cloud blanket from the mountain top
reaches all the way down to me
gentle gray in ebbing light
enwraps the shoulders of my soul
the night and what awaits
are gone and I am hid
a shiver in response
at best cloud rain is gentle
settling on the skin
its spider weight unfelt until too late
deed done a feather light ganache of truth
glistens over every inch
just as tight shut childish eyes
imagine invisibility
this passage through no more than respite
as I emerge so does the world
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driving home last night after a day’s most welcome rain, at the last steep open hill, most of the mountain was hidden by clouds and mist, reaching low, a thrilling sight.
there is movement
in the daily flow of green
to full on spring
as bud fists loosen grips
or fern nubs thrust up clumpy heads
and hillsides morph to verdigris
reminding me of childhood nights
spent time-stretched
jumping tick to tock
wrapped in wild impatient
longing for the morning
and its gifts to come
in truth the journey
through that wait
or days lived blossomless
are weighted to the same degree
because this moment’s beauty is
the only certainty we have
_______________________________
a shortling for 5/5. spring has been excruciatingly slow this year for us. yet even as we creep along, just knowing the apple tree will blossom, or the lilacs bloom, is such a gift.
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.
my woods are hung
with lamp lit moonlight
shallow beaver wash
turned into opal pools
picked out by
beams that launched
diffused through
vapor rings we know
are ice but touch
us softly
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Day 22. We have just had a full moon, fitting for the week of Earth Day.
It all depends, the farmer said,
on how high the fence and wide the gap
How tall is just enough to push thoughts out
or hold emotions in, and had I thought of life
enriched by feelings? Is the gap a full on
crop of breaks, or something less
some oddly chronic stuttered disconnect
Fluorescence hindered by its oozing ballast
Can we glue chain split apart, or pickets
freed by loose, bent nails?
It all depends, the farmer said, on how we view
the things that we might do for love.
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Day 20. The prompt from NaPoWriMo Day 19. To write a didactic poem, instructional. No restraints.
heart (hart) n.
chambered, steady
quiet presence
headwaters
of love’s river
laced with
endearment
and courage
lost sometimes
mended often
freely given
always ready
for encounters
with joy
my soul lives there
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Day 17. A little behind, but no matter. A definition poem.
Brown eyes that relegated those of graceland’s long-gone king
to minor status, a dedicated would-be ladies man
busking for apples and caresses on his velvet nose,
infinitely curious, sidling up to eager hands to give as well as take
His middle life was night to bright days at Bedlam, his courage fable worthy
walking a path of pain and fear right to the brink, rallying when all hope
seemed gone, taking a chance at life found only in his dreams
Great will and vital spirit, embers fanned by voices of his sudden liberation
he chose life, a miracle of parts, his resurrection measured by small steps
great victories for him and for the people working to reclaim his life in full
Despite his none too patient jennys and indifferent sheep
once healed he stood his ground, they were his charges
as was any child that came within his reach, a solid presence for small bodies
lovingly benign, an echo of his youth
His friendship won was golden, taking morning kisses, braying out his siren call
sometimes fierce, he never claimed perfection nor did we ask it
he led us gently to communion with his world, departing when he knew
his work was done
The pasture slope near his beloved tree is where he rests, and we will visit
bringing love
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For Simon, who died yesterday, January 3, 2015. and for Jon and Maria who shared him with us.
You think you know,
beforehand,
what you will feel,
but no it is impossible
the first time,
even with a child
you carry, part of you.
The fierce love comes
in waves of tenderness
letting down like milk
and never stops.
With each new step
from stone to anchored stone
across life’s flow,
strength to strength, joy to joy,
my heart follows, watching,
knowing only pride
as she runs on, lioness also,
my firstborn.
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For my daughter, on her birthday
What visits me today
A lullaby in baritone
and funny bits of song
Dreadful jokes
in nuanced tones
Bearded bristle paired
with a million kisses
All too human shoulders
I thought and hoped
were everlasting granite
Long held friendships both
a gift and an example
The pungent scent of cuban leaf
lit anywhere but in the house
A feel for speed and open road
the skies he loved and flew so well
Laughter books and music
with the color light and form
he looked at every day
These brought him peace
the certainty of love
from open eyes
Straight told advice
his caring deep
His spirit so ingrained
that now whenever
need is great
I conjure loving echoes
of an imperfect
perfect father
to see me through
the dark
_______________________________
My father died at 89 in 2005, suddenly, but blessedly not alone, my sister was with him. His legend looms large in our lives, to quote a beatle, and I know we all miss him, need him, still and always.
Life With Horace 