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Archive for July, 2012

Five Haiku as the Rain Finally Returns

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on July 10, 2012| 3 Comments »

in the downpour
no distance at all
between laughter and water

*

all mud
the boy asks me
hug?

*

your words
the moment leaps
its banks

*

incessant rain
these lips still
so thirsty

*

scent of rain,
want of rain, every poem
a praise poem

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Six Overflowings

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on July 8, 2012| 5 Comments »


every moment flees its own overflowing
—Karen Chamberlain, Ephedra

no birds wheel
in the air tonight—
wings in my song

*

swallowing darkness
in great gulps
a few stars catch in my teeth

*

I really thought
I knew something
about not knowing

*

gathering ephedra
my hands
are not my own hands

*

naked
I wear
a red dress

*

the night sky offered
to loan me its black skirt
hope it’s not too small

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The Proper Care and Feeding of the Self

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on July 7, 2012| 3 Comments »

Step One: locate a room, a lovely room,
perhaps with Persian rugs, the softest kind,
and pillows, lots of pillows. You will find
the silken ones feel best. And maybe blue
delphiniums, and pink hydrangeas, too.
Two glasses, one for water, one for wine.
Dark chocolates. Bach. And lots of books to line
the shelves, and pictures that your children drew.

Oh yes, a lock to fasten on the door,
a heavy one. You’re set. Step Two. Now pull
together all your thoughts about the needs
the self perceives, I’m sure that there are more.
Arrange the thoughts until they’re comfortable.
Forget them. Lock them. Lose the key. Step Three.

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Another Way to Do It

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , on July 5, 2012| 3 Comments »

Let her not like the apricots,
that’s one way to do it. Just say,

Oh. Or, Hmm. But no.
I question her dislike,

want to serve her apricots so ripe
they have fallen to the orchard floor,

sun warmed and red cheeked
and soft so soft.

I want to serve her the juiciest ones,
the apricots so ripe you have to hold your hand

far in front of your mouth and lean,
or better yet, the apricot you eat as you stand

beneath the tree and offer your mouth
to the branch and suckle the juice, let

it runnel down the chin, the cheeks, the neck,
I wanted to serve her apricots. It is like wanting

to convince someone who likes blue
that instead they should like red.

Why do I defend the apricot?
It occurs to me whole countries go to war

just this way … with one person who says
they know better. One person who knows

what God is like, or what is good, or what is right.
I’m sorry, I tell her, when I call her back. And she laughs.

And I laugh. How easy it is to get lost
on the way to something sweet.

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But 1-800-Flowers Couldn’t Deliver

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , on July 4, 2012| 2 Comments »

I didn’t really want to send flowers, anyway.
Better to send the blue heron I was watching tonight
as it waded the river. Better to send its ungainly flight,
how it rose liltingly above the cliffs then disappeared.
Better to send the feeling that rose in me when,
like a visual echo, the great bird returned, this time
directly above me, its wings a dark silhouette in the pinking sky.
As it is, I send the silence after, silence the way the water
is silent when it has no shore to kiss. As it is, I send
silence, silent the way the lilies I thought to send
would have opened in your room, silent as their fragrance.

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Using the Last Bit of Red Onion Left by Rachel

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , on July 3, 2012| 6 Comments »

Using the Last Bit of Red Onion Left by Rachel

Lost for weeks in the corner of the crisper drawer,
it appears just in time to save the carrot soup.

One large hunk of red onion, partially used, still good.
I get nostalgic, remembering how Rachel, gone for three weeks,

served it with eggs, and though I didn’t eat them
I remember how delicious the kitchen smelled then.

It is her hand that chose it, her hand that sliced the rings.
I laugh at my own nostalgia. But I miss her, the all of her,

the giggling on the couch with her, the singing in the car,
cayenne and hot chocolate late night, poems, wine.

And slicing the onion, thinking about how Rachel she is,
it is right somehow that I should start to cry.

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In a Single Layer, Not too Hot

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , on July 3, 2012| 3 Comments »

On the counter waits thirty pounds
of apricots, and even after hours

of halving the soft flesh, removing the pits
and arranging them to dry, each apricot feels

like a present, sweet commonplace perfection.
I pass their humble weight from hand to hand

and marvel at their apricotness—recalling
how yesterday they were clustered and strung

on the limbs so thick that the branches hung low to touch
the orchard floor. Oh gravity, what is it you love

about sweetness. Even the lovers who churn
in the grass are drawn into your promise.

But not tonight. Tonight, there are apricots
ripe and gold and glistening in the center.

Tonight there is this art of making
sweetness last just a little bit longer,

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The Morning After Making Dinner with Rostropovich

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , on July 1, 2012| 2 Comments »

soft thread of tune
beyond humming
still the attempt

*
though the musician
is long, long gone
strands of dark arpeggios
tucked
in my hair

*

because
he once played
that Bach prelude
I feel now so
beautiful

*

long after
the listening
still listening

*

almost like lips
bruised from a night of kissing
my ears this morning after

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