Apr 16 2017

blur

the sun is shining
and the windows are open
and i am up early
making pierogies

i think about tradition
and the millions of women
who have stood at a sink
or a stove or a counter
smiling and singing
in a warm ray of sunshine
as they filled small houses
with smells of love

i am crying
(all these onions)
and i don’t need
to do all this work
this chopping
this repetitive
standing-up
oh-my-back labor

we could have had
scalloped or mashed
or baked, but

the sun is shining
and the windows are open
and i am up early
making pierogies

feeling blessed

and the voices
of those women
(those ghosts)
who came before me
are singing right along
in a harmony
of light

.

.

.

 


Apr 15 2017

virtual reality

the world we sit in
and the world we live in
have become
two different things

by now
fifteen minutes
is the measure
of antipathy
and data
the construct
of worth

observation
has replaced
interaction

i see you
you see me

we do not touch

i know one thing
about you

you know
three things
about me

it all adds up

we can’t
catch up

.

.

.


Apr 14 2017

seasoning

a hatchmark of trees
filters lavender sky

the blue heron swings right
just overhead
flying over a house
marking time and
strong weather

the storms have filled
the swamp again

the grass goes green

a single daffodil
blooms from a nest
of brown leaves

nothing and everything
beginning

.

.

.


Apr 13 2017

microcosm

busy
and the days grab me away
from the paying attention
to that color, that lilt,
that perfect light

one breath

one moment

take it in

notice

this is what matters

this one fleeting second
of pure, silent beauty

remember

.

.

.


Apr 12 2017

the geese are on the move

and i am still right here

these are the words
that ring through my head
on a hamster-wheel day
when running in place
feels just as exhausting
as covering distance
and all i really
want to do
is fly

.

.

.


Apr 11 2017

soldiering on and
other maladies

in the garden there is a tree that leans
oh so far to the right
(from where i sit)
and i smile at the audacity
of this refusal to break
this will to survive
this pugnacious affront
to convention

i write poems about age
(or simply think them)
understanding that crooked
is a different kind of tenacity
and the temerity of youth
is just blossom

mostly i remember
the silence
of a morning
meant for forgiveness
and the stars on that night
we walked to saturn

the birds eat berries
left long on winter branches
gone sweet with the yearning
to be free

.

.

.


Apr 10 2017

calyx

spring comes and the birds start singing

and that’s not poetry
it’s truth in a dress
made from hope and hybrid dancing

but we wear it on days
when the swamp
spills over
and
every tiny miracle
understands the word survival
and thrive becomes the promise
of tomorrow

less season
than rebirth
perhaps even
a holy transformation
or simply life
refusing
to go gently

but the birds learned all this
long before Plato
and that
in a word
is
poetry

spring comes and the birds start singing

.

.

.


Apr 9 2017

just sing

of your outrage and your joy
your frustration and your ploy

your glad-to-be-alive
or about-to-take-a-dive

the mystery of light
and the hollow of each night

your complaints and your praise
of survival and spent days

the youth that was lost
and the parody of cost

just sing

.

.

.


Apr 8 2017

snow, drop

clinging hard to the dance of dawn, delayed

and you can lie
belly up to the cold grey sky
letting go of all fear
til the hawk comes tapping
on one shoulder

nothing between us,
no shield,
no field,
nothing filling the corners
with debris

just these bold
reflection curves
and mist-mirrored
smiles

holding court
in a forest
of fancy

.

.

.


Apr 7 2017

where we are going,
where we have been

and are they
one and
the same?

the questions roar
and the answers
take flight

and the trees just
stand there

growing

.

.

.