driving white knuckled
in the blizzard, meanwhile
a white camellia blooms
Posts Tagged ‘poem’
One Simultaneous
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged poem, poetry, snow, time on December 9, 2019| Leave a Comment »
Instead of Getting Riled
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Alabama, bird, meditation, pelican, poem, poetry, stillness on December 9, 2019| Leave a Comment »
The pelican dives
into the water,
rises again. Hovers.
Dives. Rises.
Each time, the water is quick
to forget the intrusion
loses its ripples,
stills. A thought
is a kind of a pelican.
A woman is a kind
of a bay. The pelicans
will always dive.
The bay will always
return to stillness.
A woman might
learn to live this way.
Perhaps a Chance
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged candle, flame, hope, poem, poetry on December 4, 2019| Leave a Comment »
It’s not that way with all things. Some that go are gone.
—A.R. Ammons, “Eyesight”
And so it is that
even after the candle flame
is gone, yes, after
the flame is gone,
the carbon and unburned
wax vapor in the smoke
will still combust when touched
by a match, will travel down
the smoke and reignite
the wick. It sounds
like magic—looks like it,
too, a small ball of flame
dropping bright through the air.
So tonight when
my friend sends me
a video of just such
a marvel, I play it
again and again.
And all the burned out
wicks in me stand up
just a little bit straighter
and I stare at them
to notice if there is
still any smoke, and
my god, if I don’t just
run to the drawer
and find me
a box of matches,
their sticks brittle,
their tips as red
as hope.
One Gratitude
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged gratitude, poem, poetry, possibility on December 3, 2019| Leave a Comment »
One Conversation
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged conversation, friendship, poem, poetry on December 1, 2019| Leave a Comment »
Forty Years Later, The Snow
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged earth, poem, poetry, snow, winter on December 1, 2019| Leave a Comment »
When we were nine, we’d build
elaborate cities of snow
in the fifteen minutes before
the wail of the recess bell.
The boys would outwait us,
and as soon as we’d run
toward the school, they’d
knock our snow realm to the ground.
What is it in us that loves
to create? To build worlds?
To imagine a life taking shape?
And what is it, equally human, that
thrills in seeing it all fall down?
This morning, without me
lifting a finger, the world
remade itself in snow—
everything softer now,
smoothed and linked,
a unified kingdom of sparkle,
crystal and shine.
And once again, I am nine,
the winter grand. And once again, I long
to protect it, this beautiful world,
want to give it my imagination, my hands.
That’s Why It’s Practice
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged love, openness, poem, poetry, relationships, tiger on November 30, 2019| 7 Comments »
Easier to keep open the doors of the heart
when a feathery breeze comes through, or
the scent of lavender, or slant of sun. Harder
when a wounded tiger comes in. Of course,
the impulse then is to run it out and close
the doors. Lock them. Barricade and block them.
But now is the time to take those locks
to the second hand store and to pull the chairs
away from the door and place them at the table,
then pour two cups of water. Say grace.
Let the tiger pace. And always, I pace, too.
Of course, I’m afraid it will hurt me.
That’s what wounded tigers do. And when
the inevitable happens, it’s hard to not wish
it were some other way. And it’s tempting
to lock those doors. But when I do, I quickly
note the lack of light in here, I want
for lavender, I rue how very stale the air.
Rather to die by tiger claw than live cut off from love.
Even now the wounds are raw, but oh, the breeze,
it touches them, and how soft it licks at my chest, my cheek.
Thanksgiving
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged gratitude, poem, poetry, thanksgiving, walking on November 28, 2019| Leave a Comment »
Perhaps that is when Thanksgiving
matters most—when you
walk the empty street alone,
scarred and scared and unsure.
That’s when giving thanks
becomes less of an abstract and more
like the way to take a next breath—
something that seems elusive, but
in fact it’s essential, and it’s right there,
just waiting for you to meet it,
to open yourself, to let it in.
Yes, for now it feels worthy of thanks
that the air is cool and clean and feels
good in the lungs, and the feet know
to walk you closer toward yourself
and the day holds you, holds you
in its soft gray arms, throws
a carpet of dry leaves at your feet,
suggests you keep walking into your life.
The Night Before Thanksgiving
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged brother, memory, poem, poetry, self image, sister, thanksgiving on November 27, 2019| 2 Comments »
Forty years later, my brother and I
go to the Jewel to buy evaporated milk
and egg nog, and part of me doubts
I will remember the way that we scoured
the produce aisle for green beans. Then again,
who could say why I remember
with incredible clarity the moments
when I was ten and we had just finished
the great turkey feast and my brother and I,
as we loved to do, asked to be excused,
but instead of leaving the dining room,
we simply lay on the floor beneath the table
with our feet up on our chairs
and conversed with each other
there across the green and white shag.
I don’t recall what we said or what we wore,
and it was no important moment, but
I remember the feel of it:
I knew we were together in this—
this moment, this family, this life,
so much so that forty years later
the memory of these ten minutes
is as real to me as the scent of the pumpkin pie
my sister-in-law baked tonight.
How is it that such a short snippet of time
defines us? How it comes to be
the moment we return to again and again
to remind ourselves who we are,
who we love, and why we are here—
those moments, stolen, and still
they give us back ourselves. Even now
in the produce aisle of Jewel, I can feel it—
the carpet against my cheek, can smell
the cranberry salad, can hear my grandfather
and grandmother laughing over our heads,
my brother’s eyes widening, mischievous, so alive.
One Late November
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged poem, poetry, thanksgiving on November 26, 2019| 2 Comments »
What the Heart Really Wants
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged conversation, love, poem, poetry, relationships on November 25, 2019| 2 Comments »
Because we are traveling,
I say, We’re on the plane.
I say, Just landed. I say, See you soon.
As always, my heart leans beyond
the transactional. Longs to say,
Tell me about the pain. Longs
to say, I feel lonely. Longs to ask,
What do I most need to know?
But it’s not easy to hear. And
there isn’t much time. Is that
just the same old excuse?
And so I say, I love you,
because it is true. Say,
Can’t wait to see you.
Say, Gotta go. All through
the flight, the heart keeps leaning,
rehearses the five
most important words:
tell me all about it.
First Day Back on the Skate Ski Track
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged breath, moving, nordic skiing, poem, poetry, sitting on November 24, 2019| Leave a Comment »
Someday I’ll prefer to sit, to sit
and breathe and think or not think
and sit. But now, now when
the high mountains sing with snow
and the snowcat has groomed
a path through the nowhere of spruce
and the sky is a winnowing blue
that makes me unknow my name,
yes, now is the moment to slip deeper
into the self of myself
and snap skis on my feet
and let the day slap a smile on my face
that I could not possibly unsmile,
because for now, there is
this burn in the lungs, this wind
in the face, this spilling of laughter,
this joy in stride and push and glide,
this thrill in losing the breath.
Practicing KonMari
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged cleaning, clothes, KonMari, poem, poetry on November 23, 2019| Leave a Comment »
I did it. Exactly as she said.
I removed everything
from my closets and drawers,
and touched each thing—
every sock, every shirt, every shoe—
and I asked them, “Do you bring me joy?”
Joy, it turns out, wears many clothes.
She likes scarves. Wide necklines.
Black pants. She loves long knit dresses
and tall leather boots. She needs
lots of sweaters and many gardening gloves.
And all the while I did it,
I did as she said, I visualized
the life I want,
which is apparently a life
in which my closet is full of black pants
and scarves and tall leather boots—
a life in which I talk to my clothes
and smile as they whisper back to me,
Joy, Joy, Joy.
Almost Wet
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged anticipation, curiosity, ekphrasis, hokusai, poem, poetry on November 23, 2019| 2 Comments »
after The Great Wave off Kanagawa by Katsushika Hokusai
In this sea, the great rogue wave is always
about to crash, and the fishermen
in their long thin boats
slip themselves forever in its path—
and though it hangs above them
with hundreds of frothing claws,
and though they cower atop their boats,
they’ve yet to be cast off into the sea—
and the moment is forever charged
with an anticipation larger than
the highest mountain, caught in curiosity—
how will it be to be devoured?
There, In the Cupboards at the Cancer Center
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged cancer, healing, kindness, knitting, poem, poetry, strangers on November 21, 2019| 4 Comments »
Someone has crocheted a half dozen blankets—
one dark purple, another camo green, another
with stripes in every possible color.
There are half a dozen quilts with bright squares.
And someone has knit a dozen hats—
and a basket on the shelf overflows with handmade scarves.
My friend chooses a pink cotton pillow
that someone has sewn in the shape of a heart
and a long creamy scarf, impossibly soft.
She would rather be anywhere but here,
but look at that smile as she dons the scarf,
as if its stitches are keeping her from falling away.
Drinking Assam Tea
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged hands, labor, poem, poetry, tea on November 20, 2019| Leave a Comment »
Malty, bright and voluptuous,
the tea meets me this morning,
and though I’m alone, the kitchen
is filled with other hands—the
potter’s, for instance, that threw
and trimmed and pulled and glazed
this favorite mug into mugness.
And the hands of the harvesters
in India who gathered the fresh green leaves
of the second flush, then
spread them on a tray and left them
to dry in the sun. And who rolled the leaves?
And who gathered them after they aged?
I wrap both hands around the mug
and inhale the musky scent of tea
and marvel at how much humanity
went into this simple cup. I stare
at my knuckles, my fingers, my palms.
It’s your turn, I tell them.
Serve the world well. Can you make something
so bold, so strong?
And No Key
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged love poems, poem, poetry on November 19, 2019| 6 Comments »
I plunge both hands
into the love poem,
surprised to find
they’re now handcuffed there.
This Is No Slap Dash Quiz
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged answer, friendship, peace, poem, poetry, question, solution on November 18, 2019| 4 Comments »
Part of me wants to give you
the book of answers, the solution key,
to help you know which decision, A, B, C or D,
will bring the most healing, the most happiness.
I no longer believe in such a book, such a key.
Instead I wish for you the peace
that comes only with surrender—
a word that sounds beyond reason
until it becomes beacon, becomes
north star, becomes map.
May you know for certain
that in every case, you are beloved.
May you know beyond doubt
that no matter what happens,
you always become more essential, more you.
Beside the River with My Daughter
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged daughter, fairies, mother, poem, poetry, purpose, river, rocks on November 17, 2019| Leave a Comment »
Hundreds of smooth red stones—
we gathered them that summer
and spent days carefully laying them out
into a wide and winding red path.
It had no real starting point, no destination.
We tucked white daisies between the rocks.
We said it was for the fairies.
I wouldn’t have said it then, in fact,
I hesitate today to say we didn’t believe in them.
They gave us so much purpose.
Even now, I’m following that path.