weeping under the weight
of the burden, still grateful
to help carry it
Archive for July, 2017
One Together
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged family, illness, poem, poetry, support on July 16, 2017| Leave a Comment »
A Request, Of Sorts
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged intimacy, piano, poem, poetry, song, touch on July 14, 2017| 4 Comments »
Letter to the Doctors and Nurses in the ICU
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged doctor, gratitude, hospital, mother, nurse, poetry, prose poem on July 13, 2017| 6 Comments »
I know it’s your job, to monitor the heart rate as it rises, the blood pressure as it falls. I know the gray-haired woman in the bed is another set of numbers with a name you’ll forget. She’s my mother. She grows tomatoes on her porch and has a song to sing for every occasion. She loves side stroke and chocolate and Japanese art. She makes the best poached eggs, and she knows exactly how to scratch my head to lull me to sleep. I know it’s your job to find the clot. To bathe the wound. To ease the pain. Thank you. Thank you for your hands as they slip the needle into her arms, the arms that gather me when frightened or cold. Thank you for your feet as they run down the halls to examine her heart, her heart that holds so many. Thank you for your art as you puzzle the why of her body, her body that knows itself as a vessel for love and prayer. She is praying for you, even now, as I do, and though you are just doing your job, thank you.
A Small Bouquet of Poems Written While Camping
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged camping, poem, poetry on July 13, 2017| 2 Comments »
camping at the edge
of the river, all night
I dream of thirst
*
asking a question
I don’t want answered—
earwigs under the tarp
*
waking to rain
on the tent—
no rainbows at 2 a.m.
*
give me a day
not measured in hours—
splash, spoke, step, flame, song
What I Learned from Shushana
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged friendship, poem, poetry on July 9, 2017| Leave a Comment »
Everyone you invite into your life,
ask them to invite
a friend—
then build in your heart
a room big enough to hold them all,
a kitchen large enough to feed them all,
and a host of intimate spaces
to meet them.
After the Long Journey
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged change, journey, poem, poetry on July 8, 2017| Leave a Comment »
Though you may not come home happy,
you do come home changed.
That is what the trip was for.
The door is the same. The handle,
the same. Same couch. Same lamp.
Same chair. But the one who opens
the door is not the same as before.
You can pretend if you want.
Most do: Act the old way until
they forget they are new.
Sometimes, the change takes charge.
Sometimes it invites itself
to dinner. And then breakfast.
By lunch, even the dishes are wondering
what will happen next.
(my son just returned from 10 days at camp–wow, what a difference 10 days can make!)
Unfinished
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged change, dave aschwanden, poem, poetry, transformation, wine on July 7, 2017| 2 Comments »
Dave slips the wine thief
into the barrel and siphons
the young red wine. Into my glass,
he spills it and asks what I taste.
Pineapple. Pepper. Currant.
In another, there is cinnamon.
In another, sunshine and almond.
The thief dips again and again
into cab franc and merlot, syrah,
and grapes I’ve never heard of before.
They are all changing,
Dave explains. Come back again
in a month, he says, and they
will all be different. I think
of what a difference a month makes,
how the heart, like wine,
stays essentially the same,
only it’s ever transformed—
the notes it carries, innuendo,
the balance. At last, we reach
the barrel of white, Gewertzraminer.
In my glass sings pear and grapefruit and
summer still shy. Though it, too, is unfinished,
I could drink it all night.
All around us, inside us,
so much is changing. I tell myself
not to fear. There can be pleasure
in this art of change,
exotic and sweet,
a hint of rose petal, spice.
Between
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged dream, poem, poetry on July 6, 2017| Leave a Comment »
all morning
unable to untangle
what is real
from last night’s dream—
part of me reaching
back to massage it
into being, part of me
packing the lunch,
making the tea
Unfinished Song
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged drought, love, poem, poetry on July 5, 2017| 1 Comment »
Tonight, I love you
the way the sky loves the moon,
the way trees
love their leaves,
the way loss
loves minor tunes.
Tonight, I love you
just as the sea loves the waves,
just as blooms
love their Junes,
just as welcomes
love doorways.
Don’t you hear
there’s a question in the air
and it smells like rain,
the rain that’s yet to come.
Can’t you hear
there’s a humming in the air
and it smells like rain,
the rain that’s yet to come.
Tonight, I love you
the way the earth loves the rain,
the way jazz
loves pizzazz
the way mornings
love champagne.
Tonight, I need you
the way the rain needs the sky,
the way blue
needs light, too,
the way questions
need their whys.
Don’t you hear
there’s a question in the air
and it smells like rain,
the rain that’s yet to come.
Can’t you hear
there’s a wonder in the air
and it smells like rain,
the rain that’s yet to come.
A Partial List
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged daughter, father, poem, poetry, what I learned on July 4, 2017| 2 Comments »
for my father on his birthday
I learned from my father to be silly,
to speak in strange accents, to make up
odd lyrics, and to hum when I don’t
know the words.
He taught me how quickly a car can turn
for a rummage sale sign,
and how easy it is to find treasure.
He taught me always to have a plan—
a one-, a five- and a ten-year plan.
You can always change the plan,
he says, but you need at all times
a one-, a five- and a ten-year plan.
I learned that even the strongest people
cry and that ice cream can save a day.
He taught me to use a chainsaw, shoot a gun,
drive an ATV, and wear dresses.
My father’s eyes sparkle, something
no one can teach, but I learned
it was possible for someone to shine
from inside.
His poem about his father
would be a very different poem.
There are people who give to the world
what they were not given themselves.
My father taught me I could be anything,
then accepted me for who I was.
I learned I could fail and still be loved.
In every room I enter, I bring my father—
don’t be surprised when I can’t stop
giggling, when I ask you
about your plans.