A PHOENIX IN THE GARDEN

Ripped from its mother plant

Thrust into unprepared clay-rich soil

The geranium persisted,

Grew without nurture.

But its blooms were few

And nearly hidden

By its own leaves—

Brief flares of red-orange fire

Within a green surround

Spreading broad leaves

Over the garden corner edging

Onto converging paths.

Ruthlessly cut back

For passing feet,

The geranium compensated

Growing tall, high above

Its neighboring plants.

More blooms appeared,

Some bursting upward

As if to touch the sky.

Then the storm came

Whipping the trees

From side to side

Before the rain descended

Like Niagara escaped from capture,

Followed by the pitiless

Pelting of ice pellets….

When the morning sun shone

On that garden corner

The geranium lay sprawled

Once more across the paths.

Yet its once skyward blooms

Shot their fire still

Defiant and strong

With a promise to rise again

In fire to reach the sky.

 

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Poetry Reading at the Bookstore: Sneak Attack

The words ricochet

off the book jackets,

slyly spill over the lip

of an unexpecting eyelid,

slither through the harem lattice

of a shuttered ear,

run in succulent rivulets

washing over silenced flesh,

seeping past the barrier skin.

Dangerous in ambush,

the words infiltrate

a mind once deaf.

 

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APRIL RAIN

a soft morning rain

like windswept marsh grass rustling

brushes the windows

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MY NAME

Read more

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THE STORYTELLER, the keeper of histories

behind the willow tree

above the tents

beyond memory

he waited

 

between fog and rainbow

among the fairy folk

against the night

he waited

 

past yesterday

through the day

across the centuries

he waited

 

beside the stream

down the sky

underneath my song

he waited

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REMEMBERING CRAYONS

Sixty-four colors

All in one box!

A Christmas gift,

Even though coloring books

Were not my favorite thing.

 

Why was it so important

To color within the lines?

Why couldn’t a horse be blue,

Or the grass pink?

 

But those sixty-four colors

Were really tempting.

So many choices.

Some awful like “Flesh”

Which wasn’t.

And Silver and Gold

Which weren’t either.

 

I soon found favorites

Red-Violet, Burnt Sienna,

Orchid, Turquoise,

Sky Blue, Lemon Yellow

And plain Green and Red.

 

I played with the others

But they rarely made me

Smile the way my favorites did.

Sometimes I just liked to look

At all sixty-four sitting in the box

And think of possibilities.

That was good, too.

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HELLO, SPRING

Hello again, Spring

Each day flickers

Between rain and sun

Rich with promise

Each day brings a melody

Of memory and dreams

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A GOOD CUP OF TEA

No Gael ever wore her family name,

‘twas Norse as the winds from the Pole

that will freeze a fisher’s hands on the sheets.

 

Yet, Mary Bridget was she christened

in the county of Mayo.

With passels of Mary sisters and cousins,

‘twas Bridget she was meant to be called.

 

But it was Beezie, not Bridget,

her name came to be,

and it was Beezie when she sailed

as a girl to the port of New York.

 

Deep in the hills of Ohio

a position awaited

in an half-Irish household

rich upon steel and coal.

 

There she labored, near content,

for the blessing of numerous and free

cups of tea to be had.

Till with mean-spirited ways,

came the new housekeeper

to lock up tight the aromatic tea drawer.

 

But the master, noticing

our Beezie’s lost smiles

and the lack of her sweetly hummed tunes

while she dusted and cleaned,

slipped her a second key,

saying Beezie should take her sips

whenever it pleased her.

 

So, Beezie smiled and hummed softly

the auld songs while she worked,

danced to their playin’ on evenings off,

till she married Patrick Higgins

(of the O’Haegin clan),

and she raised their children,

all six with true Irish hearts.

 

Those children’s children, too,

kept the Irish songs and ways

in their hearts till here

in a great grandchild

still the echoes remain,

along with a craving for a good cup of tea.

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THE OLD MAN’S HARVEST

The man was old

The seeds were few

The land no more fertile

Than sand

The weather unkind

The river far

The water jug half empty

 

Carefully husbanding

The seed

The old man worked

Alone under the sun

Trickling

A light sprinkling

Onto the hard planted seed

Till it put forth

A single stalk

 

He nourished

The root, the stalk,

The flower, the fruit.

Patiently exercising

Upon the single

Desiccated stalk

The ancient rhythm

Of the harvests of his youth

Till his work done

And he slept

Under a red moon

 

Then stumbling from a hate

That orphaned,

The children knelt,

Dry-eyed from famine,

Beside the sleeping man

Woke him

With their awed whispering.

Ate what he gave them,

Then walked away

Into the angry sunrise.

 

Their silhouettes comforted

The old man, alone,

More than any harvest

More than riches

More than sleep

Without hunger

More than rain

 

The man was old

The seeds were few

The land no more fertile

Than sand

Yet the flowering

And the harvest

From his hand

Had blessed the day

Fed the night

Made rich the old man

Before his final sleep

With not one seed

Left within

His open hand.

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A LITTLE TRANSCENDING MELODY

As if to break the fingers of my hand

Or the keys on which they pound,

I wrench a Koelling storm of notes

From the hapless piano.

 

Slamming out a bit of 1812,

Or Listz’ Hungarian Rhapsody

Instead of slamming doors

And breaking glass,

My fingers scream

My unspoken helpless rage.

 

“Yes,” I say when asked,

“Fortissimo is required –

See the double f’s?”

Pointing to where they are

Quite clearly marked.

 

The minutes pass,

While the neighbor’s windows shiver

From the tempest’s blast,

With errors,

(Not played with accuracy)

By fingers too angry to be true.

 

Till at last, a slightly lighter sound

As mezzoforte is found

And played as it is meant to be.

Then sheer force is abandoned

For the drama of the Harbanera,

The pulsing rhythm of an Ellmenrich,

A Ballade by Burgenmuller.

 

Softer, sweeter, slower notes sound

To ease the air

So savagely disturbed.

And then I, too, am subtly changed

The lightning flares fading from my eyes

In the way a lullaby woos a cranky child.

 

The desire to strike eases

Into a desire to please.

My heart once choked with thorns

And dark with rage

Has learned to sing again.

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