(for D. S.)
The lyric tiptoes into our minds
With the delicacy of Debussy
A whisper on the air
As magical as moonlight,
Leaving in the silence
Beyond the last word,
A quiet iridescence shimmering
#Poetry #PoetryandMusic #ShortPoems
Tonight, as my dreams escape
the fragile net of words
My soul’s song is unheard
for I do not know the words
Yet it is a night for words
rich hummed with sound
It is a night for poetry—
but I have none
#Poetry #ShortPoem #Writer’sBlock
Music from an unseen source
Catches you
By the hand
Twirls you into a spin
Whisks you
Across pavement and grass–
Yellow
The gray fog divides
Before you
Revealing an unfamiliar
World which beckons
Irresistibly…
You fall
Into the welcome of home–
Yellow
#ColorandYellow #PoetryandColor
Naked, or nearly so, I stand straight
in the morning light
before they come
(the ones who think they know)
to dress me in the image that they see
daughter, sister
friend, student
mother, teacher
So I walk the day covered over with paper clothes
that sometimes fit, or nearly do,
but more often don’t.
Then the paper cuts and chafes
or is held by force in place
till a bruise is crushed into my frame.
Still, and at last, once more—
naked, or nearly so, I stand straight
in the morning light—
while the sky spins spells with tales for me,
as the air welcomes me tenderly into its care,
the trees and grass speak truth to me
that they and I can understand.
We are alone, the morning and I
and it is only now
that I know who I am.
#Feminism #Self-Awareness #PoetryandIdentity
They were after telling stories,
For, to put a frame on it,
There was nothing else to be doing of a brisk evening.
Don’t you know.
Oh, ‘tis true there was a fine view from above Clare’s field
Where the path led by a fairy fort—
The tourists were all quite taken with that,
Don’t you know,
Always wanting to hike up to the crest of the hill
Past the fairy fort—
Which is nothing but a circle of trees.
Yes, they were after telling stories in the evening
When the wind was blowing the rain from the North
Or was it the West?
It was a wayward wind for certain, that night,
Don’t you know.
And what was there to be doing after all,
But listen to the wind and watch the fire,
Keeping warm,
Don’t you know.
And even were it a dry night,
Though those are rare enough—
The “lovely peace and quiet”
Admired so by the tourists
Can be wearing on a man,
Don’t you know.
#PoetryandIreland #IrishPubsandPoetry
So, what’s to do but off to the pub for a drink
And a bit of storytelling.
A bit of gossiping, as well,
Don’t you know.
Reminding the other fellow of his foolishness
When he was a lad and his faults now he’s a man,
And if tempers should rise,
A pint or a small one will soften any who’re taken to anger.
Well, almost any,
Don’t you know.
Yes, they were after telling stories
Each man in his turn playing out the words
To the praise of the rest
Like dancers urged from the crowd
And encouraged into exhibiting their skill in stepping.
Just so,
Don’t you know.
And a good story will call for another,
Drink being a reward for the telling and the listening—
Spirits to warm you when living can’t—
Don’t you know.
Yes, they were old friends and neighbors gathered about
And they were after telling stories one brisk evening.
Yes, they were after telling stories,
Since for certain there was nothing else to be doing,
Don’t you know.
She was there
the girl who had shouted
her feminine appeal
in jangles, lipstick and perms
while the rest of us
lived in a world of tetherball,
foursquare and hopscotch.
She entered alone,
in elegant simplicity,
and there held thrall
for just a moment
before melting into the party crowd.
Yet, in that instant
she told us all
with her presence only—
I am a Woman now,
I need no male beside me
(such easily acquired evidence)
to prove my femininity.
I AM.
Then, as a quiet, gracious queen,
she glided toward her audience.
#Feminism #SchoolReunionPoetry
(translation in parentheses)
Las abuelitas caminan.
(The grandmothers walk)
Cada jueves,
(Each Thursday)
Las abuelitas caminan
En la plaza—
(In the square—)
Cada jueves
En la plaza.
Y las madres,
(And the mothers)
Las madres también,
(The mothers also,)
Sí, las madres caminan
(Yes, the mothers walk)
En la plaza
Cada jueves
En la plaza.
?Y por qué?
(And why?)
?Por qué ellas caminan0
(Why do they walk)
En la plaza?
0
?Por qué caminan cada jueves?
? Por qué?
Por los ninos…
(For the children…)
Por sus hijos, sus nietos—
(For their children, their grandchildren—)
Por todos los desaparecidos.
(For all those who disappeared).
#Desaparecidos #ArgentinaHistory
I am wounded in a hundred ways
And my blood seeps, drying,
I lie stilled, ended
On the field
Where the battle cries
Have not yet finished
With the air.
#CompassionandPoetry #EmpathyandPoetry #DepressionandPoetry
I was there
But they did not see me
They were waltzing
To music I could not hear
A tune of long ago
When they were young
I was listening
But they were unaware
As they conjured memory
Into a present moment
Of shared re-discovery
I was an audience
Unseen and unremembered
Watching my parents
Aged seventy-five
Falling in love again
Time-drifted
Forever young and in love
#LoveandPoetry
On a day long before we met
Before I saw your face
Before I heard your voice
Before I knew your name
Some one day before we met
Or was it not after several
Dreaming days
That I fell in love believing
In the possibility of you.
This love I now give to you
Is not newly born
Nor the idle dance of an hour.
It is the breath that fills my lungs,
The rhythm pulsing within my heart
The pattern of my life.
This love that I have kept
Was yours before either of us knew
On a day long before we met
For it was then
I fell in love with you.
#LoveandPoetry