For you
we stand
arms out
reaching grasping
longing missing
crying howling
through holes
in the air
where you
once stood.
Our hands
hang empty
at the ends
of our arms.
The piles
of ideas
words papers
maps charts
essays books
ink blots
chalk dust
false starts
brave conclusions
our connections -
these piles
tip over
topple scatter
pour out
spill splatter
bleed and
we stand
arms out
hearts falling
faces closing
bones showing
skins hiding
knees knocking
wishing wanting
reaching grabbing
for ghosts
shadowy impulses
of you.
Seconds days
years eons
click fly
tumble by
until finally
we are able
to stand
arms out
letting you
go.
poem a week
It was Harriet, the spunky protagonist of Louise Fitzhugh's book, Harriet the Spy, who inspired me, at the age of eight, to keep secret notebooks. Since then, I have spent my life writing and teaching writing. Recently, I decided to join my fellow poet friends in the challenge to write and post at least one poem each week....and thus, another blog has been born...
The Inspiration
10.06.2010
10.05.2010
Paradoxical Earth
click click click
The earth moves
in measured paces
across the skies.
It's a predictable march
through time
but the wanton gem
of the universe
defies predictability
as she glides all night
in her shimmery, glimmery
sequined skirts
as she dances her days
swinging and swaying
as she spins through space
her waters foaming
in great swirling wakes
as she trips and trails
through the universe
my beautiful, measured unmeasured
paradoxical woman, Earth.
9.24.2010
Drifting-on-air days
What landscape is this
where women float by
on crisp blue-sky air
laughing about their past?
Or is it their laughter
that is drifting,
lazily along,
under the warm autumn sun?
Either way, the air
is perfectly warm-cool
when the women gather
floating on their laughter
the way only Colorado
September-mountain-air days
can be brilliantly forever sky blue
the way only golden-orange
aspen leaves ripple
and below them
breezy streams tumble,
shining all the way down.
This is the landscape that-
these are the women who-
hold me up
and in me, their glow shimmers
even after we descend
from our blue-sky-floating
drifting-on-air days
to the everyday lives we lead.
This is the shimmer
that holds me up.
where women float by
on crisp blue-sky air
laughing about their past?
Or is it their laughter
that is drifting,
lazily along,
under the warm autumn sun?
Either way, the air
is perfectly warm-cool
when the women gather
floating on their laughter
the way only Colorado
September-mountain-air days
can be brilliantly forever sky blue
the way only golden-orange
aspen leaves ripple
and below them
breezy streams tumble,
shining all the way down.
This is the landscape that-
these are the women who-
hold me up
and in me, their glow shimmers
even after we descend
from our blue-sky-floating
drifting-on-air days
to the everyday lives we lead.
This is the shimmer
that holds me up.
9.12.2010
Following your hum
Following your hum
through autumn’s thin air
reminds me
of chasing dragonflies,
longing to see up close
the blues and greens
and golds of their wings.
As you hum bits
of song endings,
float and flit
with a strange fragility,
I long to see through
your translucent skin
to your tiny bones,
long to know
the beginnings of your songs.
9.06.2010
Circling: Under the Yellow Sun
I.
And so I fight
For years
under the black shroud of night,
I have been alone
with my own voice
echoing through the chambers
of my brain.
Night after night
I cling to wakefulness,
do all that I can
to avoid the hulking monsters
of my dreams.
II.
For years
in the warm yellow light of day,
my eyes closed,
I’ve been dozing,
comforted by the blanket
of familiar noises:
my husband cooking
and folding clothes,
my daughters
circling and circling around me
in hopeful spirals.
III.
Sometimes I feel
two girls’ eyes
peering into the place where I reside
and the black birds of their sadness
settle heavily
as one great flock
in my ribs.
I choke on the grief.
And so I fight
to share in their daylight,
pin my lids open
until I can see, finally,
the warm yellow sun
spilling over
their warm yellow hair,
and for a while,
the flock of birds
lifts off my chest
releasing me
from its weight.
IV.
When they’re grown,
I hope they don’t wander in a daze
for too long,
for too long,
feeling alone and abandoned.
I hope they know
the electricity of the yellow sun,
the safety and softness of night,
and so I fight my way back
and so I fight my way back
through the tunnel
of backward nights and days,
to join them,
to circle and circle in dizzy spirals,
loving them so much
under the yellow sun.
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