It was the best of times, it was the worst of times ~ Dickens.
Dirk Bogarde, my favorite Sidney Carton,
said it with eyes shining in the dark
Words now reduced to threads
at the edge of a frayed cliche
If only words could
cure the world as easily
as pull the wool over our eyes
If widdershins could disperse oil spills
or brillig or gyre could hoist a lance
to run neatly through the heart of hate
That kind of thing
Words for the worst of times.
Audio: Read by the author.
Wordless notes at parting
that have always brought tears
Gathered by a seer whose side job
is dowsing a Scottish lament
A violin strung mourning aid
and quiet picked guitar
prompted shards of loss
to call me kin
Even with young children then
and a loving life all the dogs
still alive, the Celt in me
keened for another’s loss
Yesterday it barred the way
asking to be heard again
And not wanting a scolding
from my highland ghosts
I stood aside and cried
for that younger life
Of a hand laid soft on
his shoulder as I passed by
Or his kiss on my wrist
Not willing to waste
incidental moments
Grateful for those times
and the conjures of old
hands on strings
As the world mourns
and I reach for
the comfort of my dogs
Audio: Read by the author.
Remembrance waits in ambush
for that first sidelong glance at your face
Watching from the wall or pool of lamplight
at one end of our dark blue sofa
And you wake me in the empty black
even though I felt you as my mind dove deep to rest
Audio: Read by the author.
I swam once in the Thames
well away from London
almost to Oxford
a country river
the currents sluggish
the summer water warm
no eels in the mud
sun baked towels to dry off with
no whitecaps or jellyfish
no chance of sharks
everything green and civilized
Used to the toe deep cold
and hot sand
of our ocean beach
I missed the goose bumps
we wore home to lunch
Audio: Read by the author.
In summer when the moon was gone
we could walk the gravel road
down to the cottage in starlight
pupils cranked wide, sure footed
its dips and curves mapped
in our atlas of collective memory
Listening more than we spoke
to show late feeding rabbits
we meant no harm
Small pops of crunching shale
telltales of our soft passage
to great horned owls and foxes
All of us on high alert
for ambling skunks
hunting grubs in upturned moss
Not knowing then
those moonless descents
would be the safest dark
we would ever know
Audio: Read by the author.
At night the woods world
rises up in vast formation
as the dogs and I
walk among giants
in the cool cocoon
of my headlamp
They are eager
oblivious of our escorts
seeing with their noses
unaware that we are not alone
Sunless, the axis of this space
has tilted on its side
there are no open reaches
to the mountain base
well known trees or brook cuts
calling birds or fresh
snow yielding fox tracks
The quiet that blankets
sight and thought
is only in my head
this place is never voiceless
even in deep winter
I follow in the wake
of wagging tails
and steaming breath
breaking trail into the dark
___________________________________
Originally published in Dancer in the Mist, 2015
Revised 12/2020
Seven mornings in a row
the early eastern light
has snatched me away from sleep
filling my eyes with huge slashes
of sunrise, dark angry and pink
The first was on samhain, and
I could see the hand of Rage
reaching slyly toward the thinning
scrim of time’s divide
its camp follower Fire hoping
to slip through alongside
compressed to nothing
like the soft bones of mice
The whispers of my genes begged
shout No and cry many tears
They will thicken the dawn
refusing entry to this surfeit of evil
All you love depends on them
Audio: Read by the author.
It could have been
a silver mercury portrait,
but a horse appeared
displacing stiff poses,
mane flying, neck muscles
bunched in effort,
galloping through
a glimpse of the past.
Audio: Read by the author.
____________________________
A marvelous photo of a Morgan mare by the photographer Deborah Glessner brought up the last two lines of the poem.
Tomorrow it might have been fifty-two
not just thirteen years since our thirty-ninth
Aligned with family and gratitude
the day always reflected joy,
the heat of our love folded into stuffing
The missing of him has gotten harder
but it seems he knows. I came upon
the sound of his small gasp
that wrapped me up each time
in beauty gauze, when finally ready
I presented myself to his gaze
before our evenings out.
Deliciousness itself, just knowing
that he would when I did, and
that he always meant it.
And I can smile now, the memory
a pitch perfect gift.
.
.
Audio: Read by the author.
And she was still here
Sipping nectar for her trip
End of summer gift
Audio: Read by the author.
If mending is the only route
then hold it safe, to
dance its beat
against your palm.
To brace the fraying edge,
thread light with memories
and run their warmth
the whole way round.
Bottom up or top down,
the strongest strands of love
comprise the weft, running stitch
to running stitch.
Then left to right or right to left,
hope forms the warp
needled over, under
in between.
It will look different darned,
the rend lightly scabbed,
dozing as it heals, until the next
onslaught of love.
Audio: Read by the author.
____________________________
NaPoWriMo Day 1 (my view of time being elastic), the prompt was to provide instructions on how to do something.
The moon brought me a gift
last night, before the
solstice rain moved in.
I left the crispness
of my northern woods
to walk the dew off grass again
with you. It’s late, the
house lights dark, the night
all midsummer lushness,
bell buoys ringing softly.
We know the way by feel
across the lawns and
down the hill to home,
but can’t pass up the garden
with its flat topped walls.
We sit, shoulders touching,
stone still warm, and let our
breath find a rhythm together
after days apart. Then on
our way again, to soft
lamp light on varnished
wood, and pick up where
we were before the first
mosquito bit.
This morning I still feel
your hands, your skin on mine,
and smile.
Audio: Read by the author.
Life With Horace 