1. Coming away from a funeral inspired to be a better person.
2. The eyes of my friends–sparkly, thoughtful, wise, twinkling, tear-filled, winsome, deep, compassionate. . .
3. Singing with my siblings.
4. That Moon and Jupiter last night.
5. Pancakes.
Namaste.
Which Mantle?
Poem-A-Day Day 27 Prompt: Two-fer Tuesday. Write a hero poem. Write a villain poem.
Which mantle shall I put on for this story?
I have the capacity for both,
for small-scale heroics, at least,
and for minor villainies, too.
Find yourself in the slough
and I’ll come to your rescue.
But two steps in another direction
and I might take you down.
We choose the one path,
but the other will often come to bear.
Even Fagin had a warmth.
Even Arthur had his secrets.
Extra Tanka
I’ll post the Poem-A Day poem later. Meanwhile, here’s a tanka:
I would stay indoors
were it not for seven hens.
Instead, bundled up
I step out into the snow
among the dancing bluebirds.
Title
Poem-A-Day Day 26 Prompt: Write a Collection Poem about something you want to collect.
I want to collect titles, like the illustrious,
the megalotitulargrandmastermaniac himself,
Idi Amin Dada, His Excellency, President
for Life, Field Marshall Al Hadji,
you get the picture,
except he didn’t think you would,
so along with a collection of
interesting initials, he declared himself Lord
of all the Beasts of the Earth
and Fishes of the Sea, and Conqueror
of the British Emperor in General
and Uganda in Particular.
Yes, really.
Anyone who could greet him duly
must have passed out at his feet at the end
for very lack of breath.
Me, today I add to my title hoard
Conqueror of the Clutter
in One Small Corner of the House
in General, Queen of Two Cats
and a Flock of Grateful Chickens,
Field Harvester, and,
in this instance in particular,
Spewer of Grandiose Poetry.
You may bow now.
Contradictions
Poem-A-Day Day 25 Prompt: Write an Opposite Poem, a poem which is opposite to one which you have already written. Really tough challenge today.
I’ll sit with Uncle Walt in the hall of contradictions,
contain my multitudes or let them fly outwards.
Did I say that the heart was a circle,
a singularity, a unit, contained?
No, the heart is a line,
straight and unswerving,
connecting any two points.
The geometer says,
Begin with a single point.
Notice, over there, a second point
and mark it carefully with your pencil.
Holding your pencil on that point,
line up your ruler between them,
and draw your line tenderly.
And if you are like Billy Collins, or me,
and falling in love is something you do
constantly and willfully,
those lines will ray outward from your center
like a glorious web, encompassing the universe,
like a circle.
The Truth about the Tree Poem
Poem-A-Day Day 24 Prompt: The title begins, “The Truth About ______”
When I said that I was transformed into a tree
perhaps it would have been more accurate
to say that I became a raven
my roots curling into claws
my branches melting into blackness
the rush of the dawn wind in my ears.
Did I say “roots” again? Pardon me.
My feet are roots, of course, when I am a tree,
but also when I am a rainbow.
Did you know? A rainbow has roots too
great arcing roots that mirror and reflect
their sky-form. The earth spectrum of the underworld.
When I am a rainbow, I am a perfect circle
holding the world in my colors.
It may be closer to the truth were I to say
that one fateful day I became a stone
and sank deeply into a stillness so profound
I could not hear even my jeweled heart
burning with the brilliant fire of the Earth.
I cannot recall what happened to my night-black wings
on the day I turned into a stone.
You may think it is not possible, not true,
that right now I am actually hearing you say, “But
a person does not simply turn into a tree
or a stone, into a rainbow or a bird.”
Now, see, I have told you your own thoughts
and you can feel free to be amazed.
But how can I not hear you
when you have become
the gentlest of breezes
and whispered your protest
with a smile
into my ear?
When I Became a Tree
Poem-A-Day Prompt 23: Write a Deep Poem.
On that day when I became a tree,
I felt first the stillness
dawning within me,
felt the silence grow.
Crystals of quiet
formed on my skin
like ice, like stone.
On that fierce and tender morning
there was a receding
within and without,
a tingle in my spine,
in the soles of my feet.
And then my roots began to grow,
fine hairs at first
feeling downward. Down.
My ears and my eyes
went to my roots,
deep and deeper.
I ran into earth
on that day
when I went to the trees.
Roots snaked down into soil,
seeking deep layers of humus,
caves of small creatures,
seeking underground rivers,
the bones of the ancestors.
On that day when my roots flew
through the silence,
through depths of earth,
they sought the heat
at the heart of the Mother.
Then did my branches
rattle and whisper
among the stars.
Paradise Here
Day 22 Prompt: Write a Paradise Poem. I have abandoned the idea of writing about the town in Pennsylvania. We’re holidaying today, so I’ll try to make this a quick one. I think it’s a little plodding. . .
I like things pretty fine as they are:
the sun winks obliquely
over the morning fields,
warm eggs fresh from the nest,
the children run wild in the fields and woods,
a laughing farmer who works with intention,
a little too much to do
to keep us always grasping,
and enough struggle
to keep us always growing.
Only Time
Poem-A Day Day 21 Prompt: Write a Song Title Poem. Choose 5 song titles at random and write a poem which weaves them together. I stood at the CD shelf and closed my eyes and chose 5 CDs, then chose the 1st, 3rd, 5th, 7th, and 9th songs on the CDs. I had a pretty negative feeling about the potential layers of the 5 songs that came up with that pattern initially–an angsty darkness that is not mine to claim, even accidentally. So I shuffled the 5 CDs and chose the odds again. So, mostly random, and for some reason, that matters a great deal to me. The list of songs follows the poem.
This is not the only time
when we eat this bread,
when we shine like stars,
when we are filled with plenty
from the horn of abundance,
from that curling cornucopia
showering goodness upon us
from the fields of the beautiful ones
who shine, the watery ones,
those western stars.
Who is this old man
stepping slowly along the path
out of the twinkling shadows
the moon makes over the hills,
a rangy hound at his heels?
Will we remember to ask his name
when he stands before us?
Will we think to thank him
for the names he will bestow upon us?
Only time will reveal the story.
Only the stars will hear the answer.
(“Western Stars,” K.D. Lang, Shadowland; “Only Time,” Enya, A Day Without Rain; “Horn,” Nick Drake, Pink Moon; “This Old Man,” Pete Seeger, A Child’s Celebration of Song; “When We Eat This Bread,” The Dave Brubeck Quartet with the Cathedral Choral Society Chorus and Orchestra, to Hope!)
Breathing Love Into the Wound
I will write today’s poem later. Just now, I need to write this.
Recently, I have been working on keeping an open heart, trying to breathe through the ideas and events and stories that hurt and frighten and anger me. Today, I am struggling with it as I contemplate the story of Israel and Gaza, and as I think about the killing that is being done in our name in Afghanistan and Pakistan. And then of course, I think about Congo, and. . .
I want to turn away, turn inward, create a shell, cover it with cynicism and rage and let the hopelessness ooze out all around. There is a ringing in my ears. I think I need to learn to live more in the layers, to breathe into the space of my everyday, and into that other enraged and frightened place in my heart. To remember that I do not need to react. I only need to hold it. But is breathing love into the wound of the world enough?
Mockingbird Chronicles 