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Category Archives: Family

Rowing This Boat

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Written in response to a River Prompt at Red Wolf Poems.

The instructions are clear:
Row, row, row your boat
gently
down the stream.
Gently, gently
and Merrily—
Sing till you remember how to Row,
how to Change Course Midstream.
Though you’ve grown accustomed to drifting
and admiring the scenery, now you must
Take Hold of the Oars—
Oars dry from disuse, with their
paint crackled or chipped away.
Splinters fill your hands,
hands which grip too tightly.
Remember to breathe.
Remember what you know
of good seamanship:
Sometimes you cannot
Stop
Sometimes you cannot
put the whole thing in dry-dock
and wait for repairs.
Sometimes you are in the
Middle of the River.
Remember what you know.
Later, there may well be time
to sand these oars smooth,
paint them a bright, jaunty yellow.
But for now?
Loosen your Grip
Set your Course
Hold to your oars Firmly
but Gently
gently,
rowing towards merrily
till the end of this particular
Bend in the river.
till the end of this particular
part of the dream.

 

Trip Advisor

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You’ve been helping them prepare for the journey
preparing for years. Where to eat, what to eat,
what to do about the dangerous patches—swamps,
fire-breathing dragons, mysterious lights in the distance.
So what do you do when it isn’t the world
with all its werewolves and poison apples
threatening your child?
What do you do when it is their own bad choices,
Monsters of misplaced confidence, arrogance, stupidity,
that chase them through the dark woods,
gnashing sharp teeth, reaching out claws
while your child wanders off the path
you marked so carefully, map discarded in the weeds?
Music is playing so loud they will never hear
your warnings, so it doesn’t matter if you shout
Watch Out or Run or if you give up shouting and
just cover your eyes and answer the phone.

Biscotti

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Your Christmas biscotti (our favorite gift)
is gone. We took it from its freezer bag,
dunked and ate the last of it with
our breakfast coffee, before my almost
graduate went back to college.
Holidays are done. School begins,
biscotti reduced to crumbs,
our angels packed away.
Here we are again
in this season called
Wait for Spring.

Frozen

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Another moment to freeze—this morning, you
at 22, unlikely gleam of excitement in your eyes—
Let’s go outside, you say, just to see how cold it is.

Frozen. The world dipped in ice. A moment
I can tuck away as we hurry back
to our cozy snowday house—
warm socks, thick novels, baking scones.

Frozen. This moment I would add
to all the winter memories of childhood—
How you and your brother celebrated snow
bundled up before breakfast
eager and laughing,
running to be out in the world.

Impossible Ice

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What I meant to say about the cold
concerned the coziness of watching storms pass,
us safe inside, on the other side of the glass.
Instead, all I see are those tired faces on the news,
shelters full of people stripped of everything but
old clothes and the need to get out of the wind.
All comfortable words fail.

Like that day, visiting a city far from home,
when you first saw someone homeless—
A wild-eyed man, muttering to himself
as he dug through garbage cans.
Ten years old and shocked, you wanted to help,
to give him the warm, half-eaten pretzel in your hand,
and then wanted me —impossible—
To explain why I said no.

Boxing Day Lesson

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This is how it’s done:
The children must be
stuffed into snowsuits, overheated,
dragged car to store to car to another store
until they learn to beg
for one more shiny thing,
one more bit of brightly colored plastic.
Some get there quickly. Other, stoic, stubborn children,
determined to daydream about dressing up the cat
or building forts from empty boxes
and ripped wrapping paper—these children take longer.
But they are, after all, only children—
in the end, each one succumbs
to heat and hunger and greed.
Then finally, finally, a grownup can take them
home again. Sighing over how spoiled
the children have become,
an adult can carry them home to
the naps and quiet they both needed
all along.

The World Thick With Angels

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These are the days thick with angels.

Here’s the tiny one from my childhood,
in her pale pink gown, silver wings chipped,
her painted plaster face fading but serene.

Here’s the handmade one on my mantle
dressed in green velvet, wings of soft white feathers,
her banner trimmed in gold, proclaiming hopefully—
Peace Be With You Always.

Here, three enormous plywood angels
adorn my neighbor’s yard, painted white,
bedecked with strings of lights and
caught mid-flight, wings and trumpets raised
announcing joy to the grey skies of my street.

And here, the most important angel,
invisible and vital—the one who steered
while you slid off the snowy country road
and into a field—a lovely field with no precipice,
no pond, no enormous tree in your path.
That one? Oh, that is my favorite angel.

The Novel Bunch

aka: The Happy Bookers

The Sketchbook

MOSTLY MONTREAL, MOST OF THE TIME

Red Wolf Prompts

I came to where you were living, up a stair. There was no one there.--John Ashberry, "The New Higher"

typewriter rodeo

custom poems on vintage typewriters

A Poet in Time

One Poet's Writing Practice

Writing the Day

A Ronka Poetry Practice

Invisible Horse

Living in the moment

leaf and twig

where observation and imagination meet nature in poetry