The Poetry Marathon

haibun in the time of plague ~

fall light fills the dinghy

water burnished gold shimmers

lightfall a road home

across the water, autumn sun lays a path I can follow somewhere else, somewhere outside this time of plague & hate & death & grief. at the golden bridge that spans earth & stars & water, light cleanses me. returns me as if reborn, a clear point of light in a sea of sky ~

Dear Daddy ~

At 6, I howled when you took a hammer to my bed.

I couldn’t know that we were moving, despite what you said.

Mommy tried to intervene, but all I knew was broke.

You tried to comfort me, I’m sure, your shirt front soaked

with tears. Forgive you? I could not, not at 6 years old.

But I could forget, and that I did. Although the story told

of differences in what we saw, and what we did about it.

Each move to each new base, each house slightly more crowded.

New babies grew, old friends withdrew. We had another home.

I howled again. My broken heart hated how distance loomed

across the ocean, far away. Would all my family die?

Would Grandma & Aunt Bonnie live? YOU made me say goodbye.

I wish that I could tell you, now, I too have moved away ~

from bitter words and accusations, from all age has allayed.

I wish that we could talk once more, and you would share your stories.

And I would put my hand in yours, and we would be at ease.

And you would laugh that laugh we share, and share where we have roamed.

Knowing now that where we are, together, is our home.

I don’t want to be the grownup ~

In the beginning was the child.

She had to be a grownup even then.

Count the other children. Make certain

none were left behind, like the luggage.

She grew. She aged. Always the grownup.

The older sister. The mother figure. The mentor.

But I don’t want to be the grownup. I don’t know how ~

Now is the time of eldering. Grownup

on steroids. Where’s the damn wisdom

that someone said comes with experience?

Age confers only silver hair, reluctant movement.

People ask for help, for answers, for comfort and

guidance and succor and what the hell do I know??

I don’t want to be the grownup. I don’t know how ~

There are no books for this. No one to ask, no one

be my own good counsel. I listen. I listen. I love.

I listen and love yet again. It’s all I have, all I know –

that love, my mother told me, is the answer.

Even when it’s the question. Even when the silver

and the bones protest that I should know more.

I am the grownup. I am learning how.

Recipe for balance in the time of plague

1. Four and twenty birds…

not only rusty blackbirds, but blue

jays and cardinals and goldfinches

the small house finch with his cherry

hood, the cocksure mocker with his flick

of tail.

2. Next grate the lemon fragrance of four

’o’clocks, magenta blossoms, silvery

perfume. Infuse the morning light below

before combining with birds.

3. Gild thickly with infused sunlight

as light as the clear post-dawn air.

Incorporate birds, sunlight, and fragrance

gently, so that birds still flutter then perch.

4. Sprinkle heavily with the stolen songs

of crow and raven, covered by mockingbird.

Let notes sift between birds, while mixture thickens.

Admixture should be cool and slightly sweet.

5. Finally, spritz lightly with the sound of birds

bathing, four fledgling starlings clustered in a bowl

of cool water. Once done, allow recipe to bloom

in the bowl of morning. Balance done in minutes.

Once upon a time

I had a fairy godmother.

She rescued me, but I was never

a princess. From my anger she wove

resolve. Despair became strength.

Her wings were a jet plane’s:

She rode with me to loneliness

then sent me home to heal.

Once home, I waited for her return.

Round of visage, clear of gaze,

she forged for me a lens

through which unhappiness

became only a tree branch in the road.

Once upon a time I knew a fairy

who led me through the desert

home. Sometimes I remember

but memory is like fairies ~ ephemeral

And wings are only dreams like mist

that fade in morning light. But I am home

and the music of the north country

sometimes fills the air. Like fairy wings.

Six years ago, I wrote that only a poet ~ someone whose very marrow oozed poetry ~ would commit to an entire Saturday spent writing poetry. I stand by that, even if it’s ‘only’ for 12 hours…the half marathon.you full marathoners? Double crazy!

I scribbled on blackboards as a very small child, ‘writing.’ I still do ~ scribble & write. It’s what I do, write. I also mother, grandmother, tend a garden and its birds & bees, be my beloved’s wife, read, and obsess over tea.

I grew up overseas, a fact which infuses much of my writing. It also means I’m so glad to see such an international crew of poets! ❤️  It was a long time, though,  before I could accept that my writing wasn’t going to sound like the writing of friends & colleagues. It still doesn’t, but it still finds homes. I have three published chapbooks, and will (eventually!) send off a book mss. I’d always rather write than do business stuff!

In the meantime? I love the poetry book club I helped start in my small Virginia town. I read a lot of poetry. For years I taught writing at a state university, while also directing a federal non-profit working with teachers k-university. I believe in social justice.

As I’m too old to go w/out a night’s sleep (even for poetry), I’m participating in the half-marathon. I always look forward to seeing what I produce when I crank it out. Traditionally, that’s a good way to silence the inner censor. Each year I’ve managed to surprise myself. Doesn’t get much better than that!

Here’s to good writing time for all of us!

The way my father’s eyes changed colours
Greenbluegrey and all the admixtures
How alexandrite shifts from bluegreen
To purple as the light flickers
Or how dichroic glass breaks into small rainbows
The word a poet gave me ~
Chatoyance

See the way I have of growing?
November.
I find myself pausing
before funerals.
Prevent me stepping into the sea.
This is a philosophical flourish
nothing surprising.
All men cherish the ocean.

Dear Britton, who is trying to have children ~

They will come. I promise.
Two gloriously rowdy sons, unlike the daughters
you expected. Nothing like the sisters you grew
up with. You will learn that feminism contends
with biology. Neither will play with the dolls
you buy them, and they will create guns
despite your reluctance. They will also learn
to cook, and discover that men can discuss feelings.

It will be hard. All your choices from the first
birth will spin around them like the moon
orbits the earth, the earth her sun. They
will be your center, even before their father.
Where you live, how you live, making a living in general…
all of this dependent on two small boys, their eyes
so much like all who came before them. You will trace
your roots upon their small bodies as they grow.

It will get harder. They will test you beyond
imagining. Death & danger stalk each separately,
the heavy weight of empty futures your recurring nightmare.
Nothing will ever be the same. Not your body, not your life,
not the love of your life. Certainly not all you know & learn.
Somewhere along the way, they will cease to be
sons. They will become friends, confidantes, tellers
of their own tales. Their travels, their own children,
will become blocks & stitches in whatever life quilt
you piece. And through it all, you will remember:
This is what you wanted. This is what you are.
It is more than enough.

2 a.m.
The moon so bright that moonbeams
become beacons, illuminate the dock
until an abandoned steel canteen
glitters like forgotten treasure

Beneath a looming Douglas fir
a shelf of rock the colour of weak coffee
juts over the water’s surface
Fog spirals from the hushed water

Here no damn concrete     no 21st
century bling, no detritus to remind us
that we are transients.  only the rock
knows time, and the water that carves it