Mystery

This poem was written after one glance at Odilon Redon's "Mystery" and as part of the IGRT challenge by Hedgewitch to write an ekphrastic poem on one of Redon's works. The lamb in the poem is from both the painting and an experience shared with a dying loved-one who asked, "Who is that man over there?" When asked what man she meant, she pointed to blank space and said that man with the sheep." She was a lifelong Catholic. She "should have" seen a man with a glowing heart. She saw lambs. Mystery.

Mystery

the final mystery

hanging on the wall

a man

a lamb

a cup

a man with a lamb in his hands

a man cradling a cup

like Lazarus, a man raised up

around my neck

upon my wall

that man 

that plan 

that mystery

Waiting Room

Waiting Room

The woman in the bunny pants
is  most patient of the patients;

waiting seems her nature.

Maybe these appointments 
have become her only outing.

She's going out among 'em, 
as my old dad used to say.

Among whom, I always wondered;
now I know: the dead, the dying,
the sinner sick of sinning, 
the patient weight of living 
all too much like drowning.

Erasure

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

artwork used by permission of Catrin Welzstein

in association with d'Verse Poets

 

 

 

ERASURE

 

I am gone, and this goes on

You have your smoke

The girls talk quietly about their lives

I am not here, but this goes on

Up and down the yard

The children run

Juliet picks flowers

As the sun begins to fade

Someone clears the plates

This goes on and I am gone

The way your smoke dissipates above,

Gone the way of dandelion fuzz.

Fall

Fall

The leaves loose early now,

As hapless children

Pull away and run.

Bereft on barren branch,

Spotting in the sun,

Late apples cling 

Where just days past 

We loved beneath the green ---

Green scattered now, 

Leavings,  gold then rust,

Gone to ground too soon.

Too soon the hurried rush,

The barren branch,

The fallen, spotted 

Sticky, ripened fruit.

Too soon the leaves,

The fall, the spot of rust;

Outrun, the frenzied, scattered 
Sweetness gone to dust.

All of My Life

All of my life I have been
               Sweet or kind or good

To someone else's thinking.

So I have lived these years
               Calling home, being fair, trying hard

When all I ever really wanted

Was to take my selfish body
Into a field somewhere amid tall weeds
And gather fists full of idleness.

All I have ever really wanted

Is clouds of crickets that jump at my approach,
The feel of hard ground beneath my back,
A blanket of burrs to cover my legs

And grass that whispers,
               “You are still okay.”

Who said that red is angry?

lips

from loving

raw witness;

soft buds,

wide open

rosy mouths,

the world’s business

a ruby glow --

sticky sweet,

the bees are drunk

on cherries

GRACE

The TFE Poetry Bus is up and running, leaving from Scotland this time, as Rachel Fox takes us on the first leg of the International Tour. Our challenge was to write a poem about one of our favorite words. This poem and the poem that follows, Serendipity, both were inspired by that challenge.

GRACE

Brace yourself

For a fall,

For a sparkling

Sprinkling of golden,

Whirling seeds,

A covering

Of cool geometry,

A misty morning coat

Of quenching rain.

Brace yourself

For a slaking

Of your thirst,

For fulfillment

Of yeasty yearnings

For the stir

Of summer soil,

For the touch

Of someone other,

For the gravid

Nourishment

Of life.

For what are you

But a cup to catch

The wonders

Of the world?

And what is this

But a libation

Poured in offering

To the earth?

So, brace your

Undeserving self

For the feel

Of freely granted

Grace,

Covering you

Like water

From Creation's Sacred Well.

Ashes and Bone

Ashes and Bone

When I am gone,

Put me to the fire;

Ashes and bone

Are all that I desire

Be left of me.

Let me have

Fair wind to sift me

Through the trees;

Grey amidst the green

Is what I long to be.

Find me in the field,

A rustle of the grass,

Or hollow in the hills;

Beside the garden path,

I’ll sing among the reeds.

Put me to the fire,

Share me with the day;

Let my spark inspire

New green among the grey

From all that’s left of me.

enough

Perhaps

it is enough

that the sun

streaks silver

as it crosses

leaden skies,

enough

that trembling leaves

let go their bonds

and sail

before they fall.

Sometimes,

I think

perhaps

it is enough

that the heart

expands

over and over

of its own accord

before it finds

its rest.