Shadows

Photo Credit: guardian.co.uk

She wraps her frail form in cashmere
loneliness, dreams dreams of days
spent wallowing in beauty, immersed
in worlds of aromatic cassia, luxuriating
in a hammock, strung, perhaps, between
two willows by the water.

These days she languishes within the
prison of her penthouse.

People she used have gone ahead, and
those who turned to her for gifts moved on,
forget. The room is cast in darkest quiet—
a tomb, expectant. I watch her finger
the fringe of loneliness, not seeing, there
before her, the rutilant sweetness of another
setting sun.

These days she languishes within the
prison of an angry mind.

I’m linking this to dVerse Poets Open Link Night. Please join us in the poetry pub where we gather to share our work and support one another. The doors swing open at 3:00 PM EDT.

Temptation

Adam and Eve (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Temptation
An Acrostic

(Eve)

Try not to think of how you’ll feel tomorrow,
Even God can’t know the wonder of this fruit.

(Adam)

My dear, don’t you remember words of warning?

(Eve)

Perhaps God’s trying to keep us from the truth.
Take this; come on. Just try a morsel.
A snake told me that we would be just fine.
The Tree of Life has nothing like this apple.
Indeed, it offers neither food nor wine.

(Adam)

Only a tiny bite, only this one time.
No one will ever know. HEY, this one’s mine!

An old one, linked now to dVerse Poetics where Mary tempts us to write about, what else, temptation. Crawl on over and see if you can resist!

Maybe If–dVerse Meeting the Bar

Photo: writingforrecovery.com

I’d noticed
how she
pushed that piece of Kung
Pao Shrimp around
the plate and left it
balancing
precariously
on the edge.

If I’d taken time
to hear to the words,
she didn’t speak.
Or if I’d
caught the way her
eyes avoided mine,
staring at some
distant intersection
on the horizon
of her world.

If I’d paid attention
to the curtains
drawn tight against
intrusion
or if I’d wondered why
she never called
me back.

Maybe then she
would not have chosen
to die so soon.

I’m hosting Thursday over at dVerse for Meeting the Bar and asking you to consider issues that inspire you most, and to write a poem using your distinct poetic voice. I hope you will meet us there. The doors open at 3:00 PM EDT.

Death and dying are frequent themes in my writing…in case you haven’t noticed. This is based on a true story. Although I’ve worked with persons who suffer from depression much of my nursing career, I didn’t pick up on it. When you’re close to someone it’s easy to miss the obvious, I’m sorry to say.

Sentinel–a Sijo

A Sijo

Two mockingbirds keep watch atop the tree outside our door.
One faces North, the other South. Are we protected?
Who knows? Though comfort comes in songs of cautious wonder.

Stop by dVerse and learn about this (new to many of us) Korean poetry form! This is a rough draft. I focused on syllable count rather than the wonderful nuances the form calls for. Thanks to Sam Peralta for the prompt.

 

Lauds–NaPoWriMo, Day 2

Photo: Wikipedia Commons

In the morning the blue heron is busy.
To all appearances still, beside deep water
he contemplates.

Appearances deceive.

A rush, a feathery flurry, flash of silver
dripping rainbows,
then they’re gone.

And such is life—

a moment’s pause before climactic endings,
while from a distant branch a mockingbird
sings praise.

The first line of this poem is taken from the work of Mary Oliver–NaPoWriMo’s Day 2 Prompt. While my goal is to write a poem daily during April, I may lag behind and most likely will not post all of them.

The previous post is my poem for dVerse Meeting the Bar on Irony.

Smile–Jesus Loves You dVerse Meeting the Bar

He wore no smile. Square jaw, set firm,
taut muscles. Skin like latte, stubble-covered,
(more like fuzz.)
Skin too soft for who he was,
who he pretended to be.
Salvadoran sun backlit the scene
set on the borders of insanity.

Not a game he played that day,
a game his peers in other lands
and other times still play.
This was a game of war.

He stared at us, each one, with eyes
too full of sadness for an almost-child.
Compared our passport photos with reality.

And there, upon the submachine gun’s butt—
a smiley face, a message, too.

I wonder–can he smile today,
and can he still believe?

Earthquake–El Salvador
1986

At the height of the civil war in El Salvador, the country suffered a massive earthquake that resulted in much loss of life and many injuries. I spent close to a month there, helping to nurse the wounded not requiring hospitalization. We flew into Guatemala and drove to San Salvador, the capital. On the way, we had to pass through numerous military checkpoints. At one of these stops I observed a young soldier. I’d guess he wasn’t much older than 15 or 16. There on the butt of his huge machine gun was a smiley face sticker with the words in English that I’ve chosen for the title of this poem.

Submitted to dVerse Poets’ Meeting the Bar that I’m hosting this week. The doors open Thursday at 3:00 PM EDT. Hope to see you there. The theme, believe it, or not, is IRONY!

Loss–dVerse Open Link Night

Photo Credit: D. Slotto

The year we lost our pepper tree
I died a bit myself.
Sometimes a history, a soul
is so tied into creation—
a bird, a cloud, a tree
or a memory.

Before we said goodbye
the world shuddered.
Brutal wind battered,
buffeted, swept through
our valley.

Today I stand alone
in a space reduced to emptiness.

 

Linked to dVerse Open Link Night where poetry flows freely. Please join us.

Hot Chocolate and Mary

The leaves of an elm splash
dappled sunlight on the forest
floor. A chill lingers in the
air so we share hot chocolate
from a thermos, pour the creamy
liquid into insulated mugs.

Age does not prevent her
from sprawling on the earth
she loves so passionately.
She leans against the tree’s
stout trunk, says, “I’m yours.”

My mouth is dry like when
the dentist stuffs it full of
cotton rolls. Disbelief numbs
me till she laughs—a sound
as real as songs of her beloved
birds that sing their prayers
in unison from the surrounding
branches and marshy meadows.

“I’m yours,” she says again,
reminding me I’m here to do
the interview I’ve wished for,
nurtured in my imagination
since I discovered her.

“Your life,” I coax, knowing
that but a single word suffices.

As for myself
I swung the door open and there was
The wordless singing world. And I ran for my life.

“You ran to it?”

“Yes, immersed myself in beauty.”
While on and on the sparrow sings.

“And aging? If you don’t mind, that is.”

In the deep fall, don’t you imagine the leaves think
how comfortable it will be to touch
the earth…?”

…and what shall I wish for myself but,
being so struck by the lightning of years
to live with what is left, loving.

“Any regrets?”

There wasn’t
time enough for all the wonderful things
I could think of to do

In a single day…

“If you could choreograph your death?”

…Maybe on a midsummer night’s eve,
And without fanfare.

“About death?”

So it is
if the heart has devoted itself to love, there is
not a single inch of emptiness. Gladness gleams
all the way to the grave.

“And after?”

If there’s a temple, I haven’t found it yet,
I simply go on drifting, in the heaven of grass
and the weeds.

She takes her leave.
I watch her walk across the fields,
stopping to listen
or to follow the flight of a heron.
She’s alone now
with Percy her dog
and memories of having lived well.

 

I would do just about anything to spend an hour with Mary Oliver, a poet who has touched my life and my writing so deeply. This is an imagined interview. The responses in italics are all snippets of her poetry chosen from the Volume “New and Selected Poems, Volume Two.” I wrote this in response to Claudia’s prompt on Saturday but didn’t have time to develop it beyond an idea. So here it is, linked to dVerse Poets Open Link Night. The mics are open Tuesday, 3:00 EST. Check it out!

The Love Affair of San Andreas and San Jacinto

Should you hold doubt, hear my request:
investigate. USGS data confirms these facts
that I put forth based on experience.
Earthquakes visit my valley like a lover his mistress
nestled as she is in the arms of two faults.

Substantial temblors came this week alone—
magnificent displays of power, Earth’s climax.
Just before she peaks, a moan fans out
announces slamming forces built up within
her core—the accoustics of rapture.

When opposites conjoin, damaged surfaces
spawn newfound beauty, realign nature,
bless us with unsuspecting serendipity.
Revel in uncertainty, in danger, in new growth.
I challenge you.

Coachella Valley, home to Palm Desert and the better known Palm Springs lies between two significant fault lines: the San Andreas and the San Jacinto. While they don’t really come together, it seems that action on one often invites activity on the other. Coachella Valley, like all of California, is home to frequent earthquakes. We had two this past week—not huge ones, but big enough to catch your attention. Scientists and doomsayers predict we are overdue to have “The Big One.” Over the years we’ve already experienced a few over 7.0 which seem to wait for us to visit to occur.

This week, fellow blogger Justin (Tino), asked me to give him some random words to use in a poem. So I asked him to reciprocate. The words (serendipitously) were: acoustics, earthquake, challenge, investigate, request, magnificent, damaged, substantial, serendipity, opposite. I’m submitting this for dVerse OLN. The pub opens tomorrow at 3:00 PM EST. Hope, as always, to see you there.

Annie

Today at dVerse Poetics, Karin Gustafson invites us to write about the color green. This is a very rough draft of a poem I’d started years ago and never knew what to do with it. The rhyme and scansion are atrocious, but I submit it as is, for now, for the message. “Annie” is a composite of two patients I cared for in a nursing facility–both named Annie. There is some truth, some fiction to the story. If you are so inclined, let me know in comments what you see as the underlying message.

Annie

Annie—her name, as I recall.
Trouble dogged her through life.
A sad life, on the streets,
they whispered in the hall.

Her son wasn’t “normal,”
or so they reported.
Who knows who’s his daddy?
an old wag retorted.

She spoke not a word,
only stared out the window;
took meals in her room
so we nurses conferred.

Couldn’t get her to change,
to emerge from the hurt
of a life of abuse,
from her choices so strange.

Then one day in November
she made this request,
“My green bathrobe,” she begged,
“It will help me remember.”

I searched through her closet,
found nothing resembling
the color she wanted,
on hangers, in boxes.

That night after work
I stopped by the mall,
found just one jade-green robe
that I took to the clerk.

In the morning, her eyes
lit the room, and her smile—
made it all so worthwhile,
a delightful surprise.

Late that night, she expired,
they called me to see,
her hands held the fabric
the green she required.

That robe was her shroud
and a photo I’d found
in her fingers I placed
of a woman so proud.

A green robe she wore,
in her arms was a baby,
That one thing she cherished,
the child she bore.

No one knows the story
of the life that she chose,
but the wearing of green
was her peace and her glory.