Category: Poetry

Moon Series 2018 – Day 4

Thursday, October 4th, 2018 – 11:30 p.m.
Waning Crescent

Dark sky but no rain
I’m too busy to sit with the mosquitos
(as their main course)
and gaze up at another dark sky
what does it matter anyway?
I may never see the moon
or make that connection
with October’s chill breath
the crisp leaves, my girls small
wonderous, alive

Autumn will always be about their childhood
and mine
I’m so sad

Sometimes the moon helps
the crescent looks so familiar
a smile in the darkness
but there are times
I only see a vicious moon
sharp, lethal, sinister
cold as a winter storm

When the moon threatens me
I’m not myself
when the navy sky is moonless
I feel abandoned

Then the stars aren’t enough
no matter how plentiful
no matter how persistent
nothing’s enough

My grief is like a moonless night

Moon Series 2018 – Day 1

Monday, October 1st, 2018 – 8:30 p.m.
Waning Gibbous

There’s no chance I’ll see the moon tonight
the steady rain made sure of that
noon’s warmth seems like a dream
in this bitter chill
it’s far too soon to lose the heat of summer
but who am I to say when a season should end?

It’s already October, after all
and if I’m being truthful
than I must admit I’ve learned
that seasons play by their own rules
when summers stretch on far too long
when winters begin in October
and linger into April
but, you know,
it’s always spring and autumn
that get short changed, truncated
by a late frost or an early nor’easter

so why did I stop thinking about the moon?
because there’s no hint of it
on this velvet night
the darkness feels permanent

Morning Moon

I saw the morning moon
a ghost in the September chill
a silent witness
lingering far past sunrise
perhaps defiant
as light spilled onto the horizon

loitering, impervious
ignoring the sun’s glare
intrigued with the blueing sky
amazed at the cardinal’s song

watching, with interest
the flicker of life within dark houses
examining the dog’s eager quest
for the perfect patch of grass

September Lament

it’s hard to believe how close we are
to autumn

but the birds
are hunkered down within the canopy
feeling their molt

the vibrant forest, the wild grass
that skirts this overgrown road
will fade and wither

as the sky dulls
and the goldfinches
lose their gleam

you have to hold onto life while you can,
onto the full thrust of it
in the saturated vibrancy of late August
when the heat hangs in the air
like a shroud
as the mosquitoes drill for oil
in your veins

you have to hold on
soon, the chill will return
turning the forest to stone

A Dozen Ways To Die: Lightning

I’ve imagined a dozen ways I might die
pictured it, not out of morbid curiosity
not because I have a death wish,
but because living, some days,
seems endless, pointless,
full of hopeless despair.

I might get struck by lightning
on a rain-drenched summer night
my mind, wandering, as I step outside
to walk the dog, take the garbage out

there, in my driveway,
standing in bare feet,
I’ll hear the thunder clap
loud as a gunshot
making me jump

I’ll look up to see white fire
arc across the yard,
revealing the sideways rain
coming toward me, an accusatory finger
until it touches my exposed head
or arm or neck

then the door will open
and I’ll forget the troubles of the flesh
as I’m borne away
to a place where everything is made of light

Why the ocean speaks

Once, I understood
(before the years piled on)
leaving me in mid-life, bereft

the ocean seems empty and endless
but it’s an illusion
a paradox

who knows why the water is so compelling?
maybe it resonates within us,
speaks to the place
buried deep in our DNA
to those simple cells
that called the water home

maybe the ocean yearns for us
like our bodies yearn
for a lost limb
aching for the piece that’s gone

I’m exploring the shape of infinity
(it’s not enclosed)
it’s wide open
it’s the vast, unfathomable blue
of an ocean stretched across the globe

it contains every bit of us
including our arrogance
ground to sand beneath the waves

A Fragile Spring

when winter’s cold fingers, at last, uncurl
and spring finally comes, it comes:
buds exploding open in the weak April sun
the sharp air softening,
so many things changing at once
it’s impossible to mark them all

the sky deepening to cobalt at noon,
the raptors circling on warm currents,
the yellowing of goldfinches
the great unfolding–
tulips, magnolia, cherry blossoms
vivid confetti decorating my yard

my own spring is long gone
but I don’t envy this newness
I dread its brevity, its fragility
the threat of spring’s early demise
is my biggest fear
calamity looms – the kind of threat
that destroys the sparrow’s newly made nest
that dries the nectarines on the branch

a dark storm could thrust us
too soon into summer,
with its heavy, saturated days
making short work of this bright innocence

Old Tools

I’m letting go of the faded story
that doesn’t fit me anymore
though parts must remain, the foundation
of this new thing I’ve become

reality shimmers,
a lake that looks like glass
solid and strong, the sky
reflecting back on its surface, the water
implying permanence and strength, because
our souls want to believe in this world
in flesh and earth and sky,
except the sky isn’t solid

it’s just a name we call the endlessness
above us, with invisible roads
our thick bones pass right through
my terrestrial world is flickering,
has flickered,
and now it’s all rippling
because someone threw a stone
onto the surface of my illusion

now the sky is bending and heaving,
the trees are dancing,
my surface is broken open
and the endlessness is mine
it was always there, beneath
the placid skin that was the shape of me

grief is like depression, but not really
I am still myself, but my old tools are useless
broken and weak, I need new tools
words and adventures, a purpose
I need a purpose–all love and presence
I don’t care about the discarded tools
they weren’t real either

Impatience

sometimes March disappoints, taking
too long to push out the morning chill
letting the cold linger, except at mid-day
when the sky puts on its coat of blue
and the crocuses push through the cold soil
content with the brief warmth
of the noon sun

spring is framed in those first flowers,
in the green of tulips yet to be
and, of course,
the birds know it’s time
the cardinal’s song is changing,
the goldfinches are beginning
to flicker like bright rays of sunlight
through my nectarine tree

today the grass is waking up
greening in patches
like emerald stratus clouds on my lawn
I raked the the spent seed below the feeders
and the breeze against my face
felt gentler, the persistent chill, softer
as if March was sighing into April

The Winter Trail

I’m on the winter trail
plodding forward with aching feet
blinded by sharp sunlight
on endless snow,
alone with my burden.

The lake offers no relief.
Its frozen water mocks my thirst.

Every part of me longs for spring.

I tell myself the lies of the lonely
Imagining that someone, anyone
might slog along with me,
and ease the thick links
of this heavy chain
from my bent shoulders.

By my own reckoning,
my sorrow is so cumbersome,
you will flee from me,
appalled.