High grass blowing
Smell of the breathing earth
After the rain
Wind, rock, sky
Surging forward
Impelled to the next season
This Halloween will be different.
There will be no Jack O’ Lanterns,
No Trick-Or-Treaters welcomed either
In this sacred space
Where I scrub and scrub
Till everywhere and everything
Shimmers beneath the red aura
Of a setting sun.
And yet I continue scouring
Until I drop exhausted
To the bare floor
While the surfaces softly glow
As moonlight spreads its beams.
Witches. ghosts, goblins
And other night creatures
May ride the skies till dawn,
But I will be unaware—
Deep in sleep as though cursed
Like fabled Sleeping Beauty.
When I wake, I will walk to the sea
To let the brine sharp air
Sweep away the last ash-dust
Of betrayal,
And standing in the receding waves
Let their distanced coolness
Seep within to douse even the embers
Of betrayal’s fires of treachery.
At last, I will lie in the sun
While the rushing waters within
Carve away the lingering footprints
Of betrayal
Creating new pathways
Until there is only an emptiness
As vast as the Grand Canyon.
Infilled with peace
Then warmed within and without,
I will rise to walk in serenity
And confidence
To a new beginning,
A new tomorrow.
Weak
Bleak
Product of listlessness
The dregs of photosynthesis
Drab
Flat
A fitting complement
For khaki and beige
Leeched of vibrancy
Olive is barely
A color at all
Born as it was
Where the wind blows brown
Though rain may paint the air
In lands
Where the sun and angry earth
Chew rock into soil
There once was a little girl in whose laugh the bluebird sang while the sun shined in her smile. Yet, when the gas line broke killing the young elm tree, when explorer ants were smashed so the picnic was safe, when a snail curled in upon itself when for a game some salt was poured onto its path, when the bright-brave freesias faded to straw without protest—then, without a sound, the little girl cried.
And no one knew except her stuffed gray bunny who understood the silent language the heart knows that human ears almost never hear—the sound a star makes splintering light upon the night as if alive although in fact it died a million years ago.
Just so, in the apricot dawns when fairy tears sprinkled the lawns, as the little girl ran laughing with her arms outspread to gather all the goodness in, the people heard the bluebird sing. And they smiled, the deep inside, precious gift smile.
For no one saw the shadow of goodbye in the eyes of the little girl as she ran to catch each fleeting joy before it whispered away, because like the glow of a lost star, the brilliance of her once-child joy still lit the shadows of their days.
As a child we played
Musical Chairs.
Round and round the chairs
We went knowing
There was one too few
For all of us.
It was a game of chance
And mostly luck
So we giggled and we laughed
While no one always won
And the first one out
Was not always the same.
Round and round with music
Till the sudden silence
When the mad scramble began
To find an empty seat waiting
There just for you.
Yet someone lost every time
And one more chair was removed
Before the music started
Then once again we all chased
Each other round and round.
We grew older and the game
Remained, though the music changed
And the seats vanishing are
Our homes in a night,
Scholarships, and jobs,
Food and clothing
While the music plays on
Spinning webs of tension,
Filling the air with a pungency,
The flavor of anxiety so thick
It can be tasted.
Round and round we dance
To the music’s rhythm
Of off-and-on again
While we wish for bat ears
That we might catch the moment
Just before the music will stop:
We search the skies
Peer into the lightness
And the dark listening
With all our might
To hear that one sound,
Movement, change,
Signal, that will come before
The silence and the choice.
I am old and no longer care
To be overly circumspect.
I am old and I dance to music
Heard as I walk along the street.
I dance to Muzak in the stores.
Waiting in line at the pharmacy,
I mini-step my special dance
And sashay out the door as I leave.
Down the grocery aisle
I keep the beat, beat, beat
As I select a can, a bag or box.
I am old,
If you frown, I do not care
For I know happiness
Is how and when you make it.
If you laugh,
I will laugh along with you.
If someday I cannot walk or stand,
I will sway whatever will move—
Keeping the beat, beat, beat.
You will see the joy in my eyes.
You need not ask, just know
I am dancing in my soul.
I drift
I dream
I remember…
food
so sweet, so right,
so good
I eat very little now—
not hungry
dresses
with ribbons and lace
and ruffles
Now all my dresses
are the same
easy-care plain
that never fits quite right
people
that I played with
or danced with
or loved…once
Now there are faces
without names
or names that keep changing,
names that never seem right
and the faces not quite clear
but always reminding me—
I laughed
I can remember laughing,
I laugh now, remembering.
I cried, too…a little
I cry now
often
not knowing why
I drift
I dream
I remember
She reached out her arms
with the thoughts of her heart
In the movements of dance
she could speak without words
All the dreams unvoiced
the cries unheard
floated upon song after song
spun into life
with the dance of her hands
For the muted soul
there is the gift of dance
All of her life had come to stay in this one room
in her son-in-law’s house.
In sachet-fragrant dresser drawers
carefully lined with paper of all kinds,
each garment type was assigned its own special space
which did not vary, ever.
Satinate boxes organized hankies and hose.
All the hangers in her closet faced one way,
nothing hung from hooks.
Shoes faced the wall toe first in a row.
In the nightstand beside her bed
was the mentholated petroleum jelly
she used for colds, arthritis,
headaches and the bruises of old age.
Each morning she waked to see her painting,
hanging on the wall across from her.
It was her imitation of another’s work
that she had seen advertised in a throwaway magazine
and copied because it reminded her of home.
In the cedar chest, the memories were kept:
fur collars from winter cities,
letters from the Civil, First and Second World Wars,
old tintypes and photographs,
a braid of childhood hair, a wedding ring,
paintbrushes carefully preserved,
a Mother’s Day card drawn with odd-matched crayons,
a scrap of paper with a poem on it.
All of her life had come to stay in this one room,
but in her dreams she was far away
in the place of old friends
free from wishing and pain, free to play.
And so, in one sweet night dream, she simply chose to stay.
Little Boy Blue…
Is that Australian for red
Or American for sad?
Come blow your horn
Ah, yes – American –
O, say, I see can!
The sheep’s in the meadow
The cow’s in the corn
Well, where else would they be?
Somewhere up a tree?
Where’s the boy who looks after the sheep?
Who cares? Where’s Little Boy Blue
Who plays his horn so true?
He’s under the haystack fast asleep.
Good grief! Get help right away—
He’ll suffocate if left to stay.
Will you wake him?
Will you come too?
Oh, no, not I. For if I do, he’ll surely cry.
So he’s the Little Boy Blue?
What a gyp! Wake him, wake him, do.
Leave him safe though crying ‘boohoo’.
He’s not a player I would woo.
I’d rather go to the zoo.