In his heads, he swirls
the dark loose leaves
of his thoughts,
lets them boil
and steep too long,
then offers the tea
to others to drink,
but it spills before
the tea reaches the cup,
and he fumes,
throws in more leaves.
Archive for February, 2017
That Dry Feeling
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged anger, depression, poem, poetry, tea on February 28, 2017| Leave a Comment »
Lots of Honey
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged bedtime, owl and the pussycat, parenting, poem, poetry on February 27, 2017| 7 Comments »
Before she sleeps, my daughter and I
face each other on her pillow,
our heads heavy, our eyes half mast,
and in the dim light we recite
“The Owl and the Pussycat”—
the words seem to leap between
our breaths so that we can’t tell
where each other’s voice ends or starts,
and I think of the pericardium
around the heart, which the Chinese say
is a boundary place that decides
who gets in and who stays out,
and I marvel at how, for now,
on this quiet night, our hearts
seem to need not any space apart,
and after the owl and the pussycat
dance to the light of the moon, the moon,
we curl into each other’s curves
like two parentheses
on the same side of a thought,
like twin silver runsible spoons.
Sole
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged hands, letting go, love, poem, poetry on February 26, 2017| 1 Comment »
Like a boot takes the shape
of the foot that wears it, I imagine
my hand might come to take the shape
of yours, your hand—something
I was made to hold, made to move with,
made to let go.
In Room 1224, St. Mary’s
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged poem, poetry on February 26, 2017| Leave a Comment »
The Mozart Aria fills the hospital room
and Jack closes his eyes and weeps,
his thin neck and shoulders lean
into the familiar notes,
then return to stasis
as the soprano rests.
It’s the phrasing, he says, the phrasing,
using a hand to meet the crescendo,
then to illustrate the softening phrase.
He, too, is softening, the punch line
whacked off, and what remains
is his thrill in beauty.
Just ten minutes ago,
they strapped a purple band
on his wrist, DNR,
the same wrist
where so much tenderness,
so much life is pulsing.
Making Light
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged darkness, light, poem, poetry on February 26, 2017| 1 Comment »
Fumbling in the dark
with the matchbook
grateful my hands
are experienced
with making flame—
part of me fears
using them up
part of me knows
it’s what matches
are for.
One Set Up
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged expectations, poem, poetry, unripe on February 23, 2017| Leave a Comment »
One Without Candles
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged darkness, poem, poetry, power outage on February 23, 2017| Leave a Comment »
While leaning over the salsa, Lauren tells me
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged lines, poem, poetry, story on February 22, 2017| Leave a Comment »
“Sometimes I draw a straight line
and the other artists tell me
to squiggle it—“
all night I re-imagine
our storyline with curves
Next Chapter
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Art, books, parenting, poem, poetry, understanding on February 21, 2017| 4 Comments »
Mom, she says, Stop crying.
She’s embarrassed for me.
I can’t stop. After three hours
of snuggling on the green couch,
we are nearing the end of our book,
where the silverback gorilla
and the baby elephant say goodbye
to the girl who has helped them
leave their cages. It is not
the farewell that makes me weep,
though that, too, but the way
that the girl and the gorilla
share a passion for art. It’s so good,
I say to my girl between sniffs,
it’s so rare and so good to find someone
who really understands you.
She looks at me as if she will never
comprehend how such a thing
could make someone cry.
My tears land on the end of the chapter,
leaving a wet trail I don’t
expect her to follow, not yet,
her small hand already
pushing on mine to turn the page.
Parched Heart
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged longing, poem, poetry on February 20, 2017| Leave a Comment »
Age of Expansion
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged history, junior high, poem, poetry on February 20, 2017| Leave a Comment »
Almost all I remember of seventh-grade history
is sitting in the back right corner
where I could lean my head against the wall
and look as if I were listening.
Those were the days when we still learned
that the Europeans had “discovered”
new worlds, and the indigenous people
were “found,” implying a subject/object relationship.
I never thought to question Ms. Estes about the terminology.
I only knew how desperately I wanted
to be discovered—preferably by Ron Didonato,
though he barely knew my name.
It was mid-semester when the note
arrived on my desk, passed along the back
of the room. Though the handwriting was messy,
the blue-ruled paper was folded neatly.
It was from the boy in the back left desk,
wondering if we could go together.
Circle yes or no. I certainly didn’t want
to be found by him, but I also
didn’t want to hurt his feelings.
Ms. Estes, up by the green chalkboard,
rambled on about European dominance
of a non-European world,
and meanwhile I prayed that an ocean
the size of the Atlantic might appear
in the middle of the classroom
so I could fall in or sail away before the bell.
It was only a few years later that history books
began to use the word “encounter” instead of “discover,”
which implies a reciprocity—though it doesn’t
change the fact that the Europeans
conquered the lands anyway and killed
and displaced those they encountered.
I remember I didn’t circle anything.
I remember I wrote something
about a boyfriend in a different town.
I remember the weight of the lie.
I don’t recall if I looked him in the eye
when I handed him back the note.
For the next five years, neither of us
ever mentioned again the encounter, perhaps
grateful for the ocean that rose between us
every time we met.
In Room 224
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged aloneness, parenting, poem, poetry on February 19, 2017| 2 Comments »
My daughter is still asleep
after stealing the sheets
all night. I finally let her
have them all and I’ve risen
to watch the snow not fall
outside the window.
It is gray, and from where
I sit on the floor, I’m not sure
if it’s gray because it’s too early
for sun or because it’s cloudy.
I don’t want to move
or make a sound—
would rather not wake
my daughter. They are rare,
these moments alone.
A truck rattles by outside.
I notice I am noticing the truck.
That’s a lot of noticing
for something so insignificant,
I think to myself,
then I’m startled by a laugh,
a full belly laugh, in the bed
beside me. My daughter, dreaming,
can’t stop giggling.
God, I think, it’s great
to have a body,
and on this cold, gray morning,
gratitude finds me and
body slams me
with my wild luck,
pins me with joy
to be this very woman
on the floor in room 224
not at all alone.
Going Forty
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged beauty, poem, poetry, time on February 16, 2017| 1 Comment »
these longer days,
still not enough time
to notice how beautiful
the cottonwood
rimed in white
The Return of Wild Rose
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Art Goodtimes, poetry reading, Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, Wild Rose on February 16, 2017| 1 Comment »
Wild Rose … she dances on tables with death. She lights the whole house on fire. She does absinth shots with God. She has a real good time. Hope you can join her and her good pal McRedeye as they perform in Telluride on Feb. 21 at Telluride Arts and in Fruita as they perform at Lithic Books …
Read all about it, and see a few pix of the crazed duo here: Telluride Inside And Out: Wild Rose & McRedeye
Why I Keep My Hands in My Lap
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged poem, poetry, silence, uncertainty on February 16, 2017| Leave a Comment »
Between us a silence
so fragile that half of me
fears it will shatter
and cut us, half of me fears
it will erupt and we’ll burn,
and half of me thinks
if I stay still enough,
something beautiful
might emerge.
Big Love
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged being present, poem, poetry, singing on February 15, 2017| 2 Comments »
Communion
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged falling in love with the world, poem on February 13, 2017| Leave a Comment »
A woman’s soft skin, I have it—
not on my hands, which thrill
to garden and spread shine—but
soft I am in neck and belly and the long
slow reaches of my side body.
I hum like a woman, and
laugh like a woman and weep
for beauty, for sorrow.
In the early evening,
I leave on the lawn
the long curving shadow of a woman.
Sometimes I even fool myself—
but sometimes I remember
I am also sand and elephant,
skylark and sunflower,
blood orange and button,
wind,
and the stillness after.
Four Love Poems
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged love poems, Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, valentine's day on February 13, 2017| Leave a Comment »
Happy Valentine’s Day!
Here’s a small bouquet of love poems to celebrate the joys and stumblings of loving each other. May love find you in all the places you need love most,
Rosemerry
On the River Road
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged ache, love, love the world as it is, poem, poetry on February 13, 2017| 1 Comment »
In the front seat,
I am talking with Ulli
about all the people we know
who are hurting.
They are people we love,
and there are no right words to say,
so we say the words we can—
I’m sorry. That’s hard. I hope
it will be okay.
We drive past a family of deer
standing on an island
in the center of the Uncompaghre River.
We oooh with the pleasure
of seeing them, their bodies, slight,
moving both separately and together.
Just an hour ago, we were singing
a whole concert of love songs, and though
not all the notes were right,
the spirit with which we sang
was no less true.
It was easy, in those moments
to believe in harmony,
to smile and really mean it.
I urge the car to follow the curves
of the river road.
There is a gate we pass
that is crooked. For years, each time
I have passed it I long to make it straight.
This time is no different.
I ask myself, Can you fall in love
with the world as it is,
this world in which no words
can make things right?
To the west, I spot a hawk
sitting in the empty branches.
I would like to slow down here
to watch it sit. The road curves on.
My Son Teaches Me to Draw Aspen Trees
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged dark, light, mistakes, parenting, poem, poetry on February 12, 2017| 1 Comment »
I like the way he leans over the paper,
the way he pulls the black ink
across the page, the matter-of-fact way
he says, “Like this, Mom,
only you don’t have to be afraid
to make mistakes. They usually turn out.”
I want to tell him
his life is like these trees—
that no matter how much
he thinks he’s messed up,
there is no blotch or line
that cannot be transformed
into an opportunity.
Instead, I say, “Show me
what to do next,”
and he shows me how
to shade the sides
with small quick strokes,
the dark lines holding
so much light.