to stay

on the highest ridge

alone with the night and volcano

 

on the way down

I look back and see

someone silhouetted

against the fiery spray

like my shadow self made visible

transformed by incandescence

into a shape of clarity

my dream

of erupting with spectacular brilliance

 

let not unpredictable outbursts

from my dark interior

cascade hot lava

between me and others

leaving  only barren ash at my feet

 

gravity pulls us

by giant

granular steps

sliding noisily through dry lava

crumbled skree

down to the soft forest

 

we become a snaking line of flashlights

a shuffling of footsteps

rustling of branches brushed by arms

a murmur of mundane talk

 

I give up the vision of unstable brilliance

to walk side by side with you

sharing the light of a single flashlight.

 

 

Mermaid (for my husband)

 

My father

bathing my infant self

asked “How do you pick it up

It has no handle”

 

I grew into a mermaid

without handles

men who approach

create their own legends

while I hover

trying on fairytale attire

so many gowns of seaweed

 

one sees a water nymph

wants to photograph me

in a waterfall

sooner or later

I slip away into ocean

 

this night you hold me

like a daughter

as I weep

that my father could not

 

you see

the almost invisible scars

 

if you do not make your own myth

for me to wear

you will see me as I am.

 

Heart Surgery

Before heart surgery they explain

“we put your body and your mind to sleep”

 

no anesthetic

for my stunned refusal to believe

this morning they stop your heart

and send your blood outside yourself

while scalpel through your sternum

exposes you to doctors' skill

 

though hospital staff offer help

writing down directions

I feel abruptly transformed to simple-minded

wife of loved one

asking stupid questions

not knowing where I am

and which white corridor I need

I can't remember where to go

and how to navigate

your balancing on the edge.

 

Starlight on our Hands (from an evening at Falconridge Folk Music Festival)

We lie on the hillside

our backs to the ground

music surrounds us

people lie all around

 

you are awake but

your sister and brother

are asleep in the arms

of your father and mother

 

the stage in the distance

radiates sound

we’re lost in the crowd

but everyone’s found

 

in the daytime a kite

as our banner we flew

in night time our necklaces

glow purple and blue

 

above us the black night

with sparkling of stars

white light of Venus

red light of Mars

 

I’m your grandfather’s wife

fairy godmother friend

we’re family with everyone

from now to the end

 

from flat on our backs

just two grains of sand

we lift up our arms

and open each hand

 

silhouettes on black velvet

our fingers are lit

by white outlined gloves

that miraculously fit

 

we hold the whole world

all people, all lands

all daytime, all night time

all music, all bands

 

stars held in our hands

light up the Divine

I am in your heart

and you are in mine.

 

Grandson Leaping off the Pier

 

His lovely face, pubescent boy

now grown from youngster into youth

his head of curls a treasure thick

with years to live, he runs ahead

and leaps towards the bouncing float

no backward glance, his body flies

henceforth he's airborne in my mind

and over waters I won't know.

 

Family

I am on a lifetime voyage

to a land I thought I knew

the family that once held me

the childhood where I grew

 

exploring as  an adult

those who knew me small and weak

our strivings aren’t so different

the treasures that we seek

 

my father was a prairie boy

burned by drought, he sought the sea

his brains, his scorn, his humor

are in my siblings and in me

 

my mother was the universe

the strength where we drew near

the beacon in the darkness

“what would Mom do here?”

 

we are dolphins in the sea

riding bow waves of our past

our family is an oceanscape

patterns changing yet they last

 

we’re on a stage where each one plays

an artist or a clown

we play with words like jugglers

take “up” and make it “down”

 

my nephew says “I know you”

adding “auntie” to my name

he builds a world of plasticine

tells me secrets of his game

 

his sisters are my girlish self

and he’s my younger brother

their souls so fresh upon the earth

they are both mine and other

 

my brothers’ wives are from afar

and speak a different tongue

but in our bond as sisters

a harmony is sung

 

I see my father as a boy

my nephew as a man

my mother as a sister

the power of our clan

 

I see the web amongst us

yet I see myself as free

I see my life as richer

with love surrounding me.