Sunday, July 8, 2018

Red Beacons at the Edge of Hearing




Two letters.
Two poems.
Eight pages of journal.
Sixty-one years of comfort—
Louella’s handwriting.  6-12-18


 

Here’s a morning that
holds true—creeper’s
pinwheels stirring the sun.  6-14-18



Under the river of thin clouds,
swift pivots left then right.  6-14-18



Longley said to write it
even if it was the only thing—
red birds talk to each other this soft morning,
red beacons at the edge of hearing.  6-15-18



The morning sweetness,
a round table,
the chair that fits my back.  6-15-18



The firefly lands on my hand,
a tiny weight to carry a big light.  6-15-18



Talking,
three crows overhead.
Two land on the white pine.  6-15-18



Chipmunk with grass in her mouth
stops at my foot.  Kitty watches
from the window.  6-17-18



Precious
the light that travels,
the light that rests within.  6-15-18







Sunday, August 30, 2015

Lotka Reflecting All (from the journal)







Chesapeake City Park

In the lost place,
many moments,
many greetings
from unknown plants, dragonfly,
and skipper who waits
patiently for the camera to open.

All eyes open,
inner eyes, too,
moving moments
shared.

Beauty shared.
New beauty
shared in the lost place.  8-17-15



Unseen waterbird
flies overhead
speaking in her
white water voice.  8-17-15



Wasp taking wood from
the old deck chair—
somewhere a nursery is expanding.  8-17-15

 

Emily

Did you know it then
when the words
touched the paper
that it was your voice,
your strong voice talking?
Rounded open letters letting
thought in, out,
barely touching paper.  8-17-15



Sumi-e

Little girl making peace at her study table.
Wide blue sky reflected in wide blue sea,
a yellow place for feet,
little girl feet.   8-17-15



Cloud-bird
hides in the sky.
From the pine
gray bird looks on.  8-17-15



Sasha in the wild world
with sharks
and Mallory.  8-17-15



Stacatto clouds below the film of cirrus.
Water.
But how?    8-18-15



The perfect lake
shadowed by the perfect woods.
Rabbit lives there.  8-19-15



Sometimes looseness comes,
a way of knowing, dancing in the unknown
emerging between paper and brush,
learning to touch,
to see between light and dark,
all coming to the palest
gray opalescence when dry,
Himalayan lotka reflecting all.   8-19-15



Morning opalescence—
fog, cloud, sea air moisten the upright pines.
Shades of white moving north.  8-20-15



The promise of blue
rising over the bare tree this morning
without gray bird.  8-20-15



The path is full—
beach rose buds, orange hips, green prickly pears,
the turning pines unto themselves.  8-20-15



The woods—old enough
to be dying.
Gray bird’s empty perch.  8-21-15 



Reflections on the soft lake greener
than the calm water
after the night of light and storm.   8-21-15



Where did this air come from that lights
my hair, my breath?
The world above,
the fast moving world of touch and go.  8-21-15



Night Storm

The sky goes all the way up,
peopled with cloud dreams.
And in the dark,
enough depth for light.  8-21-15



Orb weaver’s offspring
on my teacup saucer stepping
through spilled black Indian tea,
looking for a place to hide.  8-21-15



They were going somewhere
all in a rush,
altogether
on the same wing.  8-21-15






Saturday, May 30, 2015

Single-winged Samara (from the journal)




Incomplete, Acer?
Single-winged samara spins.
Heavy-headed butterfly,
whole in the light.  5-4-15 



All these days—
how will they be counted
if there are no poems,
no breath revisited?  5-23-15



Cool with a bit of
warmth to the eye,
the sharpness of bird bites.  5-23-15



Tiny, through the green round,
the blue sky,
circled.  5-23-15



Does dragonfly hear
woodpecker’s far knock
in his circle of sun?
White on black, both.
Now, moved to silence.  5-23-15



Come back now to silence
and maples’ new rose leaves
perched over all like sentries
with wings and pointed caps
aloft on air, here
where doors are not closed.  5-23-15



A bit of time—
oak steps through,
marking heart steps,
the dark verticals
moving down.  5-23-15



Side-stepping
to get to the holes between the words,
to the river running of its own accord.  5-24-15



Shenandoah

The perfect place—
air, water,
memories wrapped
and unwrapped.
A thin snake
the thread through all,
facing us with
clear eyes.  5-30-15



The years flow by,
but right here time pools around this
air-bound rock that floats free
under my pen
turning the currents
back around.  5-30-15




Sunday, April 5, 2015

Marooned off Lime (from the journal)






It’s a long way I
went to hear your voice, back.
I, wrapped by blue,
self, your self, fire,
your rolling fire voice, embers
moving across me,
a whole place,
without shivers,
mine or yours.  2-10-15




On many levels
it remains—hope,
in all the right colors.  2-11-15




The door opens word by word.
Wren waits on the growing branch.
I wait beside her.  2-12-15




I don’t pursue the hollow ring;
this isn’t my time.
Do you waken to the same horizontal sky,
gray and cream?
My time waits below my breast bone,
tucked under my chin,
the one that lifts to you.  2-14-15




My eye finds it—
the blue through crab apple’s
bare branches.  Sea blue
anchored like my heart.  2-14-15 




Here we are on a slow slide.
There’s too much light and raw sound
for toes to meet,
naked toes,
toe to toe,
on a slow slide
in.  2-18-15




Ragged,
lactuca seeds under snow,
over snow, silent snow.  2-21-15




Coming down straight
with the softest weight,
coalesced dreams gather up white
over the rising night.  2-21-15 



Steady, steady, steady they go
blown through and through with
sideways clouds of broken dust.  2-21-15




Does it hold, the lock,
the golden brown light of spring,
emerging-swelling, breathing with light,
grasping eyes, heart until the moment is fulfilled?
And again and again, you, me,
the space that is ours.  3-1-15





The light is right,
the morning sideways light.
If not for the snow it would fall across
my arms, my eyes, my pen,
that sideways morning light.  3-6-15




It beckons not, the snow.
I stay inside, warm tea,
comforted by lily’s brown,
down-turned leaves that grace the
still-green stems, two unopened buds
pointing to each other.
Gestures of thought unopened,
but conceived and received.  3-6-15




Kalanchoe

Where is the light now,
the curls of light
coming back red off wood,
green off sedum?
Has any made its way here,
and does it cast its own taupe shadow?
Where is the light now?
Is it marooned off lime?  3-6-15




A word, a sigh,
a touch of paper,
the softest paper
ringed with light.  3-7-15




Do you think of me when you move,
making paths through it all?
In my quieter path you are here,
the last snow falling, silent.  3-7-15

  


Water

Maple’s week-long flowers,
abrupt in the soft air.
Now rain, the soft rain
brings down the full color.
Water, colored by air.  4-3-15




Standing in the water,
my feet wet,
your promise,
a pinch of warmth.  4-3-15