finding in me
the place where honey
is stored
almost empty
still offering it to you
Again the rain,
and I wander
the tender green grass
of the field.
The hands pull weeds
because the hands
want something to do.
And the mind looks
for morels, because the mind
wants something to do.
And the feet wander,
because they are born
nomads. And the heart
opens. Not because
it wants to, but
because there is something
in the scent of rain
that suggests
so much is possible,
even, against all odds,
beauty. Even, though
it seems impossible,
another day.
Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged faith, heart, opening, poem, poetry, rain | Leave a Comment »
What do a poet and a science writer have in common? A podcast on creative process! And in this episode of Emerging Form, Christie Aschwanden and I discuss collaborations–what makes them work, how they go sour, and what to do then! We also discuss whether collaborations need leaders, w
hy listening is an essential skill for working with other creatives, Chinese food, the Jabberwocky, and how spontaneity can enhance a creative collaboration. And then we’ll wrap up our conversation by talking with musician/songwriter/video producer Christine Laskowski who will play our game of two questions. We’ll ask her 1) What makes a good collaboration? And 2) How do you deal with conflicts when they arise in a collaboration? You can weigh in on these questions yourself, either on our website or on our Facebook page. You can find Emerging Form wherever you find podcasts, or on our webpage here.
Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged Christie Aschwanden, collaboration, Emerging Form, Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer | Leave a Comment »
weeping beside
the pussy willows—
all those tears
over saying goodbye,
I wouldn’t uncry
a single one
Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged beginnings, breaking open, endings, poem, poetry | Leave a Comment »
goldfinch stealing
into the thorn bush—
oh heart, bless you
for being willing, please
don’t follow him in
Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged compassion, goldfinch, heart, heartache, poem, poetry, thorns | Leave a Comment »
Why do we have to do this,
asks my daughter, hoe in hand,
and I, hoe in hand, reply
that it’s good for the soil
and helps it to breathe.
I think about how my own thoughts
crust over, how quickly
they become impenetrable.
And then hoe of loss. Hoe of hope.
Hoe of disbelief. Hoe of shock.
Again and again,
the world breaks me open,
allows the new to come in.
Again and again, I resist
the change. And then marvel
at how essential it is,
the new ideas so green,
so persistent, tender as
a girl asking why.
Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged cultivating, daughter, garden, ideas, opening, parenting, poem, poetry | Leave a Comment »
A mallard swims
in the beaver pond,
the sunlight makes
green praise of its head
and for an instant
the whole world
revolves around
emerald sheen.
There is little else
that’s green here,
though it is late spring—
but over 10,000 feet
the snow tends to linger.
This is a place where
the mind doesn’t hesitate
to offer its attention
to the sharp scent of trees,
to the snaking trickle of snowmelt,
to the thrill of cold air
in the lungs. And in giving
itself away, the mind
becomes clearer, becomes
a shining and natural thing,
like a mallard wing, like
a tree just before leafing,
like a canyon in which
the lush green world
is just about to emerge.
Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged duck, Emerging Form, mind, nature, ophir, poem, poetry | 1 Comment »
for Betty Rocker
I roll out the yoga mat in the living room
and find the You Tube channel
on which the twenty-something girl
with an armful of tattoos and a perky smile
tells me in her perky voice all about how great it is
I am going to take care of myself for just
fifteen minutes a day. She says that
five times, as if to both belittle it—
you spend more time than that
on social media, she suggests—
and at the same time elevate it—
you can do so much good in just fifteen minutes!
Some part of me wants to hate her,
but she is clearly so happy about what
we’re about to do together in our living rooms.
She claps to punctuate each thought,
and does a little skip in place as if to say
I am ready before I am ready.
I have been ready before. I remember
what it’s like to be ready. I remember
multiple decades when I was so ready
I just never stopped. I remember feeling
somewhat sorry for people who, as I do now,
rely on someone else to tell them to kick
and how high.
But I don’t hate the perky young woman.
In fact, I can’t help but fall in love
with her exuberance, the way she enthuses
through the burpees and turns the wide plank
into a star, whee! she squeals. And in fact,
as I do crescent kicks, like a ninja, she says,
I can’t help but laugh and smile because
she is right—it’s fun. And I feel goofy
and great and so glad to be the woman
I said I would never be. Somewhere,
a young woman is feeling sorry for me.
Somewhere, another woman is doing
lunges and squats in her living room.
Tomorrow we’ll do it again.
Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged aging, betty rocker, body image, exercise, poem, poetry, self acceptance | 2 Comments »
the way she loves me—
in fifty years,
never a drought
*
her glass always half full
even so she asks for yours
and fills it from her own
Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged mother's day, poem, poetry | 2 Comments »
though I’ve just bought seeds
already my heart
is in full midsummer—
funny how all that is visible
is dirt
Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged garden, poem, poetry, seed | Leave a Comment »
Sign up for my daily poem!
Archives
Meta
