24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
This is my third poetry marathon. I consider the process a retreat and I learn new things about myself each time. I have 3 adult children all beautifully launched and brilliant. I enjoy goats, chickens, yarn, reading, and of course poetry. I am a female Catholic priest and many of my poems are spiritual. My life saying is that "kindness matters". Three years ago, Five Oaks Press published my first book of poems: "A Woman Called Father". You can find it on Amazon.
hello swallows and bearded-tits
good morning garter snake and pelican
oh, great blue heron, you’re here too
good morning
I so enjoy being Snow White in your forest
though your River runs faster
than I can move
and that frightens me a bit,
excites me too
which is how I get into trouble, you know
in the Potter’s hands
I am holy mud; blessed, thrown
the Creator’s cup
coffee with a splash of soy milk
just enough to change its color
cost $2.37
with 63 cents in change
six dimes and three pennies
that I scatter throughout my day
like the folks who leave kindness rocks
hidden in plain sight
six dimes and three pennies
for the ones looking for messages
love notes
from beyond the thin veil
in dimes and pennies
and other change
I put two dollar bills in the tip jar
a total of five dollars well spent
on coffee
and changing someone’s day
there was a fraying
like the veins of a tomato plant
never offered a skeleton of support
falling over
into the dirt
ready to be wrapped
in a death shroud
seeds never to meet their resurrection
pulled and tossed into the garbage instead
during the shadows of night
no moon
ending swoon
but one
single
persistent
seed
floating on the breath of God
cloaked in those same violet shadows
snuggles up in the muck
is never shucked
but buries herself in for the fall
for the winter
for the spring
a garden quilt to tuck her in
waking, shaking off that quilt
as the garden begins April baking
stretching toward something new
and a gardener
with a frame all ready,
oh, this volunteer tomato seed of resilience
beginning
there will be fraying again
but this time
instead of collapse
support;
the natural course of things
for beauty and tomato thrive
when the gardener knows a thing or two about
endings
survived
the sainted candles keep guard on my windowsill
beyond that, is Maggie street
each house a different color of the rainbow
no gingerbread houses here
the birds insist upon singing the day into beginning
I can hear them now
even as I feel my body moving toward sleep
and a day that shall be my night
later the bird chatter will give way to children chattering
scented by the whiff of newly cut grass
it is Sunday
and this week is beginning
or ending
depending on who you are
this sweatshirt smelled like campfire
even though there’s no tent nearby
I it wore to bed to remember
our camping trip to the lake
a weekend for two
with morning coffee made over a campfire
and evening stars for story telling,
oh, I miss
not my sweatshirt
or its fainted wisp of campfire
but being alone with you, my love
and coffee by the lake
the green velour of dress
was all anyone remembered;
it smelled of moss
on an Irish treasure hunt
and hung on her china white body
like a drape
of softness, alluring;
it was the color of a good chardonnay bottle
after imbibing upon it all
and rung twitterpated in the breeze with the wind chimes
of course, she was a white girl
pale and fragile
the green velour of dress
was all anyone remembered
We have a pussy. You can usually find her in the barn. She hunts mice, bothers raccoons, but leaves the chickens alone.
We have a cock. He also lives in the barn. He’s our only one. He struts his stuff. We’ve noticed he has a favorite hen, but he’s really not that particular.
Lately on the news, it seems, they’ll talk about our pussy, but not our cock. Have you noticed? What’s up with that?
sitting on the porch
the hummingbird came right up to me
in my red sweatshirt
seeming to look me right in the eye
or the breastbone, as the case may be
long narrow beak and whizzing wings
suddenly, I am the hunted and you are the hunter
until I remember
that I am sitting on the porch in my red sweatshirt
and you are a hummingbird;
I breathe again,
you fly away;
that was close
there is a space
where opposites brush up against each other
and make each other possible
like the space between music notes on a staff
played on the trumpet
where one note must end
before the other can begin;
a space where dark becomes light
a space where cold becomes hot
a space where up becomes down
a space where north becomes south
a space where I become you
and a space where you become me
a space that only God can fill
a space of infinite ending