November Morning

Its not withstanding the urgency
of breath and feeling,
molding into those things which
we say and do within our masks,
hiding in each moment.
But there are times,
when letting guards down,
we recognize our real faces
and wings unfurl
in the cold light of a November morning.
Wedge of deep silver
shadowed against the breast
of stone and water
opening isthmus arms
crux of land and sky
embracing water, earth deep,
bronze and gold, russet, indigo.
And leaving the warmth of bed and nights embrace,
I stretch toward the dark dawn,
aware of all mortality and grace
and the singular thought of ones life.
This too shall pass and like the meadow grasses
separating grain from chaff,
my soul will someday join the autumn wind
and sing shining into the cold morning.

The Moon Makes Me Laugh

November moon
The moon makes me laugh.
Her face pink-gold with exertion
Pushing past the horizon,
Filling the constellations,
To rise in her nights journey.
As she climbs, she prays
in the voice of my mother,
“I see the moon, the moon sees me.
God bless the moon and God bless me.”

The moon makes me laugh.
Her bright face silver with light,
Gracefully easing into space,
Moving in celestial dance.
As she rises, she sings
In the voice of my father,
“Don’t the moon look lonesome,
shining through the trees.
Don’t the moon look lonesome,
when your baby packs up to leave.”
The moon makes me laugh.

From the dark bedroom
My sleepy voiced husband calls,
What are ya’ll doing? Come to bed.
We can’t, I answer.
We have moon sickness.
As the dogs and I moon-bathe,
Naked on the back porch.

*** this is a poem written a long time ago But I thought with the lovely moon this weekend, I would dust it off and share it again.
The lyrics are from
Sent For You Yesterday by William Count Basie, Eddie Durham and James Rushing. Warner Bros Music, publisher.

My Love is Like ….or Metaphors, be damned


My love is like a red, red nose
That drips in the month of May.
(Well, now that is not attractive.)

My love is like a green garden hose.
(What the heck!)

My love is like a man that hoes
the long, hard row
to Tipperary.
(Good grief, where did that come from?)

My love is like a Reb that rows-
(Well, he is from North Carolina but he hates the water.)

(For Heavens sake!)

My love is like a man that arose
To hoe the garden, row by row,
Cultivating the greenest spring,
To wreath the head of his May Queen
With rose on rose on rose on rose.

**** This bit of nonsense is for Bjorn’s prompt at dVerse MTB. Happy May Day!

star light, star bright


Bushel baskets of lamp lit stars
spill across the Ozark night’s sky,
tied together with lustrous constellations
and ‘wish I may, wish I might’ longings.

Rare and precious,
these nights, these singular nights,
when the lonesome stars will lean down
so close, we bump our heads on them.

Gathering the celestial windfalls,
along our evening’s path,
we fill our pockets with first star wishes
and carry the sparkling night sky
all the way home.

For my brother, John

Crescent Moon and Venus 8-2012

For My Brother, John

In the pale light of the crescent moon,
I wait-
thinking of our childhood.
How you look like our father,
but not really.
You always have just looked like yourself.
I have a sister’s pride and sadness-
your life of pagentry and bluegrass,
dealing with problems of philosophy and letters-
how did you get to be such a man?
But really you were this man
from the time you were born.

-I have no memory of that –

Our brother – the triad of our siblinghood-
our brother’s birth is etched on my memory
in the scent of carnations
and the color of sunsets.

But not you.
You were always a part of me-
a precious conundrum.

And so I wait
in the half light of the crescent moon.
Waiting for your headlights to stream down the ridge,
for you to be here
as you always have been-

I wait.

*** This is a poem written several years ago while waiting for my younger brother to arrive. It has been revised for the dVerse prompt for today to write of brothers or brotherhood.
I have two younger brothers. I was 16 months old when John was born and Frank was born 18 months after that. We have been and remain close.
I am blessed to have these two remarkable men in my life.

Yours Truly

April Garden 4

Dear Sir,
Or should I say-
To Whom It May Concern,

(does anyone use ‘whom’ anymore?)
(And are you really all that concerned?)

I appreciate your kind-
no, thoughtful-
no, condescending-
that you must have spent agonizing hours-
a few minutes-
a second-
to construct.

I have considered your tempting (not really)
and have decided
to answer-
all evidence of this important-

And instead,

I shall take my straw hat and gloves,
whistle for the dog,
and he and I will spend the afternoon
in the garden
visiting with the bleeding hearts and columbine
and writing love letters to the bees.

Yours Truly,

working in an office on the first really nice day of spring

spring pear 2012

My mind wanders down the lane
on a workaday afternoon,
refusing to spreadsheet the day-
instead I watch freshly washed sheets
of clouds spreading across
the blue blue

I gather the rolling stone
and moss,
stacking the minutes until quitting time
into cairns of data
and emails left to their own devices.
Turning down less traveled roads,
listening to the birds sing
instead of hearing the shrill ringing
of bright blinking lines.

I feel the light spring breeze on my face
and close my eyes
and see.

*** Oh my goodness! It is a BEAUTIFUL day!

Dang it

Sparrow like, I rustle
through the leaves
of paper,
pecking the letters necessary
for nouns,
to form
into coherent thought
and poetry.

I race to the altar,
chastising the weakness
of commas
and the flailing about of hyphens.
Praying that the muse
of some kinda important god
will deem me worthy,
crowning my mind with the olive branch

(See, there was something there…
just there..
waiting to be written
or born
or thought.)

Dang it.

Shuffling again
into my old shoes,
kicking up dusty old phrases
and worn out metaphors,
I scatter seed for the birds.

that night

March evening storm

Is that the wind
or bird wings against the glass?

Inconstant wind,
like hands that never entwine,
just move lovingly through my hair.

The wind moved that night,
filled with righteous violence.
Cyclonic angels fierce in their mission,
swirling songs from their twisted throats
singing to souls of houses and trees,
lifted in rapture.

That night, I followed the wind
then it twisted and chased me
all the way to your door.
But you had gone-
all that was left
was that not-you,

Is that the wind
or bird wings against the glass?
Foolish bird.
Foolish wind.

*** For dVerse prompt tonight, we are chasing the wind. Hold onto your hats and join in!