Early, fields and trees and sky
all gray. Anchored by fresh snow
crevassed along the hills.
The world feels magical
as if everything is possible
and at peace.
Gray, in this moment,
is not the color of sadness
or of something worn out,
but the color of quiet–
the color of stillness
inside and out.
Another story from NPR and Garrison Keillor that I can’t get out of my head.
The life you were born to
was a box you ran from
as fast and far as you could
and I hope you would laugh
at how this all turned out—-
that we love and romanticize
a gone world,
a world we hold dear,
Little houses on the prairie,
and in the big woods,
Ma and Pa,Laura, Mary, baby Carrie
a world we only know
because of you
who helped her
tell us all about it.
When no poem arrives,
It feels like waking in the night
and reaching for a sip of water—-
You know exactly where you left it,
the glass with a slice of lemon
and an etched decoration of trees
at the edge of a forest,
a forest you were dreaming of
just before you woke,
thirsty for a drink your hand can’t find
though you believe it’s there
just out of reach
breathing quietly in the dark.
Yes, oh yes,
I want to do enormous favors for you,
the kind involving cash, and inconvenience,
and driving long hours, all over the state,
preferably in the rainy dark, on deer-crowded
back roads, in complicated maneuvers
involving your car, your sister’s car,
a mechanic whose garage we can’t find
in the dark, and some guy named Lloyd
who we don’t even know,
but this day wasn’t a big enough mess
so we threw him in,
because you know for certain that
when everyone else says No,
You can ask for help from one person who
may well grumble or write a poem about it,
but will eventually pick up the keys and say
Yes.
Silver glitter and cardboard
tacked to the window frame
suspended from a pale green ribbon
this one star is for the two of you.
For you, I place it forever
in the window, a light
so small you can ignore it
for a long time
but always shining, always,
so you can find it in the dark
and see the path home.
These days, all my dreams
are of being at sea,
far out in water so deep
distance has a different language
fathomless
mysteries swim below me
while I watch the stars
from my small boat.
From a visitor, I just discovered Six Word Saturdays. based on the book Not Quite What I Was Planning: Six Word Memoirs By Writers Famous And Obscure. Fun. Want to try? Visit Six Word Saturdays at Show My Face.
Here’s mine–
Trees Choose Trimmings: Snow or Lights?
Thanksgiving morning is sewn with crystals
draped on every branch.
Sky wears bright blue
with three puffy pink clouds
tossed casually over the barn roof.
Deer accent the wide field beyond.
The two cardinals are almost gaudy,
their splash of color nearly too much
for such a pilgrim holiday.
there's a poem in every day
aka: The Happy Bookers
Artist
I came to where you were living, up a stair. There was no one there.--John Ashberry, "The New Higher"
custom poems on vintage typewriters
Poems by Mary Kendall
A Ronka Poetry Practice Since 2014
Living in the moment
