Tonight there was, like then
a gilded room with
two grand staircases
this one on a tv screen
the swish of silk and gardenias
turning through candlelight
time waiting a beat
for their smiles to sail by
And you were gone
my dearest friend,
when I wanted us to
remind each other of
waltzing with our beaux
dark haired young blades
in decorations and tails
before you all began
to leave, one by one
and me alone to remember
for you
For Lisa Young Donely
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.
In song, music puts its hands around my heart and my words think tears are a puddle to splash through, shoeless. Color often stops my breath, and I am its willing prisoner. A sudden memory coming on fast might need release. Any of these call up joy or tears, and it is all wonderful. To me. When the signal comes they might glide to me in a waltz, or whirl up on the skirts of a wild mazurka. Better yet, ride in on the smoothness of an alto sax.
And with his end all lifeline letters stopped
akin to clocks hushed at a death,
leaving smothered laughter or kind words
confetti-chopped to ricochet at will
Those daily orts grown into thoughts,
inked heiroglyphs sardined with scattered
pencil nonpareils, bright chrome
yellow sheets, they will come no more
He lived for wordy news, recounted histories,
rich mirrors of our minds, but people hanging
on a vapid phone were never tolerated
much beyond a minute any day
In all of this we saw and felt the gifts his
writing brought, quiet kindness in our grasp,
connection, palatable family glue,
admonishments or clapping hands
He never did hold back bursts of rant
against extinction of a simpler life
or razing of an older barn, sunblot
politic dizziness, or inept modernity
Today we hold those pages fiercely
knowing he is gone, and reread again
to briefly feel his warmth born of quiet
brilliance, a rich legacy of love disguised
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NaPoWriMo 2017, Day 3. the prompt was to write an elegy, and a particular facet of the person or thing mourned.
the old moon sliver
hangs branch framed
in white pine pins
and looking out to scout the day
I know the birds will fly in soon
to perch and wait
for signals from some
fulcrum’s tip
then swoop to take their food
but now there is no color
in the rising sky
the light shape cold
and wrong
time almost shrunk
and hope waned with it
until a shoulder glance behind
reveals a spreading rose
across the pond and to the west
a foreglow gift of elder mornings
stoking up the sky
the day starts clear
and weather sits the fence
undecided voter between
sultry and first frost
the hummingbirds have gone
and small flocks pulse
from ground to tree to air
some landing in the shelter
of my apple tree
across the road bright reds
appear to punctuate
short timer green
the usual pangs are there
as warmth and light
begin to turn away
but less robust somehow
each summer moment’s heat
soaked into bone and soul
defense against regret
_______________________________
for me seasonal change has always been about being observant, and the aggregation of small events. september has a clear, long slanting light. my favorite month.
gift from love’s pilgrim
my words have danced in your heart
they leap free again
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Yesterday the Third Cousins Club met again. three cousins, Cassie, Elizabeth, and me, descended in separate lines from the same great great grandfather, knowing nothing of the others until an accidental discovery grew into a connection that has joined three family lines. Elizabeth’s sister Susan was there at the beginning with all of us, but she died this year. So Elizabeth has just made what I can only think of as a pilgrimage to the ocean places they loved together. What a brave and loving sister gift this was, saying goodbye again, ashes left to be a part of memories.
slanting through green woods
sly streaks of sun appearing
in the textured dark
_______________________________________
Seeing early sun glance through woods from a window I leave the house to search. Finding beam’s end is morning’s reward.
gray light soft soothing
smell of rain floats close to me
sound of trees drinking
_________________________________
Our senses welcome rain breaking a drought. It has been a very dry summer.
Life With Horace 