Category: Poems

Today, December 13, 2011, marks the 365th day that I have written a poem a day.  I am amazed and proud of what I’ve done.  Oh, not every poem is anything great.  Maybe none of them is truly great.  But some stand as very good, for me, never having considered myself a poet.  A writer of verse.  An artist/writer.  Maybe those things.  “Poet” seems a hard title to claim for myself, just as “artist” has been.  Regardless of all that, I have written a poem a day for ONE YEAR!  The original pact with myself was for 49 days and now look!  I am quite proud.

Today I went as far as to write two.  Some days I have struggled to come up with even a thought, a start, let alone something that I would want others to read.  And some days I have had to settle on something not entirely satisfying and get on with the responsibilities of earning a living, paying the gas bill, etc.  But I have found this to be a wonderful practice, a lovely morning routine added to my already daily routine of journal writing.  It has been a different sort of way to document the days, my mood, the vagaries of my brain.  And an amazingly rewarding discipline.

At many points I thought it might be time to quit.  Sitting there in my pajamas, tea finished, tapping my pen, looking around the room for some piece of thing to get me started, finding not even a single thought in my brain, I’d think maybe it’s over, maybe there is nothing left in me, maybe it’s time to stop.  Of course there is always something in me, in all of us, I know that.  I am certain of that.  Sometimes it’s just a matter of unearthing it or giving it permission to crawl out of its cocoon and emerge.

So there it is.  One year of poems.  I am not ready to stop now, either.  Maybe someday I will be.  Or maybe some unforeseen thing will bring this to an end.  Not yet, though. Tomorrow begins another year of poems.

I.

Picking burrs off my dog
his heavy head in my lap
he raises a paw, now two, to my face
stretches languidly, looks up at me 
love settled in his brown eyes.
Rain drops quietly outside
the homely warmth of our house.
Miles is a one-woman dog and I
at sixty, know my fate is now sealed.
I will never be a world traveler.

II.

Five thirty in the morning he stood
up at the foot of my bed
made those familiar awful sounds
threw up what looked like someone’s liver.
He is a dog who eats.  
Eating is his raison d’etre.
Branches, dandelion puffs, chunks
of wood, dead animals, paper,
plastic bottles, my neighbor’s 
compost, sticks of butter
left unattended.
The world is Miles’ savory smorgasbord.

Two socks lost in the wash.
One each from two pairs
missing, gone, disappeared.
Not clinging to my son’s underwear
or hiding in my pajamas.  No.
Not in the dryer, on the stairs, in the 
crack between washer and workbench.
Two lovely wool socks vanished!
Like the perfect phrase for a poem
a sparrow on the wing
that last piece of chocolate
an early morning dream
the moon behind clouds
a mouse through its crack.
Gone.
Leaving me lonely
and cold.

Bones of trees stand black
against a white winter sky
graceful rooted gods.

Sleeping I missed the earth eclipsing the moon
     in the early morning darkness.
Sleeping I dreamed a dream that prettily 
     lit this day.
Sleeping I missed a wonder.
Sleeping I was refreshed.

Great blue heron at that bend in the creek
rose up in grace and silence
her long thin legs pointed like a dancer’s
broad wings making no sound at all
as they carried her away from me and my dogs.
I rebuked myself for not having anticipated
her presence in that particular spot.
She cannot know the depth of my love
and quickly deserts her post when
we come crashing along.  
But I would like to hold her gently
stroke her long neck
meet her eye to eye
have her tell me all she knows
of life, loss, love
of egg and nest
water and sky
birth and flight
danger and calm
river, creek and avian mystery.
Our two knowledges are worlds apart.
But she with no desire to know of mine
will ever and always rush away.

What a perfect round Oh the sun is
and the moon and the earth as well
and eyes, breasts, the buds of roses
the centers of daisies
oranges, pomegranates, grapes
capers, olives, cantaloupes
the mouths of sleeping babies
notes of music with and sans stems
drops of dew dangling, hail and raindrops falling.
Oh that oh, a simple shape for God or Nature
to make, that nice round Oh.
Oh what a useful shape.
Oh what a lovely word.
Oh.
Oh!
Ohhh.

My mother died two years ago today.
I wanted to be there but I wasn’t.
And now though I’d love to feel her presence I rarely ever do.
She was a gifted pianist with a lovely light touch,
an excellent, fast, accurate typist
an avid reader, a practical joker.
Baked a perfect pie crust.
She had a quick, beautiful smile,
loved babies, roses, the ocean,
disliked birds, cold weather, Halloween.
She sang old songs, played cards, let us jump on the furniture,
taught me how to sew, how to cut up a chicken.
She loved traveling with our Aunt Marie,
had a green thumb with Christmas cactus and African violets,
enjoyed an evening cocktail of Kahlua and vodka,
disliked champagne but did like the McDonald’s fish sandwich.  
An elegant young woman, she later grew plump and huggable.
She took up painting in her 80s, filled her small home with pictures.
She was beloved by all our friends, all her friends, all of us.
So now where is she?  
I tap my fingers to music in just that way she did.
Maybe she’s there, right there
in the music we both loved.

St. Nicholas Day
and my 29-year-old son asleep
across the hall has set out his shoes.
This means that I, a fool for All
that harkens back to his childhood
or my own, will fill them with treats.
I cannot resist.
It is snowing, besides.
Who could let this opportunity slip by?
Not I.  Oh, not I.

Home again I am
watching the rise and fall
of my dogs’ breathing bodies.
Low hum of furnace is
broken by an occasional 
passing rasp of that blue jay.
Yes I am home.