A WELL TRAVELED HEART

Category: POETRY

collected poems

  • DUSTING

    DUSTING

    It’s us we dust
    not some distant rabbit fluff or forgotten flake of stranger.
    Our very mitochondria’s cast off about the sofa, table, chair
    our entire lair’s alive with microscopic leavings.
    It’s our breadcrumb trail back to time remembered or forgot.
    Small bits of days from childhood – nights of
    watching tiny satellites pass overhead-
    the miracle of travel where once only stars and comets
    flew – who knew the things to follow – cell phones, laptops
    GPS – we know more now by knowing less
    but break still in the old, weak spots.

    Cells too remain from proms missed and attended
    dried orchids hung on curtains
    hearts broken and by time mended.
    Teenage love songs, Buddy Holly, Elvis
    George and Ringo, John and Paul –
    the words, key changes, new hair styles
    we loved them all.

    Flecks too remain from tying sneakers for my son
    and knitting Kate a turquoise sweater,
    praying daily for my marriage to get better.
    Those small children now have babies of their own
    and I’m a grandmom with grey hair, cell phone, creped skin.
    The scales of aging waltz without and within
    toward a place past time and dust.

    Published in Evening Street Review, Autumn 2012.

  • STILL

    STILL

    STILL

    Five a.m.
    The old house is still
    but for the hum of the interstate.
    My ancient Scottie drowses on the bed.
    The puppy rests on pillows at its head.
    Elsa sleeps, blanket in hand,
    upstairs in her four poster.
    Her parents down the hall sleep on foam.
    The Airedale and poodle, little dog and big
    rest at their feet.

    My coffee cup warms my palms.
    The grandfather clock’s about to chime.
    Today has yet to be.
    Its promises unmet – dreams undreamed.
    The quiet exhalation of trees
    makes sweet the air
    before the day begins to breathe.

  • KNOWING THE LIGHT

    KNOWING THE LIGHT

    The way the light falls into my bathroom
    each morning in summer
    is known to me
    deeply
    like my name.
    I know it better than how to
    grow old
    retire or
    navigate social security.
    Its soft presence
    from the east, gently,
    predictably
    lifts me into the day.
    It’s only absent in storm
    but then still present in a
    diffuse way.
    Light, more faith than fifty creeds,
    daily holds me
    in its glow.
    Moving is not just a
    new baker, grocer, dry cleaner,
    a change in the way home,
    new paths
    to reach old friends,
    it’s a shift in how
    the world looks when I wake
    as I splash
    water on my face,
    how I see myself
    as I prepare
    to meet the world.
    It’s a change in all I know.
    The way the light falls into my bathroom
    each morning in summer
    is known to me
    deeply
    like my name.

     

     

    Published in Evening Street Review, Autumn 2012.

    Image ID: 19334240
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  • LONG LAUGHTER

    No laughter resonates
    like that of women beyond
    need of make-up and reach of girdles.
    Ladies for whom wrinkles rank in importance
    well below the dog’s recovery from Lyme disease
    and driving the neighbor to dialysis.
    No humor is quite so funny as old friends’ jibes
    about each other’s foibles and failings
    or jests about sex more remembered than practiced.
    The stories sweeten with each repeat.
    No place is safer
    than one warmed
    by the laughter
    of friends.

  • SPELLING LESSONS

    SPELLING LESSONS

    Father would quiz me at the dinner table
    on my academic failings.
    “What’s the capital of Wisconsin?” he’d inquire as I mixed peas into my mashed potatoes.
    “Where’s Patagonia?” he’d demand as I twirled spaghetti onto my fork.
    “Spell squirrel.” he’d order as I lifted a forkful of pot roast to my lips.
    My mind would freeze – my brain become empty as a clear frozen lake
    and the scared rabbit of my heart would skitter across the ice seeking shelter.
    Finally I ‘d pull from somewhere
    “S-Q-U-I-R-R-E-L”
    and the meal would resume its course.
    To this day, I prefer to eat alone and
    direct questions hit me like the Artic Express,
    blasting away all thought.
    People think I’m arrogant or not-too-bright.
    They can’t see that small rabbit
    skating frantically for the far shore.

  • PASSAGES

    PASSAGES

    Midnight wings unfurl
    into updrafts of spirit.

    Does seed fear the ground?
    Waves the sea?

    A dog barks in a mountain village
    as color falls from treasured face.

    What’s the weight of a breath?
    The heft of a sigh?

    A husk drops to the ground to
    rattle and roll down the hedgerow.

    In their earthen den, two cubs root
    for a nipple as the sow awaits spring.

  • PEDICURE

    PEDICURE

    Morning in the nail shop,
    two Vietnamese women and I
    hear a man’s voice drawl

    “I want a pedicure, that’s all.”

    Men don’t enter here, this world
    of polish, lotion – free of fear.
    Perhaps we misheard – he repeats it slow

    “A pedicure, please, nothing more.”

    We avoid each other’s eyes
    as he climbs the chair
    to perch above the foot bath
    a green beret on his unkempt hair.

    Is it memory or mercy this veteran seeks or
    simply gentle hands on tired feet?

     

    Published on http://www.vietnamwarpoetry.com/cpcynthiamsheward.html

    Image – Old Shoes  © Zimogljad | Dreamstime.com\

  • SHEPHERDESS

    SHEPHERDESS

    She fell like seed
    on good ground
    giving herself as final
    gift to land she’d
    walked and worked
    for years.
    Leaving stories,
    laughter, tears,
    memories of
    forthright speech
    the love of liberty –
    her fierce, unyielding heart,
    flying free.

     

                                       In memory of Anne Priest 1927 – 2010.

  • WARRIOR

    WARRIOR

    Without leathers, he’s but a man
    Irish face, tan, thick waist.
    But garbed in medals, head-rag, boots,
    he’s Genghis, Grant, Hannibal –
    thunder rolling on a Harley.

    Still a warrior 40 years on
    jungles long gone – no Cong to fight,
    he defends in statehouse, hospital, VA
    his band – most dead by 64 –
    and others from more recent wars.

    Cigars like old rags stain his hands.
    He smells of man: smoke, sweat and musk
    sleeps poorly, dreams of violence each dusk.
    The price of war’s eternal vigilance
    perpetual keeping score.

    published on http://www.vietnamwarpoetry.com/cpcynthiamsheward.html

  • HARD GRACE

    HARD GRACE

    Hair like liquid onyx falls past her face
    while she works over the fingers of her customers.
    Her skill is hypnotic to watch as
    deftly she forms each perfect nail
    then paints it like fine china
    only swiftly. This is commerce, not art.
    Day in, day out, she breathes dusty air through a white mask,
    accompanied by the drone of her Dremel file
    and saves money to return home.
    Her sleep’s still broken by nightmares.
    Her entire family died in the war. Of this she never speaks.
    When she speaks of home, it is only of its beauty and of old friends.
    A dog-eared tome of Thich Nhat Hanh rests by her chair.
    She works hard: plans, saves, yearns.
    Her daughter, born American, has no desire to live in the “old country”.
    She has her own dreams: college, a young man, children – her dreams
    hold no room for quaint villages, palm trees and unexploded ordnance.
    Soon she’ll be pregnant.

    What profession will Iraqi women adopt when they arrive here?
    What tools will refugees from the Hanging Gardens of Babylon use
    To wrest grace from the jaws of “Shock and Awe”?

     

    Published in Friends Journal February 2011

    Photo Credit
    Contract Between Two Trees
    Tay Ninh Viet Nam © Truong Hoang Huy Ngan Ngan Truong
    Dreamstime.com