A Hundred Falling Veils

Lessons in Impermanence

Rosemerry — Sat, 18 May 2013 04:35:24 +0000

This feeling
this tattered net
this piece of cake
this morning
this poem
this broken yolk
this dandelion
this warning
this girl
and her friend
and the song
they are singing
this scent of green
this in between
this longing
this knowing.

Still Practicing

Rosemerry — Fri, 17 May 2013 05:29:35 +0000

I have wanted
to love you. Not just

to love you, but to love you
in the way you want to be loved.

This is not always the same thing.
A woman walks out into night

and it holds her. Sometimes
this comforts her. Sometimes

she is terrified. Sometimes
she loses her own edges

and becomes night.
There is no loss in this.

There is a moment
just before we say

I love you when the feeling
is truer than the syllables

that follow. That’s what
I am trying to do.

What night does.

Confession

Rosemerry — Thu, 16 May 2013 06:35:23 +0000

I bet you would never guess
how nervous I was to call you.

I bet you’d be surprised
to know the size of the gap

I imagined between us—
whole oceans could be swallowed

in there. You with your easy laugh.
You with all your friends. Surely

you have all those friends in part
because you are friendly.

But I was scared. Scared
I was not enough—

not smart enough, not cool
enough, not funny enough,

not strong enough, not self
sufficient enough to be your friend.

Oh that insecure part of me,
I know it does no good to judge her.

So I look at the insecure me,
and I look at the me

who would judge her,
and I get to look at the me

who can love her
and all of us get in the car together

and drive to your house
to drink coffee and talk

and do what friends do—
jump in the gap

and swim.

Gravedigger Poem Published on New Verse News

Rosemerry — Wed, 15 May 2013 13:08:43 +0000

http://www.newversenews.com/

Did anyone else hear the interview with the undertaker on NPR last week? It was part of the inspiration for this poem of mine, published in New Verse News today. New Verse News is, incidentally, a really interesting emag that publishes poems written around current events, in this case the debacle surrounding the burial of the Boston Bomber.

Letter to Vivian

Rosemerry — Wed, 15 May 2013 04:54:07 +0000

I’m sorry I didn’t let you
watch a movie when we got home tonight.
And I’m sorry I didn’t let you
have a piece of gum before bed.
And I’m sorry it was too late tonight
for a story. I’m sorry.
Not sorry in a guilty way,
but sorry in that I know
how hard it is to want something
and not get it. I know what it’s like
to convince yourself that your happiness
depends on that thing, that whatever thing
that you don’t have.
All those tears. I have cried them, too.
It did not matter that I was loved,
that the bed was warm, that
my belly was full, that the sky
was a lovely shade of peach.
I did not have what I thought
I must have. It does not change
when you’re older. Oh, the whatevers
change, but the longing
is part of being alive.
Tonight I wanted you
to stop crying. I wanted it enough
it nearly made me cry.
But even more than that
I wanted something else
I can’t explain to you.
That greater wanting,
some kind of peace—
could you feel it, too, as it fell on us
like the most gentle rain,
how it fell on your anger,
my helplessness, your wanting,
my wanting—the kind of peace
that touches everything just as it is
and doesn’t change a thing
and changes everything.

Vivian Learns Present Progressive

Rosemerry — Mon, 13 May 2013 13:22:43 +0000

Vivian Learns Present Progressive

Finn says to me yesterday, on Mother’s Day, “Mom, when is kid’s day?” My husband replied, “Everyday.” So in that spirit of the ongoing celebration of our children–how they teach us and undo us–here’s a poem published today in the beautiful Journey of the Heart blog.

Who is Telling the Story

Rosemerry — Mon, 13 May 2013 04:25:57 +0000

While digging
in the garden rows,
my son looks up
from his work
of ripping apart a clump
of roots and says to me,
Mom, how could
anything ever go wrong
with this day,
and I think,
my darling,
you teach me
so beautifully.
There are days
we forget that life
will unfold for us
if we let it.
It’s not that nothing
could go wrong.
Of course it will.
But if we are not
the heroes of our
days, rather the narrators
who notice and relate
all the events,
whether cheerful or tragic,
with equal interest,
well then even
the wrong things
are right. As it is,
he does not step
barefoot on the hoe
with its spikes
turned up nor do I
hobble to the house
with a back too sore
to stand. And the day
unfolds as some days
do, with nearly nothing
to report except the
weather—warm,
some clouds, the sun
still gaining—and
a mother and son
got the planting done.
Nothing to show for it yet
except the smile on my face
and the dirt still under
his fingernails. But I have
to admit I am glad there was
nothing painful or difficult.
And on this day, my son
is the hero of the poem.
And I can watch his mother
typing out her joy as if
I am not the same woman.
Between these two view points,
there is a garden. I walk
its rows. I bring it water.
What grows is what will grow.

Five on Seeing

Rosemerry — Sun, 12 May 2013 04:04:26 +0000

Did you notice,
I say, the gorilla’s nose
is shaped like a heart?
Yes, she says, but my heart
is shaped like a fist.

Easy to see
I’m a wave in the water—
when I disappear
nothing essential
will be lost.

Harder to believe
nothing’s lost when my daughter
pulls the needle
out of my knitting
and the stitches fall off.

Ever notice
how hard it is to see eye
to eye when our
backs are toward
each other?

Solar eclipse
in Taurus and the window
between worlds opens—
eyes wide, advises my chart,
it’s a new day for your heart

Entering the Story

Rosemerry — Sat, 11 May 2013 05:49:30 +0000

I find you
crouched in the cold
lighting matches
one after another.
It is a long, long night
and it is not near over.
There is nowhere
you want to return.
You strike another.
And again.
We cup our palms
around your light.
What do you see in it?
I want to offer you
bread, a blanket, a room,
my hands, a different ending,
a kinder plot.
You want only
another match.

Seymour Avenue

Rosemerry — Fri, 10 May 2013 04:18:20 +0000

All day I imagine
how it could be me,
could be you, it is her
on that street, in that car,
in the chains, in the window.
All day I break down
the door. All day
I turn toward love.
It is not hard to find love,
but it is not easy
to be joyful in it.
We are so alone
together.
All day I break.
The door
is still not open
enough.