Finale poem
Bittersweet to think it’s done
Guessing I won’t stop
We drove over the dam by the nearby lake,
heading for an appointment, not hurrying, but
not dawdling either.
It was a ride with a great view.
The sun laid its diamonds on the lake;
one boat rocked along, a fisherman hoping
for dinner.
Of a sudden, into the distant view,
a line of birds came cartwheeling, gliding,
swooping.
We saw flashes of black streaks on the white wings
as the birds moved like waves at football games.
We watched the creatures glide closer
to the water, then,
saw each separate and
streak into the water.
What are they, what glides in formations so sharp
that no one is out of rank?
What becomes only one so quickly,
drawn by the sharp eyeing of
a silvery flip?
The pelican, right here,
today, as a gift to us.
They’re down from the north, on the way south,
dipping and again weaving their feathery souls
into my heart,
calling back the beaches of my past,
when I first met these wonder birds.
My gift today.
Up
Here you stretch
again up high
reaching, climbing
for the sky.
Deep down in your toes
can you feel,
what’s been accomplished
what is real?
You took the words
that told what to do
and sailed beyond them.
It’s quite true!
But also what
you did so much
was give each other
a gentle touch.
So you should allow
yourselves a pat
when someone inquires
if you’ve done that.
You can answer
with pride, with style,
and sit back and bask
In this glow—a while.
Alone is delicious.
I can eat the silence,
pick it apart carefully
and place it into my mouth.
I chew it real slow,
savoring the quiet, and
letting the blue of a clear sky dribble down my chin.
Tasty are the crumbs of clouds on my t-shirt.
It’s like a messy dessert
And today I can have as much as I want, so I
grab at the delectable hours
and again begin to chew.
I wrote and sang a lullaby
because there was a little girl
who needed quite a lot of comfort
to help her go to sleep.
I sang about the moon
and stars we see at night.
Then sometime in the night
I heard that lovely lullaby
that told of a silvery moon
and pushed the little girl
into the magic time of sleep.
It gives us all such comfort.
And when I receive comfort
awake or in the night
I have a dreamless sleep
with little need for a lullaby,
just a smile from a little girl
and maybe a peek at the moon.
I gaze up at the moon
drawing all the comfort
I might sing to the girl
when she needs it in the night.
I put electric stars in my lullaby
so she might drowse to sleep.
Imagine eyes closed in sleep
a face lit by the moon.
T’will be her only lullaby
And fill her with the comfort
That doesn’t come with night.
All this for the little girl.
A woman remembers, “When I was a girl
And was restless in my sleep,
I tossed and turned throughout the night
Unless there was a moon
To lighten the dark and give me comfort.
It was like my personal lullaby.”
In the long night—creating a lullaby—
for the sweetest sleep and continuing comfort,
give all girls a slice of the moon.
If you'd like to write a sestina: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sestina
Albeit time is but an abstract thought,
We count it, and kill it, and watch it pass,
Then try to save it, and cannot, alas!
We turn it backwards, and forward spring it,
Waste it and clock it, coordinate it.
Time heals, time marches, and we yearn for more.
Though time lies heavy, there is a time for
everything, except its passing on, so
“time is a-wasting”, get ready, set , go!
At Kandahar
I gazed long into the screen
Wanting to see into those hearts,
Into the secret places
That I know all women hold—
I wondered if there could ever be a bridge
To find between us—
And who would have to travel
The longest way
To reach the other?
A six line poem consisting of 2, 2, 2, 2, 9, 9 syllables.
As I worked on this, I created several rhyme collections, but also as I worked, I began to think I was writing a slogan-like poem, or rap-like, although brief. I found that I kept returning to wanting to share a lesson, and this is what happened with the messing about.
Refuse
abuse!
One bruise,
you lose!
Many will help you refuse abuse.
Hold true to self for one bruise, you lose.
The Mountains Yell At Me On My Way To Work!
Each day, the mountains yell, but
I’m on my way to work.
Their evocative stance is heady perfume demanding attention be paid.
This morning, they sat in contrast to the April springtime here on the flat.
Snow on the peaks were not just dollops of whipped cream
(the usual look in the slide toward summer),
but puffed comforters.
Heavy clouds hovered over the foothills
as I drove and looked, drove and looked.
They were starting to move up, obscuring more of my view,
preparing to lay down the other foot or so of snow
the weatherman has predicted.
In snowshoes I hiked a trail up a ways, entered a lonely meadow
and spring buds and flowers await.
Encircled by the evergreens,
it seemed a space that held its breath for summer life.
Deer, elk and moose teetered at the edges of dangerous hunger,
waited for green morsels to appear;
new growth meant
finally a good meal.
Streams broke into fast running, snow chunks tumbled off
and joined the flow, while tiny whitecaps echoed the ocean’s power.
A gray jay called with a ‘chuck, chuck’, waiting for the response,
then flew into the pines.
I wandered along to the trail again, and spotted an Abert’s squirrel,
working its way around the tree.
As I near work. . .
Wait, the mountain is screaming, come now!
But I cannot.
I can only look forward to the times my imagined pictures become real.
The Teacher Should Know Better
In the afternoon, a contest. The class begins.
She doesn’t know not everybody wins!
A single boy leans back in his chair,
All his classmates swirling everywhere.
He tastes nothing; his mouth is dry.
It isn’t the time to let out a cry.
It would be easier to exit the room,
to amble down the hall, humming a tune.
But instead he stays, pretends to read,
wishing just one someone would notice his need.
The teacher calls again, for all to hurry;
both boys and girls respond and scurry.
The boy sits idly, watching above his book;
his eyes squint at other boys—darting looks.
Gazes do not stop at him, but instead fade
across the room to be sure another pair is made.
Why doesn’t the teacher understand her task
well enough to complete the proper math?
Is twenty-one, one too many, or one too few?
In this boy’s eyes, neither will ever do.
I wonder if a taradiddle
Might sometimes be a little riddle?
For if I tell you that I yodel,
How would you know that it’s fiddle-faddle?
It’s not quite the same as a real swindle;
It could be I’m only discussing a whangdoodle
Crazily playing a paradiddle.
In any case, I should really scuddle
For fear I’m becoming quite befuddled.
Please forget the taradiddle
This is only putting me in a muddle.
If you walk around my house, you will see plants in several rooms, mostly getting eastern sun, from which they flourish. My plants comprise a part of my life, my history, because many of them are from people whom I love. Some plants are many years old, and every time I care for them with water, fertilizer. and trimming, I send a little thought to the person that has a connection to the plant.
The Plant Connection
Sundays, early in the day,
I water the plants, and say hello
to various relatives and friends. These plants
have lived with me for a long time, keeping the air clean and humid,
providing shades of green that are poems in themselves:
jade, teal, asparagus, celadon and chartreuse.
Their bright spark of blooms
are daily gifts to my eyes.
Here, the beefsteak begonia (Begonia erythrophylla),
from my grandmother Sarah, offers
tiny pink blooms on long, thin branches.
My grandmother, whose name also blesses
my daughter, threw seeds out that grew into her wild garden.
She wished for no calm flower beds in her yard.
As a young child, I hid among the plants,
making stories with the hens and chickens, the bluebells, and the bread and butter flowers.
And she taught me how wonderful are the houseplants,
keeping growing in mind during the drab months of winter.
There, the Madagascar dragon tree (Dracaena marginata),
lopped off at one time
because of its leaning tendency,
springing now into the largest plant, healthy, vibrant, strong.
It came to me as a remembrance of my
father-in-law. He, years gone, but too soon, comes into
my memory as I water and trim the leaves.
I remember his loving teasing, his gardening expertise
that fed us well in our early marriage—
the rich red of the tomatoes, bright yellow corn on the cob, the cool green of lettuces.
I water less the phalaenopsis, purple orchid, but attend to it
nonetheless. It is a gift from a friend to honor my mother’s passing.
I think of friendship and my mother
as I pass by.
There are others: the peace lily (Spathiphyllum wallisii)
from another dear one’s funeral,
the Christmas cactus (Schlumbergera)
begun as a tiny sprout from a neighbor,
the Old Man cactus (Cephalocereus senilis),
a birthday gift from my husband,
and the shamrock (Oxalis regnellii) given to me
from a friend so long ago.
The plant and the friendship, still thriving.
I finish the watering by giving thanks for my blessings, of houseplants and friends, of blossoms and family. Like the plants, my life fills with the careful tending of my friends and family too.
If Only We Could
If we all just did a little part
That would simply fill my heart
And make the Earth good
If only we could
I’d make my peace with all the beasts
Make war and turbulence the least
Of all of our woes
We’d run the governments for all
Tell leaders to send a wake-up call
That freedom’s our cry
Everyone lends a helping hand
Happiness will reign
And make the Earth good
If only we could
And make the Earth good
If only we could