when I sat in the chair at the salon
to get my hair cut,
my mother sat in the chair with me
and looked at me in the mirror
And I smiled at her.
And as I sat in the pedicure chair
with water swirling around my feet,
she was not there
but her toes were
even though she could never bear
anyone touching her feet.
And I told the pedicurist
how all her grandchildren
have her toes-
And I smiled.
The voices whisper just outside
my ability to understand their words
when spirits would come and sit
in her desk chair or on the counter.
She would ask me who they were
and what they were saying
and I would have to tell her
I don’t know.
But we both knew they were there
even though she was
the only one who could see them.
So are they here to visit me?
Hanging out in the kitchen
or dining room
while I go about my day
doing the dishes and paying bills.
I wonder if there will be a bright light
to reveal them
as guides or tormentors or just
passers-by waiting at a station
for the next train.
Take my hand
lets walk the soft path
under the old cedar trees
They are sacred, these mages, these venerable timbers,
hallowed by the desert mothers
and tiny finches dancing in their boughs
and pale angels who sing with them at dawn.
Ancient and holy, they accept your shallow breathing
and extend their grace to you
in emanation, ripe with incense.
Breathe deeply this exhalation, this glory,
as these solstice trees inhale your breath.
An offering, an honor, an acceptance,
a giving and a receiving
until your blood flows
with a resinous scent
purified by the synchronicity of spirit,
a grace of cedars.
‘I will remember this as long as I live.’
I want to experience great joy
and great beauty-
and small beauty
and lesser joys.
I want wonder each and every day.
Wonder of such significance
that it is etched in my memory
with gold threads
and bright liquid silver.
With each day passing,
the time lessens,
adding an urgency to each minute
Time enough to open eyes and heart
to joy and beauty and wonder.
And time enough
as long as I live.
my vision dims
first a film of misunderstood conversation
then it blinked out
like a light house flashing
warnings out to sea
I am wasting time
when there is so little left to waste
and there is a rustling in the pantry
where three blind mice live
and those oft told fairy tales
spring to life
but life does not hold many more springs
and it’s summer
and I am blinded by the light
warning me away from the rocks
and dangers on the shore
A Field Guide to Angels now available from Everdale Publishing
I am pleased to announce my latest chapbook, A Field Guide to Angels, is here!
These poems are close to my heart – just so proud of this slim volume of 21 poems, some new, some old, some re-worked but all about those angels around us.
And I am so happy to share them with you.
The Field Guide to Angels is available at lulu.com where you can also find my other chapbooks, Penelope to Her Husband and Festival of Lessons and Carols http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/kge
I hope you will enjoy my new book and I hope you know how much I appreciate your continued support of my work.
May angels surround you always,
Kathleen Gresham Everett
Dull morning light bereft of warmth
fills in the corners
and blackberry winter.
The blooms, white against cold green leaves,
bramble along the rocky path,
armored with thorns
and protected by poison ivy
just finding its vigor.
Shivering anticipations of hot summer days
purpled with jeweled fruit
left by the chortling robins
and cobblers fresh from the oven.