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Archive for February, 2015

 Heart in Hand
Tuesday, February 10
Going Out, Going In: Sneak Peak

Wilkinson Public Library, 6-8 p.m.
Telluride, CO

First, we play. That is the premise of the four-day art and writing retreat I will be teaching with artist Brucie Holler. So as a teaser for our retreat at Ah Haa, this sneak peak program is chance to be light with yourself, with your inner critic, and with other women who are interested in words. Nothing serious. Nothing intimidating. We’ll read fun and funny poems by other women, and write a few, too … it’s a great gift to give to yourself, and it’s free! For more information, go to http://www.telluridelibrary.org/ or contact Elissa at the library, 970-728-4519 x147 or edickson@telluridelibrary.org .

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If you’d let me, I would lift you up
so you could touch the moon.
But that is a fairytale thing to say,
and you’re so practical.
I’d move a mountain for you,
though you’d laugh and insist,
“Please don’t bother, the mountain’s fine
exactly the way it is.” I’d plant you a field
of Mariposa lilies or a garden of magnolia blooms,
but you would say, “Don’t trouble yourself.
All I want is you.” But what about a meteor
shower to light up the darksome nights?
Or a macaw to brighten up the room?
Or a Martian might be nice? “A Martian?”
you’d say? “Oh come on. That’s not even
real.” So I’d offer to take you fishing
for marlin. Or maybe for a blue gill? And you
would say, “I told you already, all I want is you.”
But I’d still try to offer you something—
something sweet like a marshmallow?
Something tasty like wild mushrooms?
Something humble like marigolds?
Something weird like a marmot with a mustache?
and you’d say, “Don’t you know
you’re fine just as you are. Bring me
you with your empty hands.”
Why do I find it so daunting
to come to you just as I am?

*an M poem for Lian Canty’s Alphabet Menagerie

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The Short List

It can be so simple,
what gives us joy.
The trace of green
in winter grass.
The scent of ginger.
A slip of a forgotten song
that returns to the lips.
A lemon cookie
sweet and tart.
And another one, too.
The feeling that
there are a million million
small sources of joy,
and the day, though
it’s finite, is not
yet over.

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Want to take a quick armchair journey to someplace anywhere but here? Check out the Where I Live Poetry & Photography Series at Silver Birch Press … you can even travel to the remote shores in lower Placerville outside Telluride, CO, today they posted this poem from the banks of the mighty San Miguel … thank you, Silver Birch Press!

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Curled on the couch
my daughter and I
get lost for an hour
on the English moor
where the golden gorse
and the purple heather
grow wild around
the empty manor,
where once upon a time ago
I found the same garden
with the same brass key
and the same white lilies
and the same rose trees
while curled on the lap
of my own sweet mother
on another couch
in another home. I feel
in my girl the same thrill
I once felt as the story unfolds
and the characters all
learn just how much
there is to unlock.
Not far from this couch,
our small garden waits
for spring to unwinter
the frozen soil. I like to imagine
something stirring out there
in the dark beneath the snow—
the strawberry roots?
or oregano? But it is just
an imagining. Meanwhile,
here on the couch, there
is perhaps a blossoming:
a girl who says, “Mommy,
what will happen next?”
and a mother who
feels inside of her
some long forgotten door
opening.

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Only Different

I step outside into winter to take the trash
up the drive to the road, and, staring at the moon

through the empty black tangle of cottonwood branches
I step into another night when under that same moon,

you and I were walking up the steep and snowy slopes
toward tree line, a fresh loaf of bread in my backpack,

ski poles in our hands for balance, and no sense
of any story that did not end with happily ever.

After the love we thought we wanted, we found
the love we have. Now, in the time it takes

to walk to the top of the drive, sometimes
a whole lifetime goes by. Listen, there’s the sound

of the river, though it is locked by ice.
And oh, it’s so beautiful, that moon,

the same light
we used to walk home by.

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Not the custom leather cowboy boots,
not the Patagonia coat in blue,
not the earrings dripping with diamonds like lace,
not the rhinestone studded I-pod case.
Not the belt. Not the mug.
Not the Persian rug.
Not the doll. No tight jeans.
No figurines.
Like Socrates, I think it’s joy
to window shop—but not to buy.
The fun is in the strolling about
these things I’m happier without.

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I spent them all,
every single pretty word
I’d meant to give to you,
spent them on the moon,
on a dozen dozen flowers,
on the long drive home,
but I did show up with
these lips and all
this extravagant silence.
I wonder what else
might happen?

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While the moon watcher stands
out on the porch in her towel
and stares at the almost full moon,

the practical one starts to fuss
about how she’ll catch cold with wet hair,
and the list maker is already thinking

of all the things to be done
when she gets back inside,
“Like go check on your kids

to be sure they’re asleep,” says the mother,
and that’s when the laid-back one says,
“Oh relax, they’re fine, drink some wine,”

and the optimist notes what a sparkling
night it is, how the snow in the field
has never, ever been so luminous,

and the pleaser agrees with her
and says, “Never, ever so luminous,
you’re so right, oh it’s beautiful out here,”

at which the budding wise ass says,
“You’ve seen one moon, you’ve seen ’em all,”
and moon watcher almost sticks out her tongue,

but that is not like her, not like her at all,
and she marvels at the impulse, how it seemed
to rise out of nowhere, just like that gorgeous

enormous shining orb. “Oh yes,” says the scientist,
“Did you know that the moon’s surface
has exceptionally low albedo, giving it a reflectance

only slightly brighter than that of worn asphalt,”
and that’s when the reporter jumps in and begins
to take notes. And the little girl says, “There’s a bunny

in there, do you see it, do you see it tilting on its side,”
and the lover, feeling lonely, wishes she had someone
with her to watch the shining moon as it slides

all the way across the visible sky, the moon somehow
oblivious to all that company it’s keeping
on this luminous, cold night.

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reading the same book
somehow certain that this time it
will end happily

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