Tiny Poem Tuesday: Shelter In Place

Tiny Poem Tuesday: corona virus edition :: ::
shelter
neighborhood swaddled by
morning fog keep in those
fingers and toes! faces, routines
dizzy uncertain squirrels balance on
branch ends freshly budded weak spring sunlight warms
quiet streets a tele piano lesson
in place
MFS 3.2020

Happy Birthday to Chiyaruzu

Happy Birthday to my life loving son Charles! Whose only birthday request was for me to write him a poem 


what better way to be
in your body than to feel
oozy mud murking
'tween fingers and toes,

than to wildly descend
careening hills without
considering the journey's end;

what better way to see
than to delight in dappled rainbows
stirring otherwise dormant halls.

I watch this boy, not boy,
solid citizen of the concrete
and corporeal
appreciate every morsel,
sliding open each new day
with a whoop of "ni wa!"*

what better way to dream
than to drift face up
in the Mediterranean Sea,
gentle wave nudging,
lost in the finding;

what better way to remember
than to relish only the
long worthwhile "whee!"

*2 year old American boy version of konnichiwa

Tiny Poem Tuesday: Friluftsliv

Tiny Poem Tuesday: Corona Virus edition :: ::
Friluftsliv, a new to me word encountered yesterday in this cocooned time of slow
seclusion: "fresh air life," an idea I can get behind as I tilt my head to identify the song of a newly
returned bird, Earth turning to absorb more light, periwinkles peeking through waxy greenness,
sweet blossomy scents perfuming evening air, whorls of fern and maple leaf
stretching and widening, spring tornadoes and earth shakings, the still leafless poison ivy blistering
the tender skin of my inner arm, microscopic virus settling into throat and lung.
aaaah, awe nature

Tiny Poem Tuesday: The Weight of Snow

Tiny Poem Tuesday: Corona Virus edition
::
::

I felt the weight
of snow
bending the hyacinths
as I brought my
first baby home,
full of love
and bewilderment;
the scent of witch hazel
and the smooth skin
of a newborn's neck
swirling around our little
nest, the fluttery chest
echoing my own
determination to live.

Now, as then,
topsy turvy time,
reckoned by
which window is
currently best for
sunbathing,
wondering when
was the last
time I brushed
my teeth.

mfs 4.2020

Tiny Poem Tuesday: Crow

Tiny Poem Tuesday (it's Tuesday, right?)corona virus edition::::
Following the crow'sdistant flight, yellowtreasure dangling
from its ebonybeak, I'm gratefulfor the still bare
branches, gratefulfor the claritythat scarce sparsity
can bring, gratefulfor the chance to see, the chance
that this pause, this wide calm,has bestowed.

Snowy Night

Here's to snow and not having the answers ❄️🌨️❄️

Snowy Night by Mary Oliver

Last night, an owl
in the blue dark
tossed
an indeterminate number
of carefully shaped sounds into
the world, in which,
a quarter of a mile away, I happened
to be standing.
I couldn’t tell
which one it was –
the barred or the great-horned
ship of the air –
it was that distant. But, anyway,
aren’t there moments
that are better than knowing something,
and sweeter? Snow was falling,
so much like stars
filling the dark trees
that one could easily imagine
its reason for being was nothing more
than prettiness. I suppose
if this were someone else’s story
they would have insisted on knowing
whatever is knowable – would have hurried
over the fields
to name it – the owl, I mean.
But it’s mine, this poem of the night,
and I just stood there, listening and holding out
my hands to the soft glitter
falling through the air. I love this world,
but not for its answers.
And I wish good luck to the owl,
whatever its name –
and I wish great welcome to the snow,
whatever its severe and comfortless
and beautiful meaning.

Poetic Anxiety

I've been feeling this so much lately! Or, actually, amazement that all of those things don't happen every day -- letters arrive, destinations are reached safely, dinner is cooked, loved ones return 🙂

Tiny Poem Tuesday

We've never tried
to mend the hole
at the end of our drive,
hoping that avoidance
will be enough

but it keeps getting bigger

Tiny Poem Tuesday

I'd really like
to speak the language
of birds and flowers,

but I only know crow.

Ice Storm

This morning I stepped outside, surprised
to see the trees embellished
in frosty finery -- all ready
for a winter ball. Each blade of grass
bedecked, bejewelled, the stubble 
of last year's corn transformed, limbs
heavy with sparkling sprigs and gemmed berries.

A lone pair of chattering birds discuss
the decor, bending their heads in search
of refreshment. The orchestra starts with
breeze as conductor, the delicate clacking
of crystalline leaves, like dowagers
snapping their fans in rebuke.

It is the deepest part of Winter, the pitch
black bottom of February, the world
reflecting the current gray despair...

Then, this! A delight! A gentle nudge
from our Mother, a sweet reminiscence
that in every season, in each unlikely moment,
there can be dazzling impossibility.

MFS 2/21/2018
#ilovemymother

What Does a Leaf Know

Does a brittle, prime 
past leaf, plucked
from its cozy life

by an errant breeze,
wonder why it is
somersaulting precariously

through the air? Does
it question where
it is being tossed? Or

when it might once
again tumble jarringly
to a stop? Would

knowing change its
capacity for delight?
Or change the fact

that, in the end, we are
all inexpressibly, unalterably
alone?

I Crave Light

Some people
find it soothing,
the grayness,
but I find it suffocating --
draining the world
of its variety and color
smudging the details
at the edges.

I crave light.

Once an opaque plane,
the ice on the
kitchen window transforms
into a thousand glittering
crystals, each one a
snowflake of
incomprehensible beauty,
captured on glass
to extend its fleeting
existence.

I crave light.

Once dark, abbreviated days
at year's end,
illuminated by
singing, bells, old
friendships renewed --
by a thousand
acts of glittering
kindness.

Not all grayness
Not all light
is surface: we allow one --
or the other --
to infuse, consume
become part of us,

Pay Attention

I found you again!
stretched out cozy
dark evenings, temperatures 
falling, radiators hissing
nature patiently prodding,
pushing us to ponder
(reflect) on this latest
rung in our life
spiral, as we spin
headlong into the
next layer.

Holiday busy-ness
fills each moment --
cards caroling crafts
concerts -- (deflect)ing
introspection.

The perennial rhythm --
hushed tones, muffled
palette, the cocoon of
muted light, remind us:
pause, plan,

pay attention.

One November

One November, when
I needed them most,
all of my words

bowed out. No way
to explain, no language
to make sense of

our surreal new reality;
leaving me with a body
waking in the predawn

light to lift weights and
sweat, guided by Mother
Moon to run and run

on soggy trails through
a dying landscape, and
yoga -- hoping to twist

the knots out of my
stomach and dislodge
the despair settling into

my lower right hip.

Am I preparing
for battle?

Election Night Haiku

This is so scary
I think I'm going to throw up
It must be fiction

I wasn't worried
He has shown his true colors
Weren't they listening?

For Nicole

For Nicole

The phrase "a heavy heart" 
never struck me before.
I feel it now.
The lowest chambers
of my heart sinking
into my gut,
the grief settling there
with a mournful melody.

It has been one week.

One week of being startled
over and over and over
by the (un)reality of her absence.
An absence that goes
beyond blankness
into the realm of void
and vacuum.

One week of memories
tripping and falling,
nipping at my heels:

Our daily song began first thing,
herding kids off to school,
five minutes stretching
to many hours
of gliding fluidly
from one yard to another
pushing a swing, catching a ball,
soothing a hurt, nursing a baby...
without missing a beat
without dropping a note.
The afternoon movement
a crescendo -- more kids,
homework, guarding the alley,
making dinner --
hers planned for the month
mine always a surprise.

She is still here in
the high frequency
of our duet --
joys, sorrows,
depths, shallows --
an eternal vibration.

Ode to a Lovely Maple

• Shifted light leaves me off - kilter out of balance Last night we dined "en plein air" as we do, unable to stop gazing up up up at the dizzying absence. Before they had finished chopping, chipping, my daughter and I ran to measure -- our arms encircling her wide expanse -- a farewell embrace. 14 feet 2 inches! How long was she standing watching over this house so steadfastly? We first stepped inside one golden June afternoon, sunlight dancing and jumping in glittering patches across the wood floors. Through humid summers her vast canopy shielded us from the heat, keeping our rooms deliciously cool. Each October brought a burst of flame, bathing us all in shimmering yellow. She shook each last leaf to carpet the grass, benevolently brightening the months of darkness. Disoriented, I mourn my faithful friend in this new, alien space.

Ode to a Four Year Old

A terribly ripe four year old
likes to ride his bike until
sundown, play the piano
in the early morning quiet,
and ask important questions
before breakfast:

Can I sleep on the pillow
with you? Is it boom de
yada time? Why do people
need belts? How many more
days until my birthday?

Tiny Twinges

I felt a tiny twinge --
to give a friend, 
who was feeling down, 
some flowers. An
easy enough charge

with the flashy
tiger lilies
screaming for attention
over in the corner,
the clematis curling
seductively round the
garden gate,
the fluffy zinnias
beckoning
with their toothy,
multi-hued smiles.

However,
 I stayed inside,
quieting the
karmic jabs with
flimsy excuses,
leaving the friend
to sit alone
and the floral fete
to be enjoyed
solely by the
bees.

So Civilized

Can I tell the tale of
humankind?
My story is a biased
one, just one
individual in the
collective mind.

A chimp will not eat a grape unless
all the chimps have a grape.

History is pocked --
great craters of
devastation, terror,
and
Enlightenment!
minuets, sonnets
(clubs, spears)
The Pieta, a perfect rose
(rifles, drones)
survival of the fittest
(maddest, meanest)

We are so
so civilized
compared to
the chimpanzee.