we’re not artists in all places, times. no one’s whole life rhymes. at moments we may draw, write, pray. at others, watch, love, raise children, join the fray of being. let’s love ourselves await the time when Spirit calls then pick up pen or violin and begin.
Category: POETRY
collected poems
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ARTISTS
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WILD HORSES
Las Vegas. How glorious!
It’s a hot diggity dog free-for-all.
No planning, no zoning –
dump it all out there
on dry-as-a-bone high desert,
a pawnshop, carwash
heaven.
Million dollar-gated communities rest flush against junked car yards with razor wire fences,
graffitied underpasses and washed out
arroyos with undocumented poverty up the
wazoo.
In the middle of which someone has dropped
a statue of liberty, a sphinx and a pyramid
stitched together by a roller coaster -
“Oh, say can you see!"
People flock here to drop millions.
“They’ve shipped the wild horses north.” The park ranger told me.
“They couldn’t survive here.”Photograph by James Brown.
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where the trout swim
Loving you prepared me for Walmart
where greeters are friendly but the merchandise
is made by strangers in dark, distant rooms.
Losing you prepared me for Reductions in Force
Being told “You’ve worked hard. This isn’t personal.
It’s about stock price.”
Watching you leave broke me like an egg
Nothing I knew was true – zip – zero – nada.
I must start again from the beginning.
Starting over prepared me for God,
who waited at the still bottom of a life
emptied of passion, distraction and theory.
Not the stand up sit down God of my childhood
But the God who put a rainbow over the barn
And showed me where the trout swim.
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GREY
Grey’s the hair color you can’t buy. I tried. I urged my hairdresser to change my entire head. “Not possible”, he said “although new grandmothers often ask.” It’s good perhaps some things remain beyond our grasp Time’s provenance to bestow If we’re so blessed. My grey hair like my mom’s lifts from my brow on just one side. I’ve left it pale since the February day she died.
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SHALIMAR
My mother's scent was hers alone familiar from the start just like my own. Shalimar and lipstick salt air and steam irons beige powder dusting her dressing table, scattered sweaters, a turquoise negligee. Once, invited to the Waldorf for a DuPont dinner, she spent a fortune on a formal dress. Arrived in lace and pick satin to face women clad in cocktail clothes. Edna, ever the Indiana girl. How many Manhattans did it take to kill those feelings? After her death, I asked Sister Jose Hobday “Will I ever smell that scent again - touch her soft white hair?” So much of me left with her I am my mother’s child. Peaceful in all worlds, Sister Hobday laid her hand on mine and smiled.
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MORNING PRAYER
Be with me, God As I am Merely mortal, graceless, small. Hold me, Lord In your hand Watch me as you watch o’er all.
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BOB’S ADVERB
Who named the adverb bastard child?
Is this because it fails to stand alone,
leans always on another
for meaning
so much like us
at our worst (and best)
we shun them?
In the time when fans spoke quietly
before the days of scream and riot,
we stood with Dylan after a concert
behind the Mosque in Newark.
We talked, shared wine, laughter.
He and Suze invited us to party in the city.
We declined, I had a curfew.
The next year in that same spot,
a mob ran past us. A fan returned
hand in air, shouting “I’ve got his hair!”
So ended gentleness. It’s clear why
Dylan sometimes plays -
his back to the audience.
Adverbs in my mind describe how
translucent Dylan’s skin
bright Suze’s smile
tiny their Volkswagen
high that fan held her cruel hand. -
CHORES
When the Winken Blinken days were gone,
defiance became my middle name.
Dad and I met only over floor tile and paint –
chores well done.We’d visit the lumber yard, select
pine to fashion Adirondack chairs
to grace the deck, unaffected
by wind and rain.Rising early, the bay quiet, we’d share coffee
from a pot that sat – stacked silver orbs –
on the counter – and discuss our day’s
plans, make notes.I’m an ecstatic sander – a lover of latex.
All my life – one gallon at a time
I paint my way back
to my father’s heart. -
FOXCROSS FARM
When I think of the farm,
it’s the stone bridge and country
road curving by the low barn.
It’s Tony’s tomatoes, white peacocks.When I think of the farm, I see pine
trees, green pastures, the
bramble roses by the creek
sheep standing in the field.When I think of the farm,
I watch women spinning wool
the whir of wheels descant to
soft voices and gentle laughter.When I think of the farm, I see
Airedales, Romney sheep,
a rabbit and Rhode Island Reds,
a well-fed Peaceable Kingdom.I do not think of the ground
we walked last night when
one of their flock went missing
fearing death had stalked a lamb.When I think of the farm,
I don’t see Anthony striding the fields
Julie peering into corner and cranny
in tense, sweaty anxiety.Death’s but a hair’s breadth
away each day. It makes
sweet our brief walk through time
I don’t think of that.
A WELL TRAVELED HEART 