Saturday, March 23, 2013

Wrapped Around the Thought

I've been asked many times since Sweet William was published, what inspired me to become a writer.  Here is one "what" that is a "who"... my father.

Wrapped Around the Thought

See that curl of hair on forehead
under the jaunt of cap,
grinning yes
and leaning into the sun
with a tease of freckles?

Oh, he could write a minute
if you asked him,
could tell you carefully facts
of newsprint and time
with his face somber and his long fingers
wrapped around the thought.

Stories were in him, some fashioned
with laughter, his small quips
sang across the Post on Saturday Evening.
I didn’t know then to be proud.

Ships were always landing in pairs, he wrote,
on the yellow paper that falls apart
and drops pieces of time on the hardwood floor.
I see how it was l932 by an envelope
tucked inside the book called War Aces
with a bill requesting three dollars
for a doctor’s visit.

The address is one that tells me
that he lived before I knew him,
before I was his sweet pea,
he lived this piece of time
without me.

Oh, he could write a minute
if you asked him,
could tell you carefully facts
of newsprint and time
with his face somber and his long fingers
wrapped around the thought.

Tuesday, March 19, 2013

Music from the Corner of Spring

I can feel the dirt is moving
On the tips of green I see it
As the sun fills sky with morning
It is building bone on skin now

And the deepening of darkness
Is because the day is lighter
as the ducks flying to summer
Find my open morning window

I can see the breath of springtime
In the creeping warmth of breezes
And the shaking of the rooftops
Is the scattered raindrops drying

I can feel my skin get lighter
And its cloth makes silk from flannel
For the window will be softened
Chill be taken from the curtains 

And I want to travel seaward 
Across the nape towards summer
Fill my buckets with the fragrant
Seaweed shells and sandy dollars

And I know the snow of fresh fall
Will be melting on the mountains
And the apple painted sunsets
Will swallow whole the day in lovely

For the winter now is over
Its cold sheets of curled sleeping
Leaving shadows to delight in
Fine for feather-pillowed nighttime

As I feel the warming fire
From the hands across the seasons
Fill my cart with favorites
Walking with me into April

No matter what the season's heart-song
It is the window that opens inward
That is the music from the corner
of going home

Sunday, March 3, 2013

Where Shuddered Mystery Breaks its Fast

Come to my face sunning sky,
tease this arm faint breeze
like you do the trees.

I have a song that won’t let loose,
like leaf
it clings to the inner branch 
of truth.

I’ve sighed long 
as the moon watched 
and showed me how to change
a little every night.

“Soon the door will open
and tomorrow will be here”,
the nagging minutes whisper.
All's right, says my inner ear.

I am neither afraid nor out of date,
my stamp of time is faded,
not made of clay. 

Bright, what road this one,
dappled light or shade
or filled with sun?

I’ll take the one in weep of tree,
where holes are made in dirt light free.
Each step I’ll place within the path
where shuddered mystery breaks its fast

and lets me know the way at last.

Saturday, March 2, 2013

Winter Thoughts in the Yard

Winter Thoughts in the Yard

The clover belongs here in winter,
decorating the lawn next door,
cavorting with the slip and fall
of the seed pods from the Liquid Amber.

It is brave to stand up
wearing morning dew
on rain slicker’s yellow hue
in the middle of a winter day,
as a pile of leaves become ordinary
chaotic art made by a rake,
holding fast to the trash can
labeled, yard waste.

Swimming in the pool out back,
the children of the Golden Rain Tree
are floating, pale and assuming
the same lightness of being as the bee
twisting frantically, trying to fly.
Each leaf takes a chance on passing the filter,
like naughty children playing dare.

The bee is calm now
and floats peacefully into the vortex.

Watching is heavy with acceptance.

The deflated rubber raft that held glee ...
(was it that long ago
that I pushed giggling girls out
into the deep end?),
lays silent and empty.

Why does it have more power NOW
to touch me,
as it lays beside the empty chair?

The citrus trees are exploding.
I give a bow and wonder
about the word divine
in the back yard temple of appreciation
where so many small things have been
blessed then forgotten,  like girl scout cookies,
until they suddenly appear one day at the door
and ask if I want more.