crooning a tune with the moon

moon over basel

She perches on the rail,
kicking her feet out over the water.

Smiling, she says
‘Sing to me a sad song.’

So I croon her a tune of Count Basie’s-
‘Don’t the moon look lonesome,
shining thru the trees.
Don’t the moon look lonesome,
when your baby packs up to leave.’

And in a fit of giggles, she almost lands in the river-
Steadying herself, she whispers
‘Look the buildings are sleeping.’
Standing quietly, arms folded and eyes shut tight,
they lean against each other for support
like old horses in a stable.
‘But the river never sleeps.’
‘No, she doesn’t – she holds each bank in her strong embrace,
and sings her own songs to the sleeping city.’

‘Now, its your turn to sing.’

“Moon river, wider than a mile…’

I perch on the railing, precariously between
wakefulness
and dreaming

‘I’m crossing her in style one day’

I drift into sleep,
listening to the moon
as she sings to the river
and their quiet laughter laps onto the shore.

*** The beautiful watercolor is ‘moon over basel’ by Claudia Schoenfeld, who has graciously allowed her artwork to be used as inspiration for this weeks dVerse Poetics prompt. Thank you , Claudia!

counting

Stellas

there are days
that counting your blessings
takes a bit longer
dwelling on the good
out of the difficult
the smiles
after tears
the relaxation of strained backs
after a long day

it takes a while
to remember the day
could have been different
and grief’s shade
could be shadowing our doorway

but the beautiful angel passed over
our marked lintel

and, for a while,
we are whole
and together
still

*** Counting my blessings today and among those are you, dear reader, for your kindness and thoughtful notes holding us up. Mom is better, still very weak, but better. We have a someone now who will stay with her while I am at work and the family is coming in every weekend to give us help and time away. So after several weeks, we are counting blessings with each new day.

Ordinary Time, the Last Sunday of August

sassafras leaves

cool morning breeze
plays a quiet tune thru the windchimes
Sunday morning hymn
***
blue jays
shouting from cedar top to cedar top
Invocation
***
first golden leaves
gently fall to the ground
Sunday morning offertory
***
meadow grasses
golden and heavy with seed
bowing in the morning breeze
Prayers of thanksgiving
***
late summer drought
brings the first color of autumn
sassafras leaves & sheaves of sumac
Benediction
***

blackberry

its those goat feet and those blackberries
its those moments when reading your poetry
that

I

hold

my

breath

it is the numinous certainty
of the world as you see it and I see it

its your heart that make these worlds open
those words
trapped in golden amber, hardened
filled with manifest moments
of love and fear

I can see more clearly
that world,
that one word,
the pearl of great value
I can feel on my tongue
luminous
until its nacre dissolves
as a flame on my lips
and I speak those words
blackberry, blackberry, blackberry

*** I have been reading E.E. Cummings, as well as many other poets in the past few weeks – Robert Hass’ beautiful poetry – his Meditations at Lagunitas is one of my favorites.

August

fall - flowers2

The heat scours the landscape
and the humidity wraps itself in my hair,
creating damp ringlets against my neck.
The rustle of desiccated leaves,
scratching the dry itch
of the hot southern breeze,
is all that’s left of the garden.
Rooms remain darkened,
shades pulled
against the late afternoon sun,
with only the sound of the ceiling fan
in the drowsy halflight.

It is August
and the summer has been long.

waxing and waning

Crescent Moon and Venus 8-2012

Up before wrensong,
the crescent moon and I whisper
so as not to wake the day.

She in her nightgown and I in mine,
we sit on the porch
in the cool air of early dawn.

And she listens.

I tell her of my fears-
numbering my inadequacies,
trembling in my regret,
tears flow freely
as the early morning dew.

With her sweet comforting smile,
she tells of her birth -
new moon to slim crescent,
waxing to full, rounded glory
to only wane past gibbous
into the palest slip of light
to be welcomed into the dark womb
of restful night.

Waxing and waning,
we each sigh
as the dawning sun
and the wren greet the day.

seasons change

Autumn on the lake

August heat rises into the cedar,
releasing their fragrant resinous perfume.
Cicadas hum in drowsy waves,
leaving the afternoon nodding .

Light has changed in late summer.
The casting of shadows and lots
conjure the last heat of the season
with hints of the coming autumn.

Her blood pressure rises and falls
with the changing of the trees-
their leaves have turned with a suddenness,
catching us all off guard

We wake to her breathing in the early dark.
The earth’s slight tilt spins the light
later each morning, rousing her
into this dreaming world once again.

From Spring’s promise to Winter’s frailty,
we hold each season fast to our hearts-
with breath and blood, light and leaves,
we witness her passing.

*** For dVerse Meeting the Bar. May be a bit trite – the changing of life and the seasons – but it is my reality now. Thank you all for your sweet comments and prayers for Mom. She is holding her own. K