I missed posting a poem today because I was setting up my new computer. So, instead, here’s a link to one of my favorites that I wrote in 1991 and posted in 2005.
Photo with Red Raincoat
Reply
Category Archives: poetry
Two for the Road
((For lack of anything else to say, I’m posting here a poem a day….)
Her Daughter’s Destiny
If she mirrored me
she refused to know it,
choosing, instead,
the finer lines
of her father’s reflection.
There were times
I wished her gone,
her and her herd
of fragile unicorns –
or cornered where
I couldn’t watch
their golden dances
filling the space in my mirror.
When she left that spring,
the corners grew shadows.
She set free the unicorns
and took all of my mirrors
with her.
……….
Her Son Leaving Home
Young Dionysus,
a faded blue bandana
circling his head like a halo,
layers himself with choices
forgotten by the gods.
He smells of earth, of dreams,
of rain that flows with ease
along acres of hilly woodland,
filing some final need
in the deep hollows of stones.
He releases himself to the magic of motley,
to the wind, alive in his unbound hair,
to sweet pickings, scattered
like ripening berries
along miles of roadside vines.
As he leaves, the hearthfire
crackles softly.
Blackbirds loose feathers
from the heights of sky-borne oaks,
and honey bees sing to the sun.
c elf (1970s and 1980s)
Ode to Opal
(For lack of anything else to say, I’m posting here a poem a day….)
Ode to Opal
The opal, they say,
scatters the heat of the wearer,
turns her fickle, they say
(if she is not centered)
– like light in moving water,
like water on warm stone.
(Let her who wears it
beware.)
The opal, they say,
is partly water,
softer than crystal
(though not as clear),
smoother than pearl
(though not as soft),
as fragile as a heart
nearly mended.
Break it and it bleeds —
water scattering light
like dreams at dawn.
(Let him who holds it
beware.)
The opal, the say,
attracts joy, love,
creative spirits
that fire the heart,
sends from its center
the magic of all other stones,
– an irresistible call
to iridescence.
1992 c elf
rebirth is a struggle
Spring. And rain. And in my deepest being a reflection of what’s happening in the deeper earth. I’m struggling.
And so I go back into my stacks of poetry, looking to remember who I’ve been as a way of beginning to find who I am becoming. Age 71. Still becoming. Spring, again.
For lack of anything else to say
I’m posting here a poem a day,
Most are old and conjure years
rife with hopes and dreams and fears.
Rippling through my flow of time,
they maybe sing, but never rhyme.
Perhaps someday they’ll fill a book.
If not, it’s just some chance I took.
A poem from my 30th year:
Riding the Heartland Current
When the sun finally slips
through the clouds
spilling into that lake
in high Wyoming,
it is only a matter of time before
the muddy waters reach Montana,
where the Missouri gorges itself
on the Jefferson, Calatin, and Madison,
binding its fate to the press
of a season’s passion.
Along the banks at Bismarck,
Spring becomes a time for waiting.
And even at bold St Louis,
bright fishing boats
hold to their moorings,
sheltered from the sudden currents
that rush Spring’s murky dreams
toward the hungry Mississippi.
It is never wise
to swim the dark Missouri;
As everyone in Nebraska knows
the mud must run its course
through each Missouri Spring.
1970 elf
she might
The following is my response to the visual writing prompt at Magpie Tales #59. Go to the site to find the responses of other writers.
she might really be him, you know,
that quirky painter who so loved codes
that he scratched subtle signs
behind and under what you see
so that you can’t see what he really
means unless you look too close,
and, even then, no one knows if
that’s what he meant or if he just
liked to play in a wig and snide smile.
blood lemon
The following is my response to the visual prompt #55 at Magpie Tales. The responses of other writers are linked from that site.
Some lemons
do not turn into lemonade,
no matter how hard
you squeeze,
wanting so much
that tart sweet tongue
teasing the the soul to sigh.
Some lemons
are only out for blood.
a box of books
Every time I move, I get rid of a bunch of books by donating them to the local library. There’s a box of books, however, that I keep hauling around with me.
As I’m rummaging around in my stored stuff looking for memorabilia for my college reunion website, I unearth that old box.
One of the books it contains is actually two copies of the same book: a translation of the Tao Te Ching by Gia-Fu Feng and Jane English. It’s been years since I’ve looked through either of them. There is one section that I memorized because it is so meaningful to me. I open the book, and there it is:
EIGHT
The highest good is like water.
Water gives life to the ten thousand things and does not strive.
It flows in places men reject and so is like the Tao.
In dwelling, be close to the land.
In meditation, go keep in the heart.
In dealing with others, be gentle and kind.
In speech be true.
In ruling, be just.
In business, be competent.
In action, watch the timing.
No fight: No blame.
Good advice.
the house across the street
The following is my response to the Magpie Tales visual prompt #52. Go to the site to link to the responses of other writers.
The house across the street
is a study in darkness
despite the bright of snow and sky.
Shadows close windows,
ignore the door.
No footsteps cross the walk,
disturb the snow.
In the house across the street
even daylight sleeps.
river stone 1-23-11
where black bear sleeps
the earth breathes dreams
dank and wistful
a dark moon calls
one glaucous gull
to sing winter.
river stone 1-22-11
wind cry, snow whine
tired and toneless winter tune
waiting for the pitch-pipe sun
and the soft direction
of a distant child