I wandered to the lea
Wordsworth’s lea
Beneath umbrella
Hoping to conjure
His host of daffodils
But wet Windemere
Defeated me
Instead of Spring
And yellow daffodils
In dripping Windemere
I could only think
That Autumn was too near
Once upon a time
My hair rippled down my back
Waves that glistened in the sun
That swung from side to side
With the flippancy of youth.
Today in my mirror I see only
The lank and sparce remains.
This is not my hair, my mane.
This is a charade
A dastardly trick played by time.
My barrettes no longer strain
to hold my heavy tresses. Instead
they slip, fall away and are lost.
Ribbons, too, fail to stay in place.
Scarves may hide but not replace
The thick richness of my yesteryears.
Today in my mirror I see only
The lank and sparce remains.
This is not my hair, my mane.
This is a charade,
A dastardly trick played by time.
I am guilty, I admit.
I am also victim.
So, I speak
With authority
When I say—
Hovering is aggression.
It is troops massing
In “war games”
At your border.
Hovering is—
Disrespect,
Faithlessness—
Even if motivated
By love or compassion.
To hover suggests
Expected failure
Suspected ignorance
And doubting
Another’s abilities.
Hovering is
Selfishness.
Hovering’s victims
Are treated of less value
Their needs less important
Their promises worthless.
Hovering
Is often silent
But no less a threat
No less a destroyer
When accompanied
By love or compassion.
(An Author Writes to the Character She Created)
I remember you,
Anneke,
Though you lived
For only one evening
And the length
Of one diary page
Filed with my schoolwork.
Sometimes I think
I should like
To write like Dylan of Wales,
To wrap myself and the world
In words awandering
Rolling, cresting
Like salt crusted waves
And over everything
Summer light
So urgently tumbled
Swallowed up,
Oblivious to night and day
Aware only of the
Sound and shape
Of words
And a music my throat cannot hold
Little Bo Peep, all forlorn
Has lost her sheep.
“They are gone,” she moans.
Little Bo Peep do not mourn
“But they are gone,” she repeats.
“All my sheep.
My beautiful sheep.”
Do not mourn Bo Peep
Do not fret and weep
For they will again come home.
No longer will you wait alone.
Little Bo Peep all forlorn
Do not weep and do not mourn,
“They are gone, gone,” she repeats,
“All my sheep, my beautiful sheep.”
From their roving they return, coming home
Beneath the darkening vast blue dome.
Round and round Bo Peep they wind.
Little Bo Peep no longer is forlorn.
No longer will she mourn,
“Gone, gone
My sheep are gone,
All my sheep, by beautiful sheep.”
—for Oscar Wilde—
Come,
Let me hold you warm—
For the winter wind
Plays round the door
And the hounds run wild
In the streets tonight
It is not safe
To wander the mists
In the snow tonight…
But—
Wait!
You are not the man I called
From the night.
He is the elegant
Clown who charms
Such self-laughter
From our blind hearts,
Then soothes our slighted egos
With hints of bright hereafters.
He is the man
I called from the howling night.
He is the man I knew.
He did not have eyes
That have looked on hell
Nor a life to break my heart.
I could begin my seduction
With a gyro undulation
To a spicy salsa rhythm
Or, with my loneliness
Circling you, smoky-throated
In the slant of blues and jazz
Then, too, my so brief happiness
Glittering on the air might dance
With ragtime syncopation
Perhaps my sorrow dragging
Across the air or your soul
Might wail in a minor gypsy tune
Yes, I could sing to you.
But would you hear?
Would you care?
1920
This is the way we wash our clothes
So early Monday morning
2020
Monday? No, no, Saturday or Sunday
Or, when desperate, any week night
1920
This is the way we iron our clothes
So early Tuesday morning.
2020
Iron? Wash and wear, please.
Cleaners, maybe. Don’t own an iron.
1920
This is the way we sweep our floors
So early Wednesday morning.
2020
Robot vacuum, everybody
Sweeps everything while you’re away.
1920
This is the way we mend our clothes
So early Thursday morning.
2020
Can’t sew. Never learned.
Toss or give away, maybe a tailor?
1920
This is the way we clean our house
So early Tuesday morning.
2020
Pay the cleaners to come twice per month
In between just manage emergencies.
1920
This is the way we bake our bread
So early Saturday morning.
2020
Doing laundry, no time to bake
Bless the supermarkets’ artisanal breads.
1920
This is the way we dress up [for church?]
So early Sunday morning
2020
Laundry again or grocery shopping
Maybe, if all goes well, some fun.
And so the rhyme goes on
Nothing really changes
It’s all work, work, work
With a brief pause for breath
At the finish,
Before it all begins again.
I heard today the tide does not roll in.
The Earth itself rolls forward and away
Allowing the oceans to slide above
As if rising higher by sheer will or moon pull.
I am stunned to think it is me, standing still
On the sand, sliding toward the sea
Moving slowly to the East or West
Until the sea touches my toes
And never know I am riding that great force–
The Earth in its daily rotation.