Posted in Uncategorized, tagged beauty, mirror, poem, poetry, reflection on December 21, 2018| 2 Comments »
We are the dust that sings.
—Art Goodtimes
She has learned not to trust the mirror.
When she is not near it, she’s beautiful.
Here, in firelight, she knows herself
as one of many stems in an enormous
bouquet, all of them lovely. And in moonlight,
she shines along with the rest of the shining world.
And in the longest night, she is the dust
that dances, dust that sings, dust that knows beauty
everywhere it looks, inside, outside.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged beauty, ice, inner child, parenting, poem, poetry, winter on November 26, 2018| 2 Comments »
See, I want to say to my son. See
how the pond has frozen in thick,
continuous curves. See all the lines,
how they ring each other, like dozens
of tiny orbits. I want to show him
the marvel of it all, but he is too old
now for marvels, or perhaps too young,
the precise age where beauty is boring.
And so I take the child of myself to the pond
and show her the rings. I resist the urge
to explain how the meltwater formed them,
how surface-tension forces make liquid melt
cling against the lower parts of the ice.
Instead, I let her gaze at the miracle,
trace the concentric bands with her fingers.
How curious the rings are, like frozen halos
that fit enormous angels. How astonishing
in their design. Just wait till I show her
we can walk on it, too. I let her amazement
become my own, our feet slipping
across the smooth surface, our breath
rising in white ephemeral curls.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged beauty, flower, opposites, poem, poetry, thorn on November 3, 2018| Leave a Comment »
You think it’s so much better to be petal,
pink flower, the perfumed bloom that lures
the bee. You with your flutter and blush.
Not all of us can be soft. Not all of us
can be beauty, and you have that role
all wrapped up. You with your tender buds,
your loveliness splayed. But I was not
made that way. Was made prick. Was
made barbed. Was made snappish
and piercing and sharp. Was made
fierce. Was made lance. Was made
to take no chances with survival.
There is glory in defense. Everything
that touches me remembers. I’m the one
that defines the scene. How would you know
your beauty without me?
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged beauty, daughter, mother, poem, poetry, saint francis and the sow on September 18, 2018| 2 Comments »
after Saint Francis and the Sow by Galway Kinnell
And when my daughter
runs to greet me, charges
me with joy, I am like
the great thick sow Saint Francis blessed
with his touch. For though
I look in the mirror
and see only what I wish to change,
my daughter sees differently
and bulldozes me with love,
a ferocious blessing,
reteaching me in a vigorous rush
that there is something
beautiful here, though
she wouldn’t name it as such—
and a small remembering
takes root in me and
vines throughout my thoughts,
and I flower there in blue surprise,
my own soil, again, enough.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged airport, beauty, connection, humanity, poem, poetry, travel on June 21, 2018| 6 Comments »
It was Concourse B that altered me
as I ran past old women in sarongs
and young wailing children and men
in red ties and couples holding hands.
At first, all humanity felt like a hindrance,
living hurdles between me
and gate B-14 where the plane
for Seattle was already boarding.
But then, and who can say why,
as I stitched past B-70, B-68, B-66,
I began to notice how beautiful they were,
the ones with dark briefcases and the ones
with strollers, tall ones and fat ones and
slight ones and crooked ones,
all of us constellating in the same place
at the same time, star dust
with dreams and goals and heartaches
and hopes. And as I wove through
the fabric of us,
I felt their blessing as they parted
to let me through,
and I blessed them, too,
with a thousand silent thank yous,
astonished at how different we are,
how very much the same.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged beauty, garden, granddaughter, grandmother, merry stoll, planting, poem, poetry on May 26, 2018| 6 Comments »
for Merry Stoll
After I learn that she died,
I go to the garden, grateful
that there are petunias,
cosmos and snapdragons
to plant. Salvia, pansies, and
verbena that will drape its purple
kindness down the sides
of the planter. I don’t
put on my gloves. I let my hands
enter the soil and feel
how good the earth is.
This is how I best remember her,
with a trowel or a scissors in her hand,
ready to transplant, to trim,
to harvest the blooms
into a bouquet for the altar
or table. Flowers hung
in her garage to dry. Flowers
in her bathrooms, her dining room,
her kitchen. It came easy to her,
which stem to place where.
Which color, which ribbon,
which grass, which vase.
She left beauty all over the place.
Once she sat with me
on her green and white couch,
and let me read her poems,
a whole book of them.
We sat there for hours,
and she listened and laughed
at Shel Silverstein’s antics,
and as I read, I felt like a flower,
like something just at the edge
of bloom. Her attention
made me beautiful.
Today, the garden is just starting
to find itself after winter. I cannot help
but weep into the holes I have dug.
It is tender, this moment, and fragile
this life. I feel like making wild pledges—
to honor her legacy—to find
and share beauty everywhere I go.
I feel determined to keep my word.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged beauty, ekphrasis, flower, Georgia O'Keefe, petunia, poem, poetry on January 27, 2018| Leave a Comment »
When Georgia painted the petunia,
she knew that to make busy people stop
in surprise and consider petunia,
she needed to make it large—
and she did—enormous petunias
revealed, unfolding along the wall—
and there the busy people saw
the intimate petals of women,
when all Georgia wanted to show them
was flower, the essence of flower,
the beauty of flower, the pure
purpled splendor of flower—
how soft, how sensual, how
wholly day stopping
a single flower can be.
to see the artwork, visit:
https://www.okeeffemuseum.org/store/products/posters/flowers/petunia-no-2-1924/
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged beauty, flamingo, poem, poetry on January 21, 2018| 2 Comments »
We stop beside the flamingos,
their necks more question marks
than exclamation points—
I revel in their improbable beauty,
how their very being
brightens the bleak midwinter,
wonder if I might
not find a little
pink in me.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged beauty, fencing, poem, poetry, touch on January 17, 2018| 8 Comments »
In fencing, they call it la belle,
“the beautiful one” the tie-breaking point
in a bout—that moment when
one person touches another
and the balance is tipped.
How long ago the balance tipped
in your favor. How long ago
I knew that all I really want
is to lower my sword,
give the invitation
for you to touch me again,
beautifully, tip to target, then
start the bout again.
