I saw a death’s head in the clouds
with gaping maw and vacant eyes
this morning as I walked my dog.
I gave up portends long ago
letting drink and daydreams go
to choose instead right here, right now.
But these clouds gave me pause.
Helene passed us headed north
slammed towns and hollows in the hills
displaced the gentle mountain folk.
A hundred people lost their lives
in flooding never seen before
the land I thought I knew so well
became a soaked and battered shell.
This earth no longer seems benign
when storm and fire and flood abound.
Volcanos spew and earthquakes shake
we stand no more on solid ground.
With plastic waste from shore to shore
man’s greed continues wanting more.
Despite earth’s message loud and clear
that she no longer wants us here.
Tag: POETRY
-
PORTEND
-
ON HER SIXTEENTH BIRTHDAY
My sweet girl.
I have watched you grow
blossom, sometimes struggle.
Who would wish adolescence
on anyone they love?
Like childbirth to life,
these years a
necessary albeit
challenging passage
into adulthood.
I remember Buddha you
straight from the womb.
Unafraid of toads you
In your Alexandria backyard.
Baking bagels you in my
Clinton kitchen.
Knitting you trying when
I visited to master the craft.
Teenage you behind your
bedroom door.
I wish you passion
for something to focus
your mind.
Mentors to speak
to as you grow.
Books to warm
and comfort you.
And the sure knowledge
of how much you are
loved.
-
GIFTS
My aunt gave me the sea in a book big as me. Curled in a chair, I wandered tidal pools despite the Christmas chill held hermit crabs and starfish inhaled salt air. I walked that book’s pages with childlike devotion an eight-year-old explorer baby beach comber. Robert Frost’s snow drifted into my 4th grade class and I listen for his horse’s bells as I practiced writing and first used an ink pen. Line by cursive line his poetry became mine along with the smell of ink, the feel of good paper, the love of pens. I began my own poems in solitude, sweet solitude…
-
ARTISTS
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.
-
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. -
CIGARETTES
Thirty years but
if one’s lit nearby
the scent draws me
like a child to brownies.Worse to quit
than bread or chocolate
beer on a hot day
wine as I cook.They told me “Place old butts
in a jar, take a deep whiff
if you weaken” – that jar
smelled of every man I’ve loved.Two things carried me
my son and desire
for the freedom to
not need anything.Still, if someone
snuffs a candle
or strikes a match
just so… -
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
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
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
Copyright Christophe.rolland1 | Dreamstime.com
http://www.dreamstime.com/christophe.rolland1_info -
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.
A WELL TRAVELED HEART 