My beautiful aunt
with her black hair
and bright red lips
was the one
the rest of the family
told stories about.
She didn’t care.
Laughing at their gossipy ways,
she pulled them close,
told them another story,
kissed their befuddled cheeks.
On my own gray days,
it cheers me to remember those faces,
that flock of dour Scotsmen
surprised at what they made—
one red flower dropped in their midst
thriving in a field of rocks.
Emily
On Your Trail
Calmness has been trailing you
for years now. Can’t you feel
its breath at the nape of your neck?
It follows, resting at the place
where a mother cat gently
tugs her kitten’s soft scruff.
Be warned. If you stop, it may
catch you. And then where
will you be?
Not on track,
not on task, but
off the road somewhere,
in a meadow
just you and
Calmness, tending you with
its sandpaper tongue
and low purr.
I Need A Poem, Here
I need
a poem
some days,
a reminder
to Breathe,
built
of tiny lines.
Each pause
a place to
rest,
a soft red pillow
shaped like the suggestion
of a stop sign.
The poem puts out its hand,
whispers, Wait, and
look both ways:
Snow dusts
the dark morning.
Houses glow and simmer,
dawn and lamplight
meet and kindle
at every window.
Now, stretch
and breathe
into the new day.
That’s the kind of poem
I need now.
Spoon Rest
O spoon,
washed and dried
worn out
after the dinner shift.
Your work, as
necessary as a key–
to unlock our lips,
open our voices
over tonight’s
fine bowls of soup.
Arrows
Every stone on my path
triangle-shaped, like an
arrow pointing,
showing me the way.
I leave them
nestled into the dirt
in case these directions
were meant for
some other walker.
Two Umbrella Life
Tiny one left behind by children
who no longer believe in umbrellas
hangs by the door
eager as a puppy
ready to throw itself
at a chance to open.
Bigger one leans in the corner
lazy as an old but faithful dog
opens creakily, slowly
rousing itself from dreams
of other storms, long ago.
Dublin Tale
Here on the far side of the ocean
that crazy rumor turns out to be true.
Rain fell hard all night.
Wind swept through the trees,
shook everything loose.
We wake this morning
to a world where all the
streets are paved in gold.
If A Tree Falls
huge branch cracks
mighty snap and rustle as
smaller branches, leaves, apples
collapse in concert, broken
beneath the weight of too much.
************************************
After,
this view from the forest floor–
How tall the trees look now.
How apples soften into the earth
How dried leaves crumble,
Melt into the dirt.
Lichens gray as cat fur,
Mosses soft and bristled along the flank,
Mushrooms gilled as sea creatures
Bunched together, clustered and
Humming to themselves.
Everything you’ve carried
breathes out, expands
murmurs to the ground
as you soften and disappear
curious about this new glimpse of the sky.
Episode Guide: Bad Dream
And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy,
a remote important region in all who talk:
though we could fool each other, we should consider—…
…the signals we give–yes or no, or maybe–
should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.
—- Excerpt from William Stafford’s poem, A Ritual To Read To Each Other
Here we are again
in the dark.
The farmhouse is gone
We stay in the barn
close together
as our numbers dwindle
and I sing songs
the songs I can remember
till night
when I get scared, again,
at how much darkness is out there
and how few we are.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 