Another Empty Nest

I’ll never know
why you believed
our rickety green table
that’s never been asked
to hold more than a lamp, a phone,
the occasional vase—
Why would you believe it could hold
You?
But, you explain again,
baby birds need to eat
every ten minutes.
You learned this online.
You couldn’t find the step ladder
or we never had one to start with
and the mother was going nuts…

She’s not the only one.

Your expression is as stunned as a baby bird.
I didn’t think you’d care that much,
is what you say, bemused.
You explain to me again
how you saved the bird
certain this time
I will see things differently.

Later, calmer, phone and lamp
in their new home on the floor,
it’s a comfort
to remember your surprise.

Wisdom: Five Sentence Fiction

          As usual, I have no idea how I landed on this site, but…today I discovered Lillie McFerrin Writes—Home of Five Sentence Fiction. The clever and mysterious Lillie posts a one-word prompt every week and asks the world to respond with a five-sentence story. Love it! This week’s prompt is “Wisdom”.   Almost the moment I read it, Wisdom sidled up and whispered this story in my ear…

Wisdom says she’s done with being wise, done with handing out mountains of calm, clear-hearted advice to dolts who do not listen or listen and then still go off and steal the jewels, quit the job, rush the altar, buy the day old sushi, worse, eat the day old sushi.

“I’m sick of the very sound of my name, which I’ve discovered also means Prudence, as if things weren’t bad enough,” she tells the old elephant over mugs of Earl Grey.

The elephant has known Wisdom a very long time and expects she’s exaggerating when she says ‘Done’ since Wisdom gets fed up, of course, who wouldn’t, but in the end she gathers herself and dispenses herself for free again, like a reliable though battered old vending machine, wise enough to seldom say never.

“Definitely Done for good,” says Wisdom as she throws clothes into a too-small satchel, paints the elephant purple, drapes him with jewels, and climbs onto his back, beautifully bedecked herself in cinnamon scarves.

Now, she says, now is our time to finally leave home and never knowing where the next cup of tea may come from, be Foolish in the world with our names changed to Adventure and Gull.

Just A House

My old neighbor’s daughter says,
Mom’s been gone four years,
Dad even longer. I couldn’t walk
down your street, she says.
Couldn’t go past their old house.
But I scolded myself (my old neighbor’s
daughter is a very strict woman)
and said,
It’s just a house.
So a few weeks back,
I walked by.
Here, her stern eyes soften,
fill with tears.
So we make a plan,
there in the housewares aisle
where we met:
Next time, she’ll stop at my house
Three doors down. We’ll sit
on my porch and drink tea
to soften sorrow
while my house
is still mine,
no cause for sorrow,
nothing to avoid.

Private Practice

These are rehearsals.
Before the curtain rises
on that show about empty nests,
practice solitude–
Ten minutes, an hour, a day
with no one asking
for money, food, rides.
Test the quality
of the air at midday,
at midnight.
Soft as the leaves on maple trees
when the wind dies down,
quiet as nights without crickets.

Mantenere Una Promessa

In Steve Kowit’s book, In the Palm of Your Hand: The Poet’s Portable Workshop, I read about the technique of cross out poems, which involve circling or crossing out random phrases from a variety of sources, then mixing the phrases together to create something new. To read a much better description, with examples, consult Mr. Kowit’s inspiring book. For this poem, I used a Beginning Italian phrase book, a summer vacation brochure, and a volume of excerpts from the diaries of C.S. Lewis.

Offer up the first reel of every morning,
the hour when tide charts and fishing guides
with their slow, whimsical way of talking
tell you—When you look, look beyond this.
You think they said mornings are
the best chance to see dolphins
but since you never take
the first translation that arrives,
mantenere una promessa
could easily mean something about
manatees on the promenade.

This is not just any figure at the door.
Perhaps we shall not see it again,
so treasure all the beauty that comes knocking,
in any translation, at all times.

We have slipped into late hours once more.
There is more than one guide, more than
one treasure to explore. So if you want
to go, Go. Satisfy that hunger.
Fulfill your promise
to treasure what you find
buried in the sand.

Beach People

Early in the morning
the coastline shakes itself awake
and is left with
only the most burr-like humans attached:
Walkers, and contemplatives,
exercise girls, dogs with boys and Frisbees,
moms with cautious or crazy toddlers,
fishermen, content-as-clams ocean watchers,
shell hunters with their tell-tale bend, always looking down,
and my favorites—the people armed at dawn with
coolers,
blankets,
folding chairs,
pop-up tents,
big towels,
mesh bags stuffed with
bright plastic toys,
paperbacks,
boogie boards,
striped umbrellas,
inflatable rafts,
sunscreen,
and sandwiches,
setting up cozy day homes
arranged just so for the angle of sun at midday,
which is long hours from now
but you, Positive Thinkers, are certain that hour will come
and when it does, everyone you love,
or at least everyone you travel with,
will be comfortable.

Orchard’s Dream

Orchards dream, too.
They dream through the long night
and into the cool early pocket before day
where birds are busy
talking and talking.

Soon the sun will top the trees
and morning’s cool shade will
sizzle in the heat.

But here.
But now.
Sun filters through the trees,
the orchard glistens and dozes,
half-listening to the insistent birds
who talk only of Now,
and half-dreaming of
men and trees and animals
who passed here before, lingered,
and are gone.

This Same Dance

Seasons and Time
swing each other onto the dance floor
once more.
These old friends, together so long,
know the moods, the moves their partner
has in store. Here it comes, now—
This July moment when birds and
early risers discover (again) how days
shorten, how summer rushes
past us and February’s thick snow
readies itself to enter the dance.
The birds are talking quietly among themselves
and their tone is bemused—they
watch the dancers and wonder
what they see in each other, this strange pair—
Time always hurrying forward, eager to
See Something New and Seasons murmuring
Oh, let’s stretch our legs, sway through
this familiar circle, remember
October, remember May? Come now, around again.

One Explanation, Straight From The Builder

A found poem, from The Poetry Home Repair Manual, by Ted Kooser.  It jumped off the page and grabbed me while I was sipping coffee, minding my own business.  I’ve only added line breaks and omitted a few stray words. Thanks to Mr. Kooser for writing this wonderful definition, and for writing all his fine and extraordinary poems.

There’s a toy
much like a kaleidoscope
but without the colored chips.
You look through it
and see whatever Is.
Turn it
towards just about anything
and what’s beyond you
becomes interesting.
This is how some poems work.

Whirl #116

Image

Much earlier than my last couple tries, here’s my attempt at a poem using the words above, a prompt from the wonderful site, The Sunday Whirl.

The pressure accumulates of everything that
has ever happened to you or might.
It climbs into bed with you every night, whispering
and smoking. It’s scary, that voice, as it builds its case:
Calamity upon risk, impossible change, disaster. It builds
from an ember to a slow fire that can smolder all night
If fed. This slow, hypnotic voice coaxes, says
Attend to this jumbled order of what could be,
what never was, and what there is no more time to Accomplish.
Oh that voice will keep you company all night long,
If you listen.

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

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