The Silk and the Tassel

 

The apricot moon rises in my window

as the whirr of the coffee mill

grinds hand-picked Guatemalan beans                

and the pungent scent wafts up the stairs

where I’m abed with a reading light

one eye on the antics of The Monkey Wrench Gang

and their wandering skipper

and one on the sturgeon moon

rising unobstructed above the trees,

a sight the eco-terrorist hooligans would celebrate.

Sheets of rain rattle the corn in the night

rinsing dust off the tassels and dampening the windowsill.

The rain gauge fell into the peony bush Gracie hides under

cool soft earth, her secret place.

Only green marble eyes and velvet rose nose peep out at me.

I fish the gauge out of the foliage

and hang it back on the railing.

For what would I be willing to risk

shackles and confinement,

cat and home and coffee in the morn?

Written to a prompt from dVerse asking poets to choose at least three names of butterflies in a poem. 

My three are: 

Wandering Skipper

Green Marble

Velvet Rose

And for What's Going On  the poet's blog where this week they've asked us to write something about eyes, what we see or what sees us.

The Greatest of Lakes If We Can Keep It

 

Sand gives way under my feet

as I bend to the effort

of climbing a dune

on the sweetwater sea.

 

Beyond waving fronds of seagrass

water to the horizon heaves and hurls

plumes of foam that pound the shore.

It polishes stone

and whittles driftwood

burnished and smooth as a baby’s sole.

 

With sand in my shoes

hardpack underfoot

I fill my pockets.

Clouds scurry happily overhead

as gulls ride the waves

like surfers in wet suits.

 

Where water meets sky

the stars and the moon live in the depths

while on a rush of wing

eagle eats gull and feathers fly—

            ferocious predator

            rules the sky

while fox of the bayou

trots over the sedge

to circle his den of many rooms—

            intrepid hunter

rules the beachhead

as Superior turns herself

inside out to bring in treasures

whittled to size by the push and pull

of the big shining sea.

For dVerse, the Poet's Pub, and their Open Link Night, Poets and Storytellers, what does "low battery" mean to you, and how do you recharge?  and What's Going On the writer's blog that asks us to think about the personal nature of homemade gifts, and while they're the best, I think gifts washed up on the shore of Lake Superior might be their equal 

 

Feeling Small in a Multitude of Ways

                "I will love my crooked neighbor with my crooked heart"                                                                                           W.H. Auden

If the sky were any bigger it would kill me clean.
like an iceberg into the melting sea.
 
The sun colors the sky best before it breaks dawn
each wisp of cloud a red kite on a string.
 
It enhances the tree clinging to its last wind-torn leaf
like a mother to her child through the fence of the king.
 
It’s bigger than a barn from afar, that tree
and I don’t know its name or how old it is,
 
limbs full of empty nests unraveling in the wind.
Too lazy to have walked through a field of grass
 
to stand under a tree, the vast sweep of its arms,
and pay homage to that which is braver than me.
 
Too cowed to lob arrows at he who'd be king, 
my capacity to feel small is undiminished  by lies.
 
The sun travels its arc across a blood-splattered sky
and I finish the day in a multitude of small ways.

In concert with the theme March of Time from the poets at What's Going On and with OLN (open link night) at dVerse, the pub where poets hang out.  A good way to finish out the week, methinks!!. 

What The Tree Remembers

 

Stumps  cut down in their youth

line the ditch. Roots full of life

 

with a reach wider

than their whacked-off crowns

 

cut off at the knees

        (can you feel it?)

now have nothing to feed.

 

The parked bulldozer

        (can you smell it?)

with its claws in the dirt

 

is poised to make smooth

the way of man.

 

But wait.

        (look closely)

Saplings spring stubbornly

 

from stumps left alone.

The tree remembers.

Written for What's Going On Blog which challenges us this week to see both the dark and light in a world abounding with both and find a balance. Showing, somehow, the beauty and hope in a world that often feels dismal and divisive; with highlights to poems by Mary Oliver and Deena Metzger who do this all the time in their amazing poetry.

The Interview And the Robin

MIRACLES OF SPRING

 

While answering questions about my writing in an Interview with the publisher, two plump robins engage in a mating dance on snow-crusted grass outside my window. They fly their affair into the maple, bare as a February field, and find foothold in the crook of a branch for spring is coming and there's work to be done.

The miracle of the greening.  

The poets at What's Going On (the mighty foursome!) reminded me that all around there are miracles in our midst. We only have to stop and look to see the plump robin in a new light, how she fends off the blue jays through patience and perseverance. 

Then there's the first pop of green in the towering birch trees that seemed to happen overnight.

Speaking of miracles, my launch party at Inscribe Books went off without a hitch! Another miracle. A day I dedicated to my grandma who bolstered my fragile self-esteem through adolescence; to my father who collated copies of my early poems, bound them together with his stapler and titled the collection The Farmer’s Daughter; and to Mother who always wanted to know what I was doing if I hadn’t stopped in for a visit—immersed in a novel I regretfully never shared with her.

        I'm sorry Mom. 

        I wish you had been here. 

I reacquainted with some long lost friends tonight at our local library, coming together over a book. Now that's a miracle! It's a miracle that this book is out in the world. A miracle that someone wanted to interview little ol' me. Proof that (yes Mother) patience pays off and perseverance is a virtue.

The Newspaper City

We walk to mass along sidewalks
slick with mist from the ocean bay.
Hulking shapes huddle in doorways
where the sun won’t ever shine
to shiver the whole night through
under newspaper blankets.
 
We hasten into church to kneel and pray
with Asian, Latin, and Creole speakers
as incense wafts over the pews and candles twinkle
like the flickering of the holy spirit
descending on the fortunate.

 

With the transubstantiation of altar bread and wine

there’s a rush from the back for the body and blood.

Confused at the lack of decorum

  (do they fear the chalice will spring a leak?)

we ease our way into the jostling line of supplicants

like automobiles jockeying for an off ramp.

 

With a finger dipped in the font at the door

we exit into the misty morn of a cash-strapped city.

Beggars await us on the steps with their outstretched cups.

Father always dropped a five in the tin can of the gaunt man

who sat wrapped in wool at the top of the exit ramp

on trips into a different city.

 

We walk back to the hotel

past darkened storefronts and empty streets.

Silent except for the rustle of newspapers. 

Written for dVerse in memory of Kurt Cobain, the legendary alternative rock musician whose birthday was this past Tuesday. Nirvana's lyrics were known for metaphor and emotional depth. Challenged to use lines from one of the songs posted in the prompt, I chose a couple that would fit this poem.  Check out Melissa's post at dVerse for more on the enigmatic Cobain, photos and lyrics. And the poets at What's Going On who've asked us  to write about "Color" so taking liberty, as this is more about the absence of color.  There are other more beautiful poems about color passing through so head over. 

A STORY OF OPENING DAY

Back when pheasants were plentiful
Opening Day meant friedcakes hot out of the deep fryer—
Betty Crocker called them cake doughnuts
But mother called them friedcakes so friedcakes they were—
subtly spiced and dipped in glaze or sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar
and stacked in dripping pans to cool.

Opening day was hunters in camouflage jackets

and canvas vests lined with little pockets

to store bullets in. Traipsing in and out

the back door to sign in on dad’s clipboard

hung on a nail beside the dryer.

 

They would carry their birds back up the lane by the feet

stopping first to report in and get a friedcake.

A snapshot of one of the regulars

     Eddie in his bulging vest with his bird

     And a grinning preschooler full of indulgence in a fuzzy sweater.

What beautiful birds those ringnecks were.

 

1957

Gunshots echoed across the fields

The kicking up of leaves in galoshes and wool socks.

The warm kitchen smelling of hot oil and cinnamon

Friedcakes dripping frosting cooling in the pan.

A jostling around the counter to duck and grab

Mother in her apron and dad in his coveralls

Talking up the hunt and the camaraderie of neighbors.

 

 

2023

A Kindred Need

Chaff in the wind, grasshoppers on the fly,

the gathering up and the laying down.

Combines creep across the field

where sparrows hover and hide

in the dry rustle of the corn

storing up energy in their hollow bones

for fall portends winter,

when they’ll swoop over the land in concert of wing

for they need their kind come winter.

I heard a pheasant this past summer.
Never saw but heard the truncated chortle,

the two-note song. 

Was that a tail waving in the Queen Anne’s Lace?

I thought I heard a pheasant this past summer.

Can't resist linking this to Poets and Storytellers with their prompt in  favor of adjectives, reaffirming my belief that there are exceptions to every writing rule. And in answer to the prompt at What's Going On?  what do you love?, this post might only scratch the surface but Opening Day, then and now, are right near the top. 

What Summer Makes Us Do

 

The tavern’s dark interior is refuge from the heat

that blankets the city in a migraine aura.

The top-shelf bottles are lined up like dancers

in lusty green skirts and amber hues.

 

The bartender blows foam from a pour

and our eyes meet in the mirror behind the bar.

Chunks of frost slide off my mug

like a glacier sliding into the sea.

I catch some with my tongue

as he wipes the bar with his towel.

 

An aquarium sits in the center of the backbar

and piranha sweep the perimeter with empty eyes.

Condensation drips off the bottom of the tank

and I wonder what he feeds them.

 

Music spills out of the back corner

where a barefoot stranger with a guitar

sits in a pool of light in front of a fan.

 

The room is a turntable

and the ceiling fan whiffs the nape

of my neck with a reminiscent chill—

    wool scarves and galoshes

    snowmen with black button eyes.

 

The bartender flips a lock of hair off his brow

eyebrows etched in surprise, as if I’d spoken aloud.

A careless flip-flop dangles off my toe

like the towel he tosses to and fro.

 

The dancefloor is chalky with sawdust

and the musician strums a lick

that will repeat in my head

like circling piranhas in an endless loop.

 

The room is an ocean, salt on our lips,

piranha swimming free.

Joining the open link party at dVerse for beer and company along with the poets at What's  Going On?  who are asking "How's the Weather?" They are calling all poets who blog, so how could I stay home?