Poetry
“Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.”
Cadence
Spring forest glistens, verdant and clean
Ferns unfurl by the slender path that we walk
Tender leaves whisper to dawn-lit clouds high above
And your hooves fall softly in the fragrant duff
Your stride and my heart, their cadence is one
Gentle but strong as winter’s cold mantle’s unspun
Summer fields pulse under hard noontime sky
Dust clouds rise as we trot rows of corn
Hawks call like fifers from the brilliance above
And your hooves beat reply, staccato snare drum
Your stride and my heart, their cadence is one
A four-count march as we battle the sun
Autumn hills roll before us into the dusk
Land and sky one as we canter the lane
Spare leaves of lone oak rustle like silk
And your hooves sing on stones, bells to our waltz
Your stride and my heart, their cadence is one
Rising and falling as homeward we run
Winter snow shimmers, stars at my feet
Ice coating branches shines back at the moon
Wind under barn eaves whistles and moans
And your hooves stir the straw as you settle in stall
Your stride and my heart, their cadence is one
Slowing and softening for the long rest to come
Tea
I imagine the land you come from
Indigo sky over ocher stone
Azure sea lapping golden sands
Like the glass tea set in my cabinet
A traveler’s gift never used
Fluted bowls, cobalt blue, translucent as paper
Painted in liquid patterns, molten metal drizzled over glass
Their stems must be held between the tips of two fingers
Contents sipped while sitting at a table set in the shade of an ancient tree
What do you make of this land you have come to
Rolling hills blanketed in grasses
Dark, still lakes edged by stones furred with moss
Here, tea is drunk from big mugs grasped full-handed
Or from paper cups with plastic lids easy to manage while driving
Do you find yourself doing the same – drinking tea in your car
Rich with milk, sweet with sugar to fuel tasks that must immediately be done
Or do you still stop amid our churn and sit quietly at a table
Sip mint-scented tea from a glass and remember
Indigo sky over ocher stone
Azure sea lapping golden sands
The Party
Sunny days are like the prettiest girl at a party.
See her shimmer as she spins to a song that is gay.
Our blood warms and we flush when her gaze rests upon us,
All at once, she is gone and we wish she would stay.
Half the day, half the year, that’s all she can give us.
Feast for eyes, feast for skin, with two senses she plays.
But the game can turn cruel and her touch blind or sear us.
When she leaves, we are sad but, in a way, also saved.
Now the rain, she is fair, but a little less forward.
At the edge of the party she watches and waits.
When the melody dims and the dance floor is empty.
She steps out, smoothly glides to her place center stage.
No one sees, no one notes, her gentle slow motion.
‘Til the music, it soars and we’re caught unaware.
Her skirts swirl; her eyes blaze; her hair wildly is streaming.
Smell the charge in the air, watch her wanton display.
But she sees that her dance, it has left us unsettled.
With a sigh, shawl of cloud she again draws in tight.
Rivulets between stones hum a muffled soft murmur.
Dance with me, they intone, as she fades out of sight.
Day or night, any month, she is ready to join us.
Sight and smell, touch and sound, to all senses, she’s balm.
She may rage, she may storm but her heart, it is giving.
Feel her kiss, breath her deep, be refreshed, feel her calm.
The Field and The House
To the field it first seemed just the smallest of wounds
A flat ocher spot amid rolling green dunes
Grass pulled back harshly to show raw, bloody clay
Stillness at odds with her own gentle sway
So, the field sought to heal it with tender caresses
New roots knit fine lace over torn furrow edges
With soft rain she washed ragged earth into silk
And thistle down she lay on like a blanket of milk
But now there were other more worrisome changes
Dark shadows etched hard lines cross once sunny ranges
The rasping of saws made the birds stop their song
Oak boards and damp mortar gave the air a new pong
The field, she sought peace amidst all this disorder
Sending mice to build nests between new wood frame borders
And snakes to warm bellies on gray ground like strange stone
And a proud hawk to perch sentry on a beam all alone
But roofs mounted rafters and walls grew toward sky
No breeze could pass through it, though days she would try
And birds crashed on cruel glass where sky they’d once found
And thirst did kill poor things entombed beneath ground
The field, she was angered, destroy it she vowed
For walls she sent hot sun in sky without cloud
For roofs it was rain that fell in mad torrents
And, for cruel glass, hard grit in a brutal gale’s current
But the walls and the roof and the windows they stayed
Sturdy and solid our house it was made
So maples we planted to shade us at noon
And pines to the north to soften wind’s croon
Fruit trees and berries and a garden of flowers
Glories on porch beams, wisteria on bowers
And the field was appeased and she showed it by sending
Gentle breezes, warm nights and sunshine unending
Doves nest now in maples and sparrows in pines
Toads hide in damp places made by porch shadow lines
Monarchs sip nectar with long tongues they unfurl
Snakes shed paper skins from my roses they curl
There may still be squabbles and our feelings may harden
When her grasses lay claim to the soils of our garden
Or her bees dig their burrows in the wood of our railings
Or her winds rip our wash from the line, send it sailing
But hard lines quickly soften and new kinships they form
A scattering of flowers now amidst her grasses find home
And a mowed path does lead to the field’s highest knoll
From where we view our home amid her sweet roll
Not wild field nor man’s house but both come together
Something fluid, something solid, something blended, something better
My Mother’s Loss
He calls her name, again and again.
She comes and he reads her something from a book or shows her a picture in an album.
Books, pictures -- static things, things that would still be there when she would have come to him uncalled.
She gets annoyed … She is old too, and so very tired ... She wants to be left alone
For a few minutes,
For an hour,
Could someone please just give her a day … alone.
A melody plays on the radio.
“Was it Copeland?” she asks.
A cardinal lands on the window sill.
“Did you see it?” She turns, says his name.
Melodies, birds -- fleeting things, things that fill her heart for a moment but pass quickly unshared.
She feels empty … She is still so very tired … She is old and now alone
For a few minutes,
For an hour,
For as many days as she has to live.
He has given her back her days, and they are defined by the void he has left.
Birch and Oak
Supple birch, she does sway, with casual indifference
Tender buds, they do glow, ‘gainst spring’s brooding clouds
Tattered bark, her silk scarves, in the breeze, see them flutter
Sun through leaves, lays fine lace, over parched summer ground
Golden leaves, when they fall, make a spicy sweet perfume
Crackling frost, silent snows, in their midst she beguiles
Catkins twirl, on bare branch, her lovely adornment
Pirouette, see her dance amid winter’s cruel howl
Mighty oak, he does stand, on the hilltop, lone sentry
Granite rocks at his feet, twisted roots grind to dust
Massive limbs, they do stretch, see them reach ever skyward
Springtime rains, from their forks, in torrents, they gush
Summer nights, moon’s warm glow, turns leaves to bronze armor
In the fall, acorns drop, wooden rain, hear the sound
Winter’s ice, sheaths rough bark, crystalline are his ramparts
Cannon fire, in the night, his great limbs crash to ground
Poor Horny Bastard
I stand at the bedroom window, a cup of coffee in my hand, tangled sheets behind me.
A gusty November wind sweeps clouds across the morning sun then away.
Pines along the edge of the garden bend and straighten.
I can almost hear them whispering over the sound of you showering.
Past the trees, hills swell and flow like sleeping forms under a blanket of chaff.
A doe crests the nearest rise, her delicate hooves floating over the ground.
She holds her head high, gaze to the horizon.
I watch her pass – lithe, ephemeral like fog.
I crack the window, hear only the wind, smell only the pines.
You turn off the water and the shower door rattles as you step out.
I hear you rub the towel across your body, moaning a little with the simple pleasure of it.
I turn back to the window to find a buck winding between the trees.
Needles brush his flank as his broad shoulders push the branches aside.
The muscles of his neck are ropy, straining to carry his heavy head forward but low.
His antlers look like they might burrow down, turn the pine straw like a plow will the earth of those hills.
Mouth open, tongue stiff, he tastes the doe on the air and his musk wafts through the window, pungent.
Eyes rolling, sides heaving he steps out from among the pines.
His body quivering with desire, he stands bare, exposed.
Warm and damp from your shower, you press against my back, look over my shoulder, take the cup from my hand, drink my coffee.
You shake your head and walk away.
“Poor horny bastard.”
Plovers in My Pasture
Plover, sweet plover, little beach rover,
Why are you here, so far from the sea?
The only dunes you will find here are dunes of green grasses.
The only waves you can ride here, the wave of sparse trees.
Plover, dear plover, little beach rover,
I hear your bright song, so sharp and so clear.
On the beach, I’ve envisioned you calling to sailors.
In these fields your loud chirps only scatter the deer.
Plover, brave plover, little beach rover,
Through metal-gray sea mists in formation you’d fly.
I watch from my barn as you soar between horses,
As a golden sun rises, lights a vast farm field sky.
Your visit, it fills me with memories of oceans.
When I see you, I almost can hear the waves drum.
Feel the sea lift me up and gently enfold me —
Salt in eyes, salt in mouth, sinking deep, salt in lungs.
Getting Peaches
“It’s a long drive. We won’t stop.”
I run past the door marked ‘VC’ and out to the car.
I want the seat on the left and need to be there first.
The door is almost too heavy for me to open; the seat too high to clamber up.
If adventure has a smell; it’s metal, rubber, dust — the Rambler.
The gate clanks shut and I hear the dog sing her joy not to be left behind.
She jumps up in the back bringing with her the smell of cedar shavings.
Her nails clatter on the metal as she slides around the luggage compartment.
I turn in my seat, reach my hand back and touch silken ears.
If companionship has a sound, it’s her quiet whine just behind me — Peggy.
My mother’s hair is under a kerchief; her simple dress sleeveless and faded.
Tomorrow, her hair will glow auburn against a shawl covering shoulders pinkened by the sun.
But today is Saturday and her arms are bare, lips pale, unpainted.
Is she smiling? Singing? Is she happy?
If love has an expression — it’s her smile that’s also somehow sad — Mami.
Two left turns and we join the flow of traffic; our quiet street traded for cars on each side.
My father turns the radio knob, passing through static and baseball; stopping on opera.
Hand loose on the steering wheel, he rests his elbow out the window and hums.
His skin is dark like mine; we’re gypsies, he and I.
If belonging has a texture, it’s the feel of his work-rough hand around mine — Api.
Our route sheds lanes as the road narrows and winds between cornfields.
I kneel on the seat, lean out the window.
My grandmother’s hand on my back is light; cool even in this heat.
I turn and meet her gaze, eyes blue like the lakes of her mountain homeland.
If kindness has a color, it’s the blue of my grandmother’s eyes — Nagymama.
“See the cows!” I yell as we cross a river that ripples slow like honey.
“They’re smelly,” my sister says. But, how can she tell with her freckled nose buried in a book?
Nagymama sits between us. She is Austria. I’m the East; my sister the West.
Someday, I’ll be as big as her and then we’ll see what happens.
If motivation has a timbre, it’s that big sister know-it-all tone — Kati.
We park by a shed, tables laid out with tomatoes, cucumbers, melons like yellow kick balls.
Nagymama spreads a blanket in the grass as Kati, Peggy and I chase doves between the trees.
Mami calls, holds up a peach with skin like velvet that I know will make my face itch.
Api pulls a knife from his pocket, cuts me a slice and slips it into my open mouth.
If joy has a flavor, it’s this warm, sweet tang; like eating sunshine — Peaches.
I Stole a Tree in Your Honor
Our home was filled with things that you’d taken.
Things you’d collected, things that you’d claimed.
Unnoticed things given structure and meaning,
From the power of your vision new purposes gained.
Rocks that once lay in the mud of a creek-side,
In the wall of our garden grew warm in the sun.
Joined by your mortar and fitted tightly together,
Gave flowers and children a safe place to run.
Cedars in hedgerows overrun by wild brambles.
Twined with ivy, they never could thrive.
Set free from their chains by your axe and your shovel,
Those cedars stood proud at the edge of our drive.
The wood of an old barn became table and shelving;
Tiles from a patio adorned the sides of our stove.
Colored glass fused with lead hung in our high windows.
Over the floor of our home gem-like lights, from them roved.
Your eyes saw beauty where others saw wreckage.
Those same eyes I watched dim as I sat by your bed.
Your strong hand lay in mine as slowly you faded.
Your breath growing slower and then you were dead.
Your body is now like those rocks or those cedars,
That wood from the barn, broken glass, broken tiles.
But your soul I am sure still bides here among us,
Through meadows it floats over rivers it flies.
So I walked to the park that lies by my pasture
And found a small beech tree hungry for light.
A shovel in hand and barrow beside me,
I dug that tree up in the dark of the night
It grows on the hillside to the south of my kitchen.
Some day we will sit in the cool of its shade.
And talk of the things you gave merit and purpose.
And talk of the beauty from wreckage you made.
companion
I wake to a flame of gold at the horizon. In an instant it will soften.
But now, the bare branches are like the bristles of a paintbrush, black against the glow.
I pull my hand from beneath my blankets, let it drop through the cold air.
And there you are; your warm silky back rising and falling with each breath.
They say each of your years are worth seven of mine.
When you came, you were like another teenager needing to be managed --
Exuberant, eager to learn. Impatient, unable to listen.
Now, you are a sister; the white at your muzzle like that in my hair.
We both moan a little with this first stretch on rising.
We ignore each other’s decline; shall we celebrate a shared triumph today?
I sit at my desk, writing; words swirl in my mind like oil in water.
I scoop them up, their cadence now the rhythm of my typing.
You lie in a beam of light, belly to the sun, the wood floor warm beneath you.
Your toes twitch, and you quietly whine, softly yip, even growl.
Are these sounds words that swirl in your mind, like oil in water?
My writing will be a record for my children when they grow old like us.
Will they read this and see us as more than a mother and her dog,
With thoughts they never heard, dreams they never knew?
Clearly, you dream; perhaps of the things you’ve smelled on our wanders.
Am I in your dreams as you occasionally are in mine?
I stand in the kitchen; a knife in one hand, an apple in the other.
Slowly, I sculpt the fruit; its skin a long ribbon that reforms on the counter.
You stand at my hip, black rimming your eyes like Egyptian kohl.
Your brows dance with wonder at this magical use of tools.
You shift your weight from one freckled leg to the other.
Your feet grip the floor, tethering your buoyant heart to earth.
Anticipation coils inside you like that apple skin on the counter.
Will I drop it? Will I share the bounty of my scraps?
How do you stay so optimistic when so often I deny you?
How are you always so ready to inject me with your boundless hope?
I sit in a chair, a glass of wine in my hand, a book in my lap.
This morning’s clear skies have darkened, turned stormy.
Rain patters on the roof as the light dims; the sun sets unseen.
A wind clangs in the chimney; rattles the door.
You stand, tail drawn in close, and look to see if I too sense the danger.
I laugh softly as you scurry away at the rumble of thunder.
I find you in a dark bathroom, crouching, trembling.
I sink to the floor and you shift to press against my thigh.
Slowly you quiet, assured I am near.
Do I make you feel safe or are you relieved to have saved me from the storm?