As words begin their dance
glancing out at spring
sitting down at last to write
confident of its receipt
asking for serenity
another day a perfect gift
reflecting and give thanks
I close my eyes to sip
hand cupping warmth
coffee and the ritual of smell
checking lilacs apple buds
birds scatter at the noise
opening the outer door
woods featureless and flat
moving softly hug the quiet
slightly damp delight
one slipper at a time
morning work for dogs
stretch sloughing sleep’s cement
a feather shawl to float away
night journey remnants linger
as clouds replace the sun
light diffuse and gray
dog nose to tail against my arm
first awareness as I wake
a dream departs
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Day 28. I loved writing this. The prompt was for an event or story in reverse.
For years every morning I drank
long drafts of the world,
without knowing
that words lay in wait
to flash like sunbeams
unable to dance quietly
until the moment of ambush.
For years I would tuck away
throat caught beauty
in dull green strong boxes,
to sit on bare wood shelves
until I could not wait
another moment of another minute
to feel and see again.
For years words found me,
some refused to leave,
sticky stubborn things,
and now, well now I recognize
them as old friends that held the dam,
until one day they stepped aside
to release the flood
as I surrendered.
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Day 25 part 2. The NaPoWriMo prompt was to borrow the first line of a favorite poem, and use it as a jumping off point for a new poem. I chose the first line of Mary OLiver’s Mornings at Blackwater.
Consider the lilies Kim,
in the garden behind the moon.
Enchanted place
of skylines and horizons
outside our house of light.
Drifts of common birds
skim the river flow,
returning north
from life in mexico.
Following the imprint maps
of Prester John perhaps.
Light dimming,
the day’s play over,
our precious fairy book in hand
we turn for home.
The song of hiawatha
echoing like fog
upon the land.
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day 10. a book spine poem, of twelve titles, with my own words the glue.
to sing with my friends
brings joy to those
who hear us
but shoulder to shoulder
we who give voice
have earned
the greater gift
we stand inside
the living body of music
connected by
sublime resonance
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Day 9. A shortling about the gift of singing in a group. Day 9. The words wanted my attention, but not for very long!
like clouds washing in
to butt against prevailing winds
close on the heels of rain
my path through time leaves more behind
than there are miles ahead
and I now gladly shed
the layered skins of reticence
once meekly worn, redundant chrysalides
freely spreading mind and heart
to net a cloud of lightning darters
filamented possibilities
imagining the shape and heft
of those not evidenced as yet
and make them real, ripe thoughts
such easy fruit within my reach
to smell and taste and feel
their juices staining lip and memory
the gift of years is freedom of the heart
to move the other way
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this evening, clouds coming from the east seemed to move contrary-wise on the heels of rain squalls, making me think of moving against the flow. A poem for day 7 of NaPoWriMo, and a present for my youngest sister, Julie, who understands the flow of life, and whose birthday it is both today and tomorrow, down under.
There is quiet now
where rich color
had been heard,
deep and sensuous
His turning notes
of fluted california
honky tonk remain
a potent legacy
Rest easy
we will hear
your echo.
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day 6 of NaPoWriMo. RIP Merle Haggard, who left us today. Singer, brilliant songwriter, early voice of Bakersfield.
Dear poet sir,
where to begin,
your words press tightly
side by side,
to pull me through
the shiny skin of thought,
a mirrored surface of
another’s world.
Words of early years
and soldiers gone to fight
a hellish, fruitless war.
Survival and regrowth,
sharp perceptions of
time’s road.
A place so different
from your youth
yet you can laugh, then
fete with knife edged pen
and dazzling words
the mix and contradictions
of accumulated life, that leave
my inward turning eye
and mind replete
at least for now.
Until another clutch
of welded thought
brings me full awake
and ravenous
for more
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NaPoWriMo day 3, in which the prompt was to write a poem as fan letter to a celebrity, unrestricted as to time and gender. Disliking the idea of kowtowing to mere celebrity (as opposed to creative talent), I chose to write to a (celebrated) poet whose work I admire.
I dream of deconstructing beaver weirs
layered dams of branch and mud
fiendish things set up by stealth
to drown my woods
and work to draw up plans,
a personal peninsular campaign
fought in the boots of wellington
besetting toothy bonapartes,
guerilla skirmishes to win release
of chokepoint water pools
allowed to stream again towards
the pond beyond its sapling fringe
growing up we know some barriers too,
thrown up to block our childhood path
casual injected freeze,
anti action dollops of impatient noise
thoughtless shards from adult tongues
that carry all the power
of their world, and leave us
with no voice to tell them no
unconscious joy leaching from
young porous souls, replaced by dust
to render us no longer fully vested
in our birthright gifts
oh we will feel creative pull
and try to move toward its warmth
each with our signature routine
to step around the wall,
with time and luck that sidestep waltz
will lose appeal, prompting us
to search out understanding,
mighty antidote to doubt
and let it heal our hearts
armored with new energy and joy
thoughts free to wander where they will
we ride the flow
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there is a vast difference between thoughtful words to guide and tossed off criticism. as adults we often forget the power of what we say to a child.
snowfall perfection
singular joins the many
floating from the sky
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saturdays mean one can exhale. today there are no chores or projects in an old house always in need. today will be spent with friends, mingling our joyous and foolish dogs, and gathering for a meal. there will be much laughter. the mind will stretch. a gift.
The Whites are singing the morning awake today, as the dogs get fed, as I make some tea and watch things busy up out the window over the kitchen sink. Today I am grateful, as always, to see another sunrise, listening to music, in a place that I love deeply. Writing is on my mind this morning, I have had little time or energy for it this week, and it feels luxurious to anticipate the smooth feel of my pen on paper.
Day by day the house is looking a little more Christmas-ish. Favorite memory rich things bringing light and color to December’s squeezing down days. I am riding a wave of work that began the day after Thanksgiving and won’t quit until just before Christmas. It leaves my thoughts dim and cloudy in transition each night, muffled by tiredness., unless there is music to open my heart’s inner ear and let feelings out to air.
Happily this time of year is rich that way. Wednesday night found me singing with the Fitzwilliam Occasional Singers, rehearsing for Sunday afternoon’s tree lighting on the Common. Roughly fifteen of us, friends and fellow singers, gather every year to do this, and my city emigre heart is glad to sing again in a small village, and be part of a gift to the children and families of Fitzwilliam.
It will be full dark as we walk over from the church, just before five. The village windows glowing with candle lights. The tree waiting, unlit. Bustle. Portable lights get turned on. People begin to arrive, drifting into the glow from the recesses of the Common. Children sit on the ground in front, a wide crescent of small bundled up figures and smiling faces. It will be cold (but not as cold as last year, when Deb’s accordion froze up and we had to sing a cappella).
And then we will begin. Walden reading A Visit From St. Nicholas (The Night Before Christmas), Bill leading us through the carols we rehearsed, accompanied by Deb on her accordion. Then a carol sing for everyone (first verses only, and lots of laughter for Rudolph). At last Santa will roll in on the Fitzwilliam Fire Truck to light the tree, and talk to the children.
After there will be hot cocoa (so good in the cold) and home made cookies, while folks visit, then slowly disperse as the evening’s trappings are loaded into cars and trucks, along with us. Dark and quiet will settle on the Common again, except for the tree, its shining presence standing sentry until the new year.
It turns out that I do have a muse. His name is Horace (Horrie) and he is my shadow, fetcher of slippers, foot warmer, and writing companion. A smart three year old black lab, he knows I am his work, is pretty sure that if I go out he should come along, and much of the time he does.
Life With Horace 