Attend
How light shines
Through candle’s thin sides
Little bowl of Fire.
At the Darkest,
Coldest
Turn of the year
Thrill to something— anything
Lit up.
I see how it was
Back in the caves
How we believed
Fire
Was
Magic.
Though we learned to
Welcome it as
Warmth and Weapon
Our first love was
And always is
Light.
Stress
A tangle
a knot
that tightens
to hold a perfect
Center.
Breathe.
Do it again.
Oh, lift your eyes
Look at the sky
softly snowing
Look at the bare maple
stretching its branches
to gather the snow.
Loosen yourself
Let stress unfurl
its cramped limbs. Let it
become the deep green
leaves, the flower
it dreams of, deep in
the heart of the knot.
January is the month for tidying away,
For clearing the gilt
And boisterous glitter,
Sweeping the floors
Washing the windows
Sipping something warm from a mug
Steam rising to clear our heads
And let us see what remains
What is steady and present
Inside us
When the festive fades.
Each
berry cluster
on the mountain ash
wears its tiny cap of snow
obediently. Mother tree says
that hats matter in the wintertime
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.
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.
Yesterday’s storm caught us
unprepared, separated,
stranded but safe.
Suddenly home alone
snowed in this Unexpected
Bowl of hours, I filled it
with shoveling snow
and making soup of the day
from what I had:
Chicken and coconut,
Sketchbook and sweater,
Worldbeat Radio,
Contentment and cookies.
Later, while the storm raged,
I filled a cup and sipped
the delicious day of quiet
falling everywhere, expansive,
soft and white.
So often have I traveled
away
and back
to this room in my heart
where the candles are lit
the cat is sleeping
and from my window
I can watch the snow falling,
so soft and quiet
that I must listen hard
to hear its message.
I’d forgotten this Spanish form–remembered, gave it another try. Shadorma is a six-line form of counted syllables, divided as follows: 3/5/3/3/7/5. Go ahead, you try too–everyone has time for 26 syllables.
Colored lights
tacked along white walls
against night
help darkness
set itself on a new path:
To reflect and glow.
there's a poem in every day
aka: The Happy Bookers
Artist
I came to where you were living, up a stair. There was no one there.--John Ashberry, "The New Higher"
custom poems on vintage typewriters
One Poet's Writing Practice
A Ronka Poetry Practice Since 2014
Living in the moment
Puff Of Smoke Poems 