Robert Bly has said he likes to write one bad poem before breakfast each morning.
One Bad Poem
Bare feet beg to levitate
above the cold floor
this bone-chiller
of a morning.
Heating unit quit
in the night, no warning.
Indoor breezes,
marsh ghosts gathering
for a reunion.
The heating people
will call back
soon.
Speed-dressing in bulky layers
I smile
at feeling like a sausage.
I have a special talent
for cheering myself up,
a true gift
when life delivers
unwelcome surprises,
little ones
like a cold morning
with no heat.
Some big ones are harder
but I find a way,
after tears and some time,
to rebound to the sound
of my own
laughter.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
On Eunice Shriver's Passing
The fine wood grain is clear
in the digitized perfection
of cable TV,
a flowerless casket
borne by adult children
of Eunice Kennedy Shriver,
esteemed humanitarian,
passionate woman,
and “Mummy” to the
five pall bearers.
The strength of their love
might have been magic enough
to breathe her back into this world,
yet they were letting her go
as no doubt she taught them to do,
the handsome quintet speaking in praise
of intimate connection to her,
of Eunice as mother,
nineteen grandchildren
offering sweet goodbyes.
She had needed no frills,
no adornment, was
as she was, statement and blessing.
What more can a mother want
than to be wholly who she is
and still loved, indeed cherished,
by her children? Held blameless
in death.
Eunice Shriver talked
with her grownup children
every day
sometimes more than once.
They exchanged the gift
of giving a mighty damn
about one another.
They did not refer one another
to Facebook or a web site; they
spoke, voice to voice, heart to heart.
When my lively presence
is no more, when even
my essence no longer lingers,
what will you see?
Perhaps a frightened young woman
whistling through the graveyard
of lost innocence,
determined to do her best by you.
Will you ever see courage
in the woman’s risk--
believing hope over history--
trying even harder
to bring enough love
to make the marriage work
a second time?
To give you both mother and father
at a dinner table
and ...
Will you realize my mistake
was not leaving the marriage
but re-entering it
in the first place,
wanting it so much for you?
I know it was hard for you.
I know.
I believe Eunice understood
that a woman must nourish
her own spirit
first, keep it alive--
only that brings wholeness.
May you know wholeness.
May you know joy in marriage.
May your paternal love
flourish, far from the mine fields
of resentment.
~ August 15, 2009
The fine wood grain is clear
in the digitized perfection
of cable TV,
a flowerless casket
borne by adult children
of Eunice Kennedy Shriver,
esteemed humanitarian,
passionate woman,
and “Mummy” to the
five pall bearers.
The strength of their love
might have been magic enough
to breathe her back into this world,
yet they were letting her go
as no doubt she taught them to do,
the handsome quintet speaking in praise
of intimate connection to her,
of Eunice as mother,
nineteen grandchildren
offering sweet goodbyes.
She had needed no frills,
no adornment, was
as she was, statement and blessing.
What more can a mother want
than to be wholly who she is
and still loved, indeed cherished,
by her children? Held blameless
in death.
Eunice Shriver talked
with her grownup children
every day
sometimes more than once.
They exchanged the gift
of giving a mighty damn
about one another.
They did not refer one another
to Facebook or a web site; they
spoke, voice to voice, heart to heart.
When my lively presence
is no more, when even
my essence no longer lingers,
what will you see?
Perhaps a frightened young woman
whistling through the graveyard
of lost innocence,
determined to do her best by you.
Will you ever see courage
in the woman’s risk--
believing hope over history--
trying even harder
to bring enough love
to make the marriage work
a second time?
To give you both mother and father
at a dinner table
and ...
Will you realize my mistake
was not leaving the marriage
but re-entering it
in the first place,
wanting it so much for you?
I know it was hard for you.
I know.
I believe Eunice understood
that a woman must nourish
her own spirit
first, keep it alive--
only that brings wholeness.
May you know wholeness.
May you know joy in marriage.
May your paternal love
flourish, far from the mine fields
of resentment.
~ August 15, 2009
Calendar Girl
Coming out of sleep’s silky peace
as first light floods the sky,
her heart races into wakefulness.
She moves quickly
through morning rituals,
making a check-mark
on the calendar
for today, April 7. She
is grateful for spring.
Someone is coming today
to hear her story.
She will tell them
it wasn’t something she had
thought of, not for a minute,
giving up the scholarship
to care for her mother;
she never meant to give up
everything,
only school for a while.
This is the best place
she has slept lately,
this concrete loading dock
where so far she has been
undisturbed by the police.
We criminalize poverty
in America.
Where had she heard that?
Like most days she walks
to the library downtown,
searches for work on the internet,
hopes whatever she is reading
hasn’t been checked out.
She squirreled Jane Austen
once, in the wrong section.
Book-hiding is her only crime.
She sees elegant women
stepping out of Main Street condos,
women who need long mirrors
to convince them
they’re worthy of being seen.
They look fine.
Later, down by the river, she is
interviewed under the bridge.
“What do you want? What do you hope for?”
To get a job....go back to school...
To understand.
Most of all, to understand.
Posted on a girder,
the calendar is on her side,
turning time
into neat squares
she can manage.
Coming out of sleep’s silky peace
as first light floods the sky,
her heart races into wakefulness.
She moves quickly
through morning rituals,
making a check-mark
on the calendar
for today, April 7. She
is grateful for spring.
Someone is coming today
to hear her story.
She will tell them
it wasn’t something she had
thought of, not for a minute,
giving up the scholarship
to care for her mother;
she never meant to give up
everything,
only school for a while.
This is the best place
she has slept lately,
this concrete loading dock
where so far she has been
undisturbed by the police.
We criminalize poverty
in America.
Where had she heard that?
Like most days she walks
to the library downtown,
searches for work on the internet,
hopes whatever she is reading
hasn’t been checked out.
She squirreled Jane Austen
once, in the wrong section.
Book-hiding is her only crime.
She sees elegant women
stepping out of Main Street condos,
women who need long mirrors
to convince them
they’re worthy of being seen.
They look fine.
Later, down by the river, she is
interviewed under the bridge.
“What do you want? What do you hope for?”
To get a job....go back to school...
To understand.
Most of all, to understand.
Posted on a girder,
the calendar is on her side,
turning time
into neat squares
she can manage.
from Lake Luna
Tank
What’s the old fellow
up to this morning
resting himself so near
the big cypress?
Would a gator
need his back scratched
I wonder...
He stares me down
then glides away
leaving his wake
of superiority.
The Weight of Blood
Red clouds
in the lake
this June morning,
a mystery,
with sky reflecting
only blue and white.
It's not sunset after all.
I stare from upstairs window
as turtle heads poke
through water surface.
Do they understand
the red cloud?
Are they turtle-talking
about it?
A young gator, motionless
and mostly eyes,
studies
thick grasses
along the bank.
It could be blood, I think,
these red clouds beyond my binoculars;
I push the thought away,
not wanting it to be blood.
But what else?
And why not?
Can I possibly believe
that all life is secure in this lake,
because I wish it so,
that it’s all here
in its silky serenity
for the sole purpose
of filling
the holes in my heart?
I wish I'd inherited
the denial gene
all the others got.
Is blood heavier than water?
I learned from porch tales
and small-town gossip
that it’s thicker.
Never interested
in cold facts or science,
the exactitude of things,
I don’t know the weight
of blood, factually speaking.
I can tell you from experience
that it’s heavier than it should be.
Much heavier.
[The Weight of Blood was published in Pluff Mud Mag, a literary journal for Lowcountry poets and writers, February 2011.]
What’s the old fellow
up to this morning
resting himself so near
the big cypress?
Would a gator
need his back scratched
I wonder...
He stares me down
then glides away
leaving his wake
of superiority.
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
The Weight of Blood
Red clouds
in the lake
this June morning,
a mystery,
with sky reflecting
only blue and white.
It's not sunset after all.
I stare from upstairs window
as turtle heads poke
through water surface.
Do they understand
the red cloud?
Are they turtle-talking
about it?
A young gator, motionless
and mostly eyes,
studies
thick grasses
along the bank.
It could be blood, I think,
these red clouds beyond my binoculars;
I push the thought away,
not wanting it to be blood.
But what else?
And why not?
Can I possibly believe
that all life is secure in this lake,
because I wish it so,
that it’s all here
in its silky serenity
for the sole purpose
of filling
the holes in my heart?
I wish I'd inherited
the denial gene
all the others got.
Is blood heavier than water?
I learned from porch tales
and small-town gossip
that it’s thicker.
Never interested
in cold facts or science,
the exactitude of things,
I don’t know the weight
of blood, factually speaking.
I can tell you from experience
that it’s heavier than it should be.
Much heavier.
[The Weight of Blood was published in Pluff Mud Mag, a literary journal for Lowcountry poets and writers, February 2011.]
Dreaming Change 2008
paper fragments swirl
on the Denver pavement,
unearned prizes
laid at my feet
by an August breeze.
lover of words
and clean sidewalks,
i bend to the
smudged inkjet words,
gathering
paper shards,
chasing one scrap
down
until I have them
all,
shaking my head
at my fool self
all the while.
at a coffee shop
i read what I can,
placing each scrap on the
cool tabletop, knowing
this puzzle
has too many
pieces missing.
promise we need to keep...
now... history teaches us...
God bless... as one... the world
coming to our shores...
change .... need now ... destiny,,,
not...the time for...small plans...
why do I squander time,
study these words as if
they are the Dead Sea Scrolls?
there’s a list to make,
and calls,
all because i have to do
something to help.
something.
nearly eight years now
this madness,
this country I have loved,
faded almost
beyond memory.
why do i keep forgetting
to breathe?
my former self
stirred itself awake once
in this dark time
to make a sorry sign
with bright markers,
to march to the state capitol.
that windy day i could breathe,
could feel the fire of life
blazing through my blood
as i folded myself
into a sea
of righteous energy,
very much alive
when the reporter
asked why i was there and
later on the front page
just beneath the fold
i said
“If we invade Iraq,
we become the terrorists.”
and you know they
did anyway, said it
wouldn’t take long,
we would be liberators
greeted with flowers,
it was not about oil at all.
there would be
few casualties. maybe none.
there is nothing casual about
death.
you know how it went.
so long in this tunnel
seeing no light
no light
until now
maybe,
maybe.
afraid to look straight into it
or the light could disappear
and then what to do
with all the hurt
what to do
with more pain?
enough pain will smother
courage and all the other
noble things.
once i was asked this:
beyond the food-shelter-water-air
of survival
what could you not live without?
hope.
so i call on St. Anthony,
retriever of things lost:
Saint Anthony, Saint Anthony
take a look around,
something’s lost
that must be found.
fingering the scraps now
in my left pocket, I square
shoulders and sit up straight,
wondering if
St. Anthony has heard.
under my handbag,
a scrap of white,
clinging
to its leather life raft,
all the words
clear:
...the love of my life, Michelle.
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
paper fragments swirl
on the Denver pavement,
unearned prizes
laid at my feet
by an August breeze.
lover of words
and clean sidewalks,
i bend to the
smudged inkjet words,
gathering
paper shards,
chasing one scrap
down
until I have them
all,
shaking my head
at my fool self
all the while.
at a coffee shop
i read what I can,
placing each scrap on the
cool tabletop, knowing
this puzzle
has too many
pieces missing.
promise we need to keep...
now... history teaches us...
God bless... as one... the world
coming to our shores...
change .... need now ... destiny,,,
not...the time for...small plans...
why do I squander time,
study these words as if
they are the Dead Sea Scrolls?
there’s a list to make,
and calls,
all because i have to do
something to help.
something.
nearly eight years now
this madness,
this country I have loved,
faded almost
beyond memory.
why do i keep forgetting
to breathe?
my former self
stirred itself awake once
in this dark time
to make a sorry sign
with bright markers,
to march to the state capitol.
that windy day i could breathe,
could feel the fire of life
blazing through my blood
as i folded myself
into a sea
of righteous energy,
very much alive
when the reporter
asked why i was there and
later on the front page
just beneath the fold
i said
“If we invade Iraq,
we become the terrorists.”
and you know they
did anyway, said it
wouldn’t take long,
we would be liberators
greeted with flowers,
it was not about oil at all.
there would be
few casualties. maybe none.
there is nothing casual about
death.
you know how it went.
so long in this tunnel
seeing no light
no light
until now
maybe,
maybe.
afraid to look straight into it
or the light could disappear
and then what to do
with all the hurt
what to do
with more pain?
enough pain will smother
courage and all the other
noble things.
once i was asked this:
beyond the food-shelter-water-air
of survival
what could you not live without?
hope.
so i call on St. Anthony,
retriever of things lost:
Saint Anthony, Saint Anthony
take a look around,
something’s lost
that must be found.
fingering the scraps now
in my left pocket, I square
shoulders and sit up straight,
wondering if
St. Anthony has heard.
under my handbag,
a scrap of white,
clinging
to its leather life raft,
all the words
clear:
...the love of my life, Michelle.
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
Monday, February 7, 2011
Remembrance
Driving south in steady rain
one day past Thanksgiving,
I'm splashed by passing
trucks on the old highway,
grateful to be far
from interstate madness.
A crusty red pickup
pulls off pavement
into tall, drenched
grass;
hitched to the truck is
a flat, open trailer,
optimism in metal.
He’s a hunter
hoping for a deer.
Weary from a lifetime
of judging, I’ve sworn off.
It’s not my job
to judge.
Instead, I remember a doe
I met one day in the foothills
who didn’t run away
at the sight of me.
There was more majesty in her
neck than in an entire human--
elegant, trusting, strong.
She is with me now, her
eyes knowing things mine
will never see.
I still feel her tenderness.
She was not afraid.
No Pulitzer or Nobel
could have meant
more than the honor
of her trust
that day,
blessing
and benediction
in a cathedral
where one need not bow
to the Creator
nor offer sacrifice
to know Divine
gifts in the ragged
reality of humanness.
Driving south in steady rain
one day past Thanksgiving,
I'm splashed by passing
trucks on the old highway,
grateful to be far
from interstate madness.
A crusty red pickup
pulls off pavement
into tall, drenched
grass;
hitched to the truck is
a flat, open trailer,
optimism in metal.
He’s a hunter
hoping for a deer.
Weary from a lifetime
of judging, I’ve sworn off.
It’s not my job
to judge.
Instead, I remember a doe
I met one day in the foothills
who didn’t run away
at the sight of me.
There was more majesty in her
neck than in an entire human--
elegant, trusting, strong.
She is with me now, her
eyes knowing things mine
will never see.
I still feel her tenderness.
She was not afraid.
No Pulitzer or Nobel
could have meant
more than the honor
of her trust
that day,
blessing
and benediction
in a cathedral
where one need not bow
to the Creator
nor offer sacrifice
to know Divine
gifts in the ragged
reality of humanness.
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