We walk, you in front of me
one created flesh and bone
the other born of sun
elongated faceless gray.
Seamlessly
we stroll the beach
arms out wide, now close in
darkness plays with light.
I stop you stop
your head turns as mine.
We follow a gull’s flight
rising from the sea.
If I turn, reverse my course
will you dance behind,
like the kite that zigs and zags
when its master loosens hold?
Revised, revisited from a very early post. How I love Cape Cod and playing with my shadow!
She wears mist like a silk scarf
draped round her foothills,
wisps of white cloud
wrap round her girth,
this Alaskan mountain.
Her legion of honor stand nearby
black spruce, short in stature
strong willed in spirit,
cling to permafrost tundra,
their tenacity and her beauty
reflected in cold still waters.
Photos taken from our dome topped train ride from Anchorage to Talkeetna, Alaska yesterday.
Plop
Patter
Ping
Slow steady nocturnal rain
taps on the yellow-green ceiling
of my ancient canvas tent.
Comfort seeps in as I burrow deep
in my cocoon zippered bag,
crisp cold nose, just outside the seam.
Lids shutter slowly as ears perk to listen.
Thoughts float in a cool haze.
A hooting owl sits sheltered
by spring’s green-yellow canopy.
The drip, drop, patter
plops above its feathered head.
Dreaming now,
a moon sliver guides me
to a sleep moment of clarity.
These rain notes are nature’s evensong.
A prayer
for all who sleep in this forested place.
Revised from one of my very first poems written in February, in my first class with Holly Wren Spaulding. Posted so early in March (as Rain Song) , I doubt but five people saw it!
UPDATE: I am in Alaska, as you read this! Will be posting every other day for two weeks until I return. Mostly new — poems that is — although I will be rejuvenated (love that word!) even more upon my return to Boston, our city by the sea.
She grew up in the heartland
with ribbons in her hair
and saddle shoes that skipped to school,
unlocked doors with swings on front porches
yards strewn with bicycles and holly hocks.
She kept a carefree heart these many years,
her memento of those bygone days.
…and I shall flourish my paint brush
great swaths of cerulean blue
splashes of fuchsia and lemon yellow
not sepia and certainly not grey
and it shall be a glorious day!
Pull down pale green husks
some easily, others with a yank
discover soft fine silken hair,
gossamer strands cling to yellow gems
kernels of sweetness
in perfect rows of delicious.
Assaulted by bubbling water
slathered in butter
ear by ear, cob by cob
they succumb to energetic chomping
sacrificial sustenance
for the Summer Devourer.
The house is quiet again
all things-children put away.
If I close my eyes
I can hear their laughter echo,
see small bodies
clambering on to youth chairs.
Stillness surrounds me
memories sustain me.
Families, and time
move on.
Toys packed away until another time.
The flat smooth spatula
dips in sweetness
slowly connects with layers
methodically swirls its thickness
then dips again, rises again
and moves in circles
across the top of delicious.
Penciled eyebrows arched in surprise
bright red lips and stiletto heels
short white gloves like her mother wore
and always a billowing skirt,
crinolines attached for extra flounce.
She struts through life to decorate the scene
takes center stage to raucous applause.
Shoes come off, skirt removed
she twirls it above her head
three loops, then let sail
caught by the lucky wide-eyed man
sitting in a front row seat.
Each movement choreographed
her legs curve round the rope.
She ascends high and higher still
seeks the spotlight’s heat,
craves this life,
to dangle and curl
high above the circus floor.
He took to soap and water from an early age,
standing on a stool, sleeves rolled up
playing in the suds.
As a college chap,
he was a regular with his chums,
second stool from the left at Chauncey’s Pub.
Not in it for the guzzling,
he liked to watch the suds drip down his glass
and feel the foam against his upper lip.
Retired now, no children of his own,
he’s become a summer legend
in the neighborhood corner park.
Washtub at his feet,
nets of string on two long poles
he dips and waves, and dips again.
Magic billows out across the lawn
this man, doing what he loves
is now, and always has been
the bubbles man.
lillian the home poet 