Another poem for the pandemic

Today it was announced that we are under a "stay at home" order. Only the essential are to be leaving for work and out and about... Thank God we can still go to the park--as long as we keep our distance.

On the last day before the last day of the world

the leaves were green

and a breeze stirred the sunlit shadows.

A single brown leaf dropped

from somewhere high

only to stop

midair

dangling,

glistening as it turned, catching

the light and the shade.

It hung there as if a sign

that the first thing to go

would be gravity,

until I realized

it must be caught in a web

now broken.

On the last day before

the last day of the world

a spider rested; its work finally done.

Yet even now it descends,

gathering broken strands,

to begin again.

A poem for the pandemic

I called this poem an "etude" because I liked the sound of the word. I had to look it up to find out what it meant. It is French for 'study," and I it works. This little meditation on small pleasures and quiet reassurances is a kind of "study." Kind of like a still-life drawing...


Etude for the pandemic



The world is afraid
and so am I
but this morning I woke
early and walked to the park where
I met a woman pushing a stroller
and as we chatted
(from an appropriate distance)
her little boy climbed
out and chased a squirrel
into a tree under which
he stood shouting up into
the high branches: Hello! Hello! Hello!
We laughed
and his mother said: He’s in
charge of waking the squirrels.
All of them.


And then I came home
and sat on the porch
at the glass topped table
with the rusty frame
and sipped my coffee
and watched the pollen
stirring like golden dust
and the sunlight slicing
a leaf with shadow and
the breeze stirring a fleck
of incandescent orange
and black into the air where it
fluttered round the yard,
hovering over
the table like a dove
while I sat with my cold coffee
waiting for the world to end.
But nothing happened except
a bee settled on the lip
of my cup and wandered the edge
of this solemn morning
with me.


The world is afraid
the bee hummed,

but filling the cup
it reminded me: we are alive
and that is enough
if only we live.

On the president who would be king

For some reason our current president keeps reminding me of King Saul, the first king of Israel. I really don't know whether there is any parallel to be drawn, but I keep thinking of Saul and that passage in 1 Samuel 8 (v. 11-18) wherein Samuel warns the people against wanting a king.  I remember that God tells Samuel to let the people have what they want, but He also tells Samuel that they aren't going to like it. So, what was it the people of Israel wanted? Why did they want a king?  And why did we want this particular president, who --at times-- seems to think he is our king? Anyway, here are two poems inspired by the president.

For Donald Trump’s impeachment

This is the president

we elected without regard for who

he was. We wanted him

for our own,

because

he demanded nothing

of us. And we demanded

nothing

but that he be our king

and that he please

break something

on his way to the throne.

At least the monotony.

Lest we forget:

Samuel stood before the people

warning them

yet still they hungered

for a king.

The blind man runs for president

knowing only darkness

his platform proclaims

he alone is best suited

to recognize the light

by touch

he can find the sun

A Christmas Writing prompt

If, as William Carlos Williams said, "a poem is a machine made of words," then why not take a moment and ticker around under the hood!  Try this for fun.  Choose a classic poem that you like, one that speaks to you and that you feel comfortable playing around with.  Then start changing the words to reconfigure (or rebuild) it into a poem about Christmas.  As you rewrite it, change as much or as little as you like. See what happens.  Perhaps you want to keep the initial words from each line, or just the rhyming words from the ends of each line.  When you finish, read aloud what you have written. Let the words echo in your ears (and in your kitchen or bedroom).  As you listen to it, listen to hear where it needs tuning up, where a word or a line is misfiring.  Ask the poem: what else do you need?  Modelling your poem on the structure, the framework, of a great poem, is a quick way to get yourself writing. And --in the end-- what you will have is an original Christmas poem to share with family and friends. It will make a delightful gift. Print it out and include it in your Christmas greetings, or with your annual holiday letter.  Here in my example, I use one of Emily Dickinson’s greatest (and most solemn) poems (on left) to help me craft a little bit of Christmas pondering (on right).  I am not sure it quite works yet, but I hope you get the idea…

Dickinson #320 There's a certain Slant of light, Winter Afternoons – That oppresses, like the Heft Of Cathedral Tunes – Heavenly Hurt, it gives us – We can find no scar, But internal difference – Where the Meanings, are – None may teach it – Any – 'Tis the seal Despair – An imperial affliction Sent us of the Air – When it comes, the Landscape listens – Shadows – hold their breath – When it goes, 'tis like the Distance On the look of Death –

Sutter There is a certain shift of mind December afternoons Oppresses us with joy And spritely holiday tunes No snow in Houston falling No chill in Houston’s air No happy family coming No feeling but despair And yet we find ourselves Wandering the malls Humming Santa’s coming Or whistling Deck the Halls And somehow all that emptiness That embittered every meeting Evaporates with a passing nod And a stranger’s Christmas greeting

In the doorway standing

I wonder about people who feel like they never quite belong and where that comes from.  Here is a poem trying to begin thinking about this hard think... But this is how I tend to do my thinking. It is where I feel most like I belong.

In the doorway standing

Was she always nothing

more than a thing

in the way –standing in the door

as we cleared the dishes--

waiting for someone to notice

that she had done all the work;

waiting still for the praise

she already had received.

Nothing could fill the emptiness

that pinned her to the floor right

in the middle of the path

to the kitchen and the sink.

Hands full of plates—unable

to restrain myself--

I remember leaning close, whispering:

Mom, you’re in the way.

            And slipping past.

And coming back for the serving

platter and the gravy boat, I tried

to get her to smile but saw

her face gone

blank, her eyes dark as stones

and turning to look again

she was no more.

The end of every holiday.

And now I stand in the doorway

           studying her milky flesh

and the pink of her hand clinging

to the bed rail, listening

to the monitor and waiting for her

to awaken.

Her eyes open –Herman—she says,

            and smiles and turns away

with a moan,

apologizing to the wall:

            You don’t have to stay. I’m not good

company tonight.  I can’t find

my teeth, and I need changing.

            Please,

                       push that red button

before you go.

Two poems: The blind man runs for president & The blind man knows

The blind man runs for president

knowing only darkness

his platform proclaims

he alone is best suited

to recognize the light

by touch

he will find the sun

The blind man knows

Nothing

            the nothing

                        that he is

and that

            nothing

                        he will become

but cannot see

            the relevance

                        from the backseat

of his father’s Ford

            with no one to drive

                        and his date

walking home

            in a dark

                        not his own

Station V-Simon carries the cross (published by Benedict XVI Institute)

A poem from my series on the Stations of the Cross is appearing on the Benedict XVI Institute web site.  Here is a link.
https://www.benedictinstitute.org/2019/03/station-v-jesus-is-helped-by-simeon/

My Love I saw

(I wrote this poem inspired by a friend and her husband. My friend suffered a debilitating stroke about 4 years ago and her husband is so patient and tender and loving with her.  It is inspiring to see love lived so completely.  But I also wonder about the love that brought them together, and the way her stroke must have changed their marriage so unexpectedly and in so many ways.  Out for a morning walk, I saw those stars and the moon and thought of going in to speak those opening lines to my own wife when suddenly I saw the face of my friend and heard the voice of her husband as he gently bent toward her with a kiss.  This poem was recently published in Saint Anthony Messenger.)

My love I saw

The moon this early morning

resting in the bare branches

of an oak; three stars pinning

night aloft; the tree,

distinct; the stars

a dipper –perhaps.

Yet in the fading black

I stopped, and watched

to see if they’d become

something more

than a remark I would

later make to the stranger (almost)

who sleeps beside me

and wakes to sit in silence

near the window,

in her chair

or at the table,

wherever she is pushed

right hand trembling

in her lap she waits,

always waits.

I make the coffee

and try to make her smile

raising the cup

to her lips

whispering: my love,

I saw the moon …

Another anniversary poem

One of the hardships of being married to a poet, is the gifts are pretty

predictable... every year: a poem.  Thirty years --no diamonds, no jewels, only lots and lots of words...   This one written somewhere around year 15 or 16 (I think).

After the Halloween party

Quietly washing the dishes while the children play;

their laughter, whispers, the soft fade to silence--

all—music, music at the end of a long day

of plans changing, costumes changing, ideas –a dance

of opportunities and unimaginable dreams.

Could we? Maybe? How many? Is there a chance?

And as the last guest leaves, door closing, it seems,

standing at the sink, drying a glass that won’t fit

atop the drainer, piled high, it seems all their schemes

have come to this: a hand held out, “Mother, come sit.”

and a place made on the couch between three pearls

of such great price (a witch, a cat, a fairy); this is her life,

here! This is it.

She puts down the glass and goes to her girls

who gather toward grace, as blossoms to the sun,

drawing a quilt across gathered knees –and sigh--

                                    the day’s work –Oh yes! It is done.

Written after lunch in Schulenberg, TX

The ladies

in the garden shop behind the café

awaiting their call touch each velvet

leaf judiciously –fingertip and thumb

caressing-- They seem solicitous

in their gathering --as if
anticipating the beginning

of the world