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Archive for April, 2017

 

 

 

After many, many hours in the car,

through spring blizzards and shine,

over passes and through tunnels,

we have conversed about loneliness

and loss, isolation and struggle,

we’ve found laughter inside

awkwardnesses and cried

for reasons we don’t understand

and we have solved nothing

of the world’s problems, nor our own,

but in this last hour, a lovely

silence joins us in the car,

all those unanswered questions

somehow content to look out the window

and admire with us the white rumps of elk

and the mountains newly covered

with snow, so much already

growing beneath the white.

 

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Permanent

 

 

 

In the corner of the closet

in permanent marker

I wrote in small letters

“this room belongs

to Rosemerry Wahtola

forever and ever, no matter

who else lives here.”

 

The room had been built

for me in the basement

by my father, and I loved

its orange carpet, its

subterranean dark,

the way I could close

the door and be entirely alone.

 

The room was not mine,

no more than the mountains

are mine, these mountains

I love for their openness,

their long trails, their cliffs,

their secret glades.

 

No, it is always we

who belong to the spaces

that hold us, though

they change, they mark us

invisibly, they write

on our inner walls,

as if to say you are mine,

child, forever.

 

 

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In the glass case

is a necklace

with 5,000 stone beads

all drilled and strung

over a thousand years ago

and I think of the man

whose hands did the work—

how he chose not just

to survive, but to make

something beautiful.

I think of your hands,

of the choices

they make,

quiet nights,

all around us,

so much beauty.

 

 

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then I guess it’s fair to say

that today, we walked on water—

how easy it is to not notice

how our every step

is miracle

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and the mouth puckers

into sweet distress

as if saying something kind

while the mind kicks the tongue

and says liar, liar.

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willing my feet

to go slowly, slower

than that, eavesdropping

on some inner quiet

I’d forgotten was there

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How could I know

it’d be a weed

that would save me—

 

one which I’ve

spent hours on my knees

trying to eradicate—

 

didn’t know that

on a day when

I needed to believe in spring,

 

it would appear in the quack grass,

its tiny purple flowers

calling to me

 

as if I were not the woman

who had uprooted them,

calling to me

 

as if I too

have some spring

left in me.

 

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One Unlearning

 

 

 

peeling away the film—

discovering how to sing

in a voice I can’t call my own

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Hello friends,

I hope you can join me in a four-week poetry discussion class on living with uncertainty.

Week 1: Accepting Uncertainty as a Part of Life

Week 2: How Inviting the Unknown Helps us Live More Richly

Week 3: How we Find Ourselves by Getting Lost

Week 4: The Generative Power of Not Knowing

The class is offered through Weehawken Arts in Ridgway, Colorado, 12-2 p.m. on Wednesdays. To read more or sign up, please click https://www.weehawkenarts.org/classes/22-classes/creative-arts/153-living-with-uncertainty-a-poetry-discussion-series-with-rosemerry-wahtola-trommer

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Touched

 

 

 

The heron flies away

and its great blue wings

touch the surface of the water.

For a time, after the heron

is gone, the twin concentric wrinkles remain.

If you leaned far enough, you could

see your reflection in ripples,

your image warped by the memory

of flight. The water

returns to its stillness,

your face again your familiar face—

but that is not the way

with all memories.

Sometimes, we

never see ourselves

the same again.

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You are the elephant

and I the room,

you the lark,

the missing spoon,

 

you the question

that swallowed the answer,

you the music

inside the dancer,

 

and I am still

the waiting room—

or, perhaps, dear elephant,

a cocoon.

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One Togetherness

you and I

two banks

of the same river

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“Even Now,” my latest book (a collaboration with artist Jill Sabella) is a finalist for the Colorado Author’s League Book Awards in poetry. Yippee! If you live near Denver, I hope you can join me on Saturday, April 29, 2 p.m. for the reading of poetry and non-fiction finalists (though I am the only one finalist who will make it for a poetry collection). I will have my dear friend Kyra Kopestonski with me to accompany on cello–a very special treat. I’m excited about this honor and hope you can come hear me and the other finalists! It’s Independent Bookstore Day–come celebrate! Winners of the awards will be announced the next week.

Tattered Cover Poster 2017 CAL Awards Finalists

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After hoping and trying

and failing and hoping

and trying and failing

and hoping and trying

and failing the mind

perhaps will finally say

I don’t know what comes next

and, startled by the sweet

clarity of this, the body

raises both arms, though

the mind didn’t tell it to—

yes, the arms rise weightless

and open, as if there is nothing

they aren’t ready to embrace,

as if the world as it is

might come rushing in.

 

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Holding Patterns

 

 

 

It’s not patience

that makes the cup

hold the tea, it’s

simple practicality.

Not love that makes

bowl hold ripened fruit.

But it is patience

that holds the phone

and says I miss you.

It’s love that doesn’t

hold at all.

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Despite Birdsong

 

 

 

In a cupboard

he opens often

he keeps a box

of resentment.

Something about

knowing it is there

makes him feel alive.

 

He touches the box

again and again,

lets the anger fill

whatever inside him

feels empty.

 

Hear it? Thumping

in him, pretending

it is a heart. It’s easy

to mistake.

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Happy Easter! I am back from Florida and helping my parents move. Now we’ll return to our regularly scheduled daily poems, but here are 15 from the last 15 days … I decided to bunch them all together into one bouquet. 

 

 

eavesdropping over the fence

the bougainvillea leans into my thoughts,

blushes a deeper pink

 

*

 

the moon emerges

from behind the cloud

and the whole sea shines—

wanting to find in us

that kind of light

 

*

 

that memory

leaves my lips half open—

ripe blood oranges

 

*

 

watching my father

give away his favorite fishing rods—

 

a hook in my heart

a tug on the line

 

*

 

at the top of the hill

I see another hill—

deciding to take

another step,

another step

 

*

 

I’ve hired a hit man

for my doubt—

now it’s really

got something

to worry about

 

*

 

finding the perfect shell—

giving it back

to the sea

 

*

 

it ,too,

has a shadow,

that perfect red hibiscus

 

*

 

oblivious to the angel beside me

I tripped on its wings as I passed

and scared it into a white hush of flight—

I stood, equal parts bereft with its loss

and blessed with proof it exists

 

*

 

pressing my nose

against your nose the way a cat would—

hoping you stay close

 

*

 

sure, do it again,

said God, but next time

try giggling

when you do

a belly flop

 

*

 

mesmerized by the sunset,

reminding myself

I am also an actor

in this scene,

not only audience

 

*

 

wearing my sunburn

the way I wish

I were wearing you—

the sunrise leans

into every shade of pink

 

*

 

on the old couch

I hold my mother gently

and slow my breathing to hers—

the small light of our love

pushes against the edge of dark

 

*

 

the congregation pussy willows

and mullein rosettes sang off key—

I sang along, not caring

if we sounded good, just grateful

to be praising

 

 

 

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Future Imperfect

 

 

 

We’ll catch up soon,

I say, and I actually believe it—

though after I say them

the words stare at their watches

and rush off, late

for their next sentence,

their letters shaking their heads

their sans serif heads,

as if they know

I’ll never learn.

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