blue so wide
no need to wonder
if we’re connected
Archive for February, 2013
If They Scripted Us, Would It Read Like This?
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged daughter, meter, mother, parenting, poem, rhyme on February 25, 2013| 3 Comments »
I say later,
she says now.
I say, do it,
she says how.
I say hurry,
she plays slow.
I say stop,
she says no.
I say wait,
she says why.
I say share,
she says mine.
I say sleep,
she says play.
Another night
Another day.
Ten Things I Won’t Think about Right Before I Die
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged death, frames, memory, neural circuitry, poem, poetry on February 24, 2013| 3 Comments »
It happened once. I was drowning,
held under by a keeper hole
in a rapid on the Salmon.
The light streamed through
the river’s surface and I watched
as it bent and streamed
through the roil and churn.
I thought, so this
is what it is like
to be in a washing machine.
And then I thought,
so this is what it is like
to die. And I was not at all scared,
not until the hydraulics spit me out
and I was pummeled and lashed
and battered by waves.
So how could I now say
that I will not think of pomegranates
or how scorpions mate?
How can I say I will not recall
who did the dishes tonight or
the name of the boy who
in sixth grade pinned me to the floor
so his friend could kiss me and how I cried?
I’m loathe to think about what
I might not think about for fear
of creating that frame—the one the brain
retains. Like the time when Janine
told my son not to drop her earring
into the cauliflower soup. In an instant,
he dropped it right into his bowl,
his neural circuitry wired by her words.
Tonight it is enough to know
that the dishes are done. That scorpions do
whatever scorpions do to procreate,
regardless of my ignorance.
And the orange beside me is ripe, so ripe
it weaves itself into the poem in the place
where the pomegranate would be.
The washing machine is quiet now.
And if I were to die right now, my last thought
would be of not wanting to think
about how much I have hurt you.
Just for a Moment
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged cold, comfort, hurt, poem, poetry on February 23, 2013| 3 Comments »
after reading up into the silence the green by e.e. cummings
Cold is the
(hold me)
wind and
sharp is
the barb
exposed
and
(hold me)
sour are
the words
that flew,
and slow
(hold me)
is the ache
to leave.
It’s cold
love
and though
it won’t
change anything
it would
feel good
(the dark
is near)
if you’d
just
for a
moment
(hear
the train?)
hold me.
Standing on the Edge of the Canyon
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Colorado National Monument, fantasy, jump, poem on February 23, 2013| 6 Comments »
Of course I imagine jumping.
I wouldn’t. But there is that
fleeting flash where I am already
over the guard rail and falling
past the hard Kayenta caprock,
cold wind through my jacket,
falling past the dark varnish, the sheer
red walls, my hair streams above me,
I pass bulbous spires, gulp air,
pass vermillion pedestals, I didn’t
think it would end this fast—at the edge
looking over I take a step back.
Finn Learns Cursive
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged birds, creativity, cursive, freedom, handwriting, parenting, poem, poetry on February 21, 2013| 2 Comments »
It begins as a dark wing arcing up,
then cart wheeling high, swooping
down, then back up to a point before
diving as falcons do toward the earth
with great straightness, curving up
at the very last moment, in this case
before meeting the blue solid line, climbing
to intersect the first long arc,
then doubling back on its path.
The pencil wheels across the blank
page, it flies into another loop,
and another, pushes into a bow
and then bends, sweeps and circles again,
and the boy moves his hand, entranced
by the leaden record of its dance
as his thoughts appear on uneven horizons
until the whole page
is a flock of slender black wings
all of them rising at once,
that beating, that beating, his heart.
Five Accidents
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged chance, haiku, in love with life, luck, poem, tanka on February 20, 2013| 6 Comments »
my whole life
preparing me for this moment—
10:19 p.m.
*
rolling down my window
to ask directions, hearing
a chorus of birds
*
new snow on the grass
this, too, the scent
of exploded stars
*
please, I said
to the sun, don’t go
some part of me
reveling in asking
the impossible
*
my whole life
preparing me for this moment—
10:20 p.m.
Three Nightlings
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged haiku, moon, morning, nightmare, short poem, tanka on February 19, 2013| 5 Comments »
mama! she shrieks
I throw back the sheets, leap
run naked through night
but can’t make it into her dream
the place she needs me most
*
whatever the moon
says, that is what I
say, too
*
rushing out
to smell the morning
before its gone
there will be other mornings
but only one like this
Under the Big Shade Tree
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged audience, first memory, innocence, poem on February 19, 2013| 5 Comments »
They are all around me,
the ones with white hair and no hair,
the ones who can hardly stand
or walk or feed themselves.
I am like them that way,
only much, much younger,
sitting in the sharp cut grass
wearing only my diaper,
my bloomers, and my curiosity.
I am eating a popsicle,
orange. And I can tell
they are watching me.
It is easy for them.
They smile at me and point
and chat. But I also know
it is not about me,
their broken laughter.
Nor is it about the popsicle
trickling sticky and orange
in my hands, down my neck.
It’s about, well, I don’t know
that part yet.
Between
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged forgiveness, misbehavior, mistake, motherhood, parenting, poem on February 18, 2013| 3 Comments »
“We all make mistakes,” I say.
I know she hears me.
I look out the window.
From under the quilt,
she says nothing.
Only her eye is visible
through a fold. I catch it,
then look at the leafless cottonwood.
Somewhere, a dog
is barking. Somewhere,
the scent of almond.
“And then,” I say, “we have
a chance to learn.”
The snow in the yard
flashes against the low sun.
A robin finds a spot
where spring is stealing in,
the grass already greening
between the porch and the snow.
“And sometimes,” I say,
“our mistakes hurt other people.”
In the other room, the sound
of a timer. The sound of
a sponge running over
the nap of the couch.
“And if we hurt someone,” I say,
“it can be important to tell them
we are sorry. But only,” I say,
“when we really are sorry.”
I look out the window,
wanting to notice something
instead of my own quiet hands.
My hands smooth the quilt
where her small hip rises.
I say, “We don’t always know
why we do what we do.”
The timer again. Scent
of almond. Scent of butter.
I say, “Mommy makes
mistakes, too.” I watch
the words as they leave
my mouth and land on the walls,
the quilt, the sill.
A dog barks. Again.
Sharp bleat of the timer.
I close my eyes. Neither
of us moves. Inside me
a door opens. I feel what’s left
of my anger leave with a limp.
“Do you want to ask me anything?”
I say. Slowly, she pulls the cover
away. Her face is soft, guileless
as fruit on a tree. She says
nothing, but perhaps I hear
in her the sound of a door opening.
Distracted by the Universe
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged apology, darkness, fire, poem on February 16, 2013| 5 Comments »
I Can Laugh About It Now
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged poem, self pity, silence on February 14, 2013| 2 Comments »
Look at me, carrying around
this beggar’s bowl, moaning
and holding my lower back. Spiders
run from me. Buzzards
circle me. The mirror
goes on strike and refuses to make
the same faces I’m making.
Even the pond surface won’t
take me seriously and ripples
itself instead of reflecting
such scowls. But listen,
I say, to no one, myself,
first he said this and then
I said … and the wind comes
from nowhere and shreds
my arguments. The vowels fall
out and disappear in the grass
and the consonants cluster
in a nearby tree until squirrels
come to steal them, one by one,
and store them in their nests
for safekeeping. Sometimes
a gal needs to shut up before
she can see clearly enough to notice
her bowl isn’t empty, it’s full.
Of light.
Same Dream, New Ending
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged freedom, improvisation, poetry, recurring dream on February 13, 2013| 2 Comments »
I don’t know my lines.
That is always the case,
only this time, the props
were not set, either,
and I am frantically
baking popovers
for the first act.
Five minutes before curtain,
I tell the other two actors,
“I’m going to have to improvise.”
They look at me in astonishment,
not because they are disappointed
but because they can tell
I only just this moment
knew that was an option.
Five Lessons in Disappearing
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged disappearing, haiku, losing the self, poem, poetry, tanka on February 12, 2013| 4 Comments »
mostly fallen down
the barbed wire fence—
what’s it to the birds?
*
listening
for the moon—
sound of a heart
*
that hyacinth leaf—
staring at it until it is
no longer leaf
*
in the window
the boy waves at himself
saying he won’t stop
until the other boy
stops waving
*
poet, can you rhyme
with the cherry tree
in spring
Five Undoings
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged freedom, haiku, illusion, poem, poetry, story on February 11, 2013| 5 Comments »
wearing that story
for so long I forgot
I had slipped it on
*
bad hem day—
tripping on my own
once upon a time
*
rumors of my self
catch on morning sun, snag on
the wake of herons
*
with one hand, I stitch
the small tears, with the other,
I rip out the seams
*
naked
the scent
of hyacinth
Playing Again Opus 37, No. 1 in G Minor
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Chopin, ineptitude, Nocturne, piano, poem, poetry on February 10, 2013| 3 Comments »
I stretch my span
for the low, low D, but
over-reach and hit a C.
The nocturne
bristles on its slender staves.
Clumsy hands grope to apologize—
they stutter and blunder
through intricate ornaments
and fumble in the chorale.
In my mind, it is so lovely.
I hear Chopin’s consoling swell
as the legato chords progress.
Oh curve of the hand,
I remember you well,
palm hollowed
so only the finger pads touch.
In my mind, there are
lovers dancing.
I keep my shoulders soft.
In my mind,
the moon appears.
Epiphany While Driving in the Storm with Danny
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Danny Rosen, indifference, poem, poetry, reframe, universe on February 9, 2013| 2 Comments »
Out the window
I do not see
the mountains
I know are there
behind the fog.
Do you think
the universe
is indifferent?
he asks.
New snow
obscures
all the lines
on the road.
The radio
is silent.
Yes, I say.
Rosemerry,
he says,
are you
indifferent?
tanka
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged love, snow, tanka on February 9, 2013| 6 Comments »
softly snowing
while all the stars are out
let’s love like that—
everyone will say it’s not possible
but we know