Wandering through the isles with the Martians,
We landed here, this cozy lodge, thick wooden
Beams, field-stones, walls insulated with straw bales
And poems tucked into each wall
Snug against the storms. The long days now,
We stay inside, bundled and warm,
Fire built up and crackling,
Sipping tea, eating those crisp Martian cakes shaped
Like Earth with their faint tang of lemon.
We tell each other stories, the Martians and I, softly,
In quiet voices to match the snow
Drifting past our glazed windows,
Building feather mountains like the ones they remember.
Wandering With The Martians
Water Colors
Gray silk lake at dusk
To the west, sun tipped water
Tilts the world towards pink.
Mourning Dove Morning
Outside of any proper season,
this cool, damp morning—
A painting, not white-washed,
rinsed in watered gray silk,
world where words are muffled–
the quiet murmur of walkers passing my porch.
Even the cars–their motors whisper Hush into the
Road, which answers with a rain wash shush
and below all these, the beat of this day’s
softened heart, the call over and over
of the mourning dove, this morning dove.
At The Lake
I’d forgotten how it is at the lake–
How the water stills itself
at the end of each long day
and again, at the start
of each new next day.
Smooth and still,
not like glass or mirror,
not like sheets on the clothesline
on a windless day,
not like a full bathtub
before the child jumps in,
not like our jumbled memories. Closer is
the way sometimes the teacher holds a pose
so the yoga students see for once how it would look,
if done enough times, with that peculiar mind of
focus without striving. But even that is not quite
The lake, which stills—
not like anything but its silver self,
stretching to the far shore
giving our restless eyes,
our agitated minds,
our hungry, always moving mouths,
something to follow–
a model for a different way.
The Girls Who Run The World
Last night, in the middle of some other dream, I saw what lives behind the curtain—
that heavy velvet hung between awake and everything else,
back where dreams and soul, subconscious, spirit run the show.
It was Not What I Expected. I expected gears and pulleys, or
spreadsheets and projections, or possibly clouds.
Instead, two girls gossip at an outdoor cafe,
heads bent together, posture telling everything about
their delight in the world, each other, the unfolding all around them.
Cindy & Suzie are the names embroidered
in pink on matching bowling shirts.
They could be twins—short black curls,
heavy blue eyeshadow, bright red lipstick,
girls fixed up like the Andrews Sisters, ready for the USO show.
They don’t expect me, of course, back here where
we aren’t supposed to be able to peek.
One glance and we all know I’m in the wrong place,
me with my million questions about dreams and our futures and
why, oh a mountain of questions about why, so insistent and distraught.
They both smile, big surprised grins that say—
This is SO against the rules, but we’re happy to see you.
Pull up a chair. Let’s see What Happens Next and Oh,
this part is going to be fun.
Peonies
This only in summer—
Time opening its dense flower face,
An old rose or here, a bright pink peony,
All day passing with others of its kind,
Basking in sun, rain, cool nights, the
Particular quiet of mid-afternoon
When even the birds
Whisper in the heat
And the peonies dream their flower dreams
Of stretching themselves
Into blossoms.
Graduation In Translation
Searching for your one important face
in a crowd of caps and gowns
and beach balls—which are against
The Rules and…There— you turn,
see me and grin that always smile
which all these years of practice
taught me to translate with ease
into this jumble of:
I’m hot, this hat itches, isn’t this whole
thing ridiculous but funny?
And as always, the grin includes
Instructions for me–
Please Do Not:
Cry
Take any more pictures
Comment on my sneakers
Or the girl in the next aisle.
I smile right back, knowing you too
are a master translator:
I love you, we both say,
as I reach for the camera.
Packing Up The Year
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.
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.
