It fits into a dozen boxes
Of budgets and lesson plans,
Meetings and mindless jargon.
Do not forget
To pack the sweetness, too:
memories of children and
Books, all the delicious
Conversations that won’t stay
Inside any box, so they
Ride on your shoulder or
Swing from the rear view
Mirror, waving goodbye.
Packing Up The Year
Evening Meadow
Small towns are held together
by petty strings webbed across
tree-lined streets. The luckiest,
like me, live at the edge of town
and can walk away.
Tonight, past yards, fields,
the farmhouse shrine to Mary,
barns, horses, then the meadow
where one white hawk glides.
Beyond him, one white plane
glints in late sun, with his thin
white contrail following like shadow.
Beyond them, half moon against
The dinner time blue sky.
White statue,
White hawk,
White plane,
White moon, keeping company
with the meadow and me, while I walk
till my feet and my eyes
remind me how to breathe
so I can turn toward town
ready to love it again.
The Opposite of Serious Moonlight
I just discovered a site called The Sunday Whirl, from writer Brenda Warren. What a fun way to loosen up words. Once a week, she posts a Wordle as a poetry prompt. I can see I’m late to this particular show, since the Wordle I used is #113. Here it is, with my response below:
Why?
The master of revelry answers,
Again—The important thing
is to step out of the cave.
Along the way, scoop up
crazy big loads of
anything that giggles.
Then, break open the moonshine
which wakes everybody up
enough to cut through
the daytime world’s chattering
So your day begins to make sense.
Face it, after enough moonshine
anything makes sense. The first
step is to get out of the cave.
Only then can you see the light—
bathe in that moon,its shine,
till you glow. You’ll know the cure is working
when the world splits,
cut into before and after
you remembered how to giggle.
Consumed By Work
An enormous animal
Lumbering through days
As if it has
All the time in the world
To give to the chase.
Or a towering clock
Gears and dark wood
And veined marble, heavy
Tilted off center, leaning
Ready to fall.
Or a mountain
That must be climbed
Though feet slip, can’t
Get past the scrim of loose rock
Here at the bottom.
Or a weed, some invasive species
With a short, intense season
Covering everything it touches
In a mass of tangled vines
Impossible to cut through.
Sycamore
From Sycamore bark, he said.
That’s where people got the idea
for camouflage cloth.
What else could we have learned
from the Trees Back Then
when we listened and
They were so willing to talk
and be seen?
Someone Else’s Sign
Today, the North Wind’s strong arms
full to overflowing
with signs and portents,
faltered in the heavy rain.
He dropped one at my feet–
one I don’t even recognize.
What are we meant to do
with someone else’s sign?
Too Busy
There is a point
When my mind fills
And begins to quietly break open
Under pressure. Small holes appear
Where words and lists slip
Out and disappear forever
I’ll never know what becomes of
Them, my babies
But this talent of the brain, to
Become a sieve
Leaking away what it can’t hold
Relieves the pressure
So, despite all that’s lost,
there’s space now for light to shine
Into all those cracked open bits.
Poetry Round
Be patient, poems,
as I have been with you.
Our time round, but not round like
a game of golf, a mushroom cap,
a beach ball, acorn, moon.
Round in circles, our time together.
We pass each other, over and over,
catch glimpses of the other’s face
carousel horse,
rider,
brass ring,
face in the crowd,
There. That girl with the red dress and cherry lips,
eating cotton candy—
You choose, Poem.
She can be me or you
this time around.
Old Friend
We meet again, decades later,
Choosing rhubarb and pink geraniums
At the farm market. It took long moments
For us to peer through the wrinkles and
Gray hair and bushy eyebrows but
Suddenly I saw you at five—
Long brown hair, schoolgirl plaid,
Your huge family, picnic benches instead
Of chairs at your kitchen table.
I remember your deep, scratchy voice,
So funny on a little girl.
It finally fits. There should be a new word
For this old moment
When time pulls back like curtains on a stage
And here among the spring plants
And baskets of ripe berries
Two people look up, cross years,
And say, I knew you in that other world.
Red Suitcase
Closed story in my mind,
Red and locked, waiting for me in
The empty room.
In last night’s dream, it laid open
Full of folded clothes
I’d never worn, bright
Flower colors, soft silken dresses.
I marveled at their new selves
Neatly stacked and waiting
And wondered what it
Was I was
Waiting for.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 