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Posts Tagged ‘poetry’

 

 

 

Just as the sun enters the room

and changes the feel, the warmth,

and the power to perceive,

 

the right word, too,

can be a beam, can shine

into an evening, bring

 

glimmer, tidings of light,

make even the darkest corners

shine. Yes even one word

 

can become a prayer,

a gate we pass through

to find ourselves luminous.

 

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Wish

 

for my father

 

 

And when at last

the healing comes,

may it come like the rain

after a long drought,

so soft that at first

you aren’t sure

it is raining,

but the fragrance

overcomes you,

green and wet,

and the world

looks dewy and

you feel it in your lungs.

Yes, may the healing

arrive on the edge

of perception

and then feel

wholly present,

as today when the rain turned

long and steady,

the kind that slowly

saturates and changes everything

so quietly that

you almost don’t remember

what it was like before

and everywhere you look,

all you see is promise.

 

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for parents of teenagers everywhere

 

 

planting flowers

all along the fence—

the fence is no less sturdy

 

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it just rolls off her tongue.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no.

The phone rings. She doesn’t

answer. A knock at the door.

She doesn’t rise. Unless

she wishes to. When she gets to work

and they say, Can you, please,

she says, Thank you. No.

When offered another job,

she says, No. Asked to lead

a committee, join a board,

volunteer, she says

no, no, no, no, no.

And smiles.

It’s not hard.

It rhymes with grow.

That night, in the mirror

she looks at herself

and says yes. That smile

on her face leaps

out of the reflection

and asks her to dance.

They sway

in the light of the moon.

 

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One Surrender

 

 

hijacked by the moon

my heart stops trying to know better

and lets the light drive

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One Patience

 

 

 

desperate for shade—

I plant a sapling,

bring it water

 

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I decided to take

the invitation seriously.

Nothing changed.

I made breakfast.

Went to work.

Walked.

Made a date

to speak with a friend.

Swore at the magpie

that dive bombed

my head. Ate popcorn

for lunch.

Made plans

for four months from now.

Took vitamins.

Drank green tea.

Watered the seeds

planted yesterday.

Talked to the seeds,

encouraged them to grow.

Read a book, stopped

at the penultimate chapter.

Some things are better

left unfinished.

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Mom, she says, I don’t know what it was about that book,

but the pages were falling out and it smelled old

and I think it cast a spell on me.

And I recall the first time I read Emily,

an old cloth book with the text debossed,

how I ran my fingers over the words

and felt them as I read them:

“As imperceptibly as Grief

The Summer lapsed away—”

Mom, she says, I didn’t even understand

a single word I read, but I couldn’t stop reading.

And now, I think that book is haunting me.

We are making her bed just before she sleeps,

and I tug on the covers to straighten them.

Yes, I say, her words are like spells.

I memorized that poem, though I was

too young to know of “courteous

and harrowing grace.” I knew only

that when I said the words, they gave

me such an openness, a wideness, a delight,

as if morning found its way into my chest,

and now, thirty years later, the early light

still touches me, still thralls.

The bed remade, she slips beneath

and I lay at her feet and for a time we read.

I want to talk more about Emily,

but the spell is her own and I don’t

want to trespass her magic,

the wonder she feels.

Perhaps someday she, too,

will read these lines,

“Our Summer made her light escape

into the beautiful.”

and know herself more beautiful

for having let them touch her.

 

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One Hopeful

 

 

 

counterfeit can only exist

when there is real gold—

is it the same with god?

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trying to pickpocket

the universe—it turned around

and gave me everything

 

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