poetry

Lost Bounce

Photo by Amanda Pampuro of Courthouse News.

Lost Bounce

Inspired by a prompt from Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer’s Loving the Self: A Poetry Playshop.

the sight of all the burned-out trampolines
flipped over, blown far from their families
silver u’s sticking into the air
like uncomfortable metal bridgework
puts a little hollowness in me these days –
you know there are not-laughing children
to go with each one

trampoline, you raise us up and encircle us
make a safe-ish place to be wild
test limits and bump up against our edges
you launch us into that part of childhood
that’s more about risk than safety
and make a quiet screened place
to whisper with friends

black and blue and endlessly round
you teach us how to lighten up
and we feel the pleasure of becoming buoyant
internalize that we are capable
of reaching much greater heights
than we ever thought

we love you for your whiff of danger
the broken clips and snagged nets
blue borders always shredding away to nothingness
your tenuous connection to earth
and warm embrace of sky

our muscles absorb how to bounce back
we integrate the feel of resilience
how to float and sink and go
with what the moment demands
rather than stiffly thudding through each jolt and jar

so each abandoned naked metal circle
makes my mouth go sour
makes my heart sink a touch lower

poetry

it gets worse / better

Photo of Val Szarek's excerpt of Amanda Gorman's "The Hill We Climb."

it gets worse / better

Inspired by a prompt from Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer’s Loving the Self: A Poetry Playshop.

gazing into the fire
asking what do you have to teach me today?

all I hear is
the old toddler parenting mantra

it gets worse
before it gets better

friends
it could always get worse
but what if we willed ourselves to believe
today we’re one day closer to better?

poetry

Post-fire Helpfulness Spectrum: Three Case Studies

Abby Draijer-Kidder's Dutch apple pie.

Post-fire Helpfulness Spectrum: Three Case Studies

Insurance patiently yet insistently explains to my friend
how her ash-covered mattresses
(which Insurance concedes cannot be salvaged)
may not be disposed of
until Insurance has the chance to
unsuccessfully attempt to clean them,
and Insurance is all booked up
unsuccessfully attempting to clean
other ash-covered mattresses for weeks.

My bewildered but equally patient and insistent friend
explains to Insurance
that the mattresses are stinking up her house,
that Insurance is sending people to scrub her home’s air next week,
that the mattresses need to go,
that the city has invited people to put their ash-covered mattresses
out on the street this week to be hauled away for free.

Let’s do it, and save us both time and money! she pep-talks Insurance.

But Insurance rigidly Ma’ams her back
and explains how things must be:
Insurance will pay someone to pick up the ash-covered mattresses
and pay to package them to protect them from further damage
and pay to haul them to a storage locker
and pay to store them in the locker until someone is available.
Then Insurance will pay
to unsuccessfully remove the ash from the mattresses.
Insurance will then admit defeat
and pay for the mattresses to be hauled away
and will pay to dispose of the mattresses.

My out-of-patience friend sits silent on the line
nothing left to say.

On the other end of the spectrum,
Abby Draijer-Kidder bakes pies
and writes
Just come and get some pie.

Jennifer Cooper Gulley stocks her coolers
with 25 free home-cooked meals
and writes
Come and get it!

poetry

nursing the world

St. Francis Inn mural by Brian Ames, photographed by Jim McIntosh.

nursing the world

Written in response to “Saint Francis and the Sow” by Galway Kinnell, which you can read here or listen to Galway read here. Inspired by a prompt from Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer’s Loving the Self: A Poetry Playshop.

Galway Kinnell tells me
how to press a palm
to a flower’s brow
until its cellulose walls
feel, through the warmth of that kind, gentle hand,
the radiant energy of that soft, undemanding touch,
the truth of the flower’s self-realized loveliness.

Oh, Galway, and Saint Francis,
and yes, the flower’s green leaf,
and the sow’s muddy hoof,
press yourself to my temple
until this blessing sings through my limp limbs
so I might do the same.

All anyone wants
is to be enough.
To have warranted the atoms they’re made of.
To have patiently pressed their palm
to another needy being’s brow
and then watched them shine with joy.

poetry

how we have been changed

how we have been changed

the Californians speak of fire hardening
ask if we’ve done it
no, but perhaps it’s been done to us

so many of us are like the survivors
in a forest after flame
you see the blackened triangular fire scars
for decades reaching up from the earth
marking the moments
when the tree might have become wood

but there’s also fire softening at work now

a new tendency to give others the benefit of the doubt
to not question whether they might have
had their misfortune coming to them
to give whole-heartedly, finally
embracing the there but for the grace of God
or a shift of wind
go I humility we all ought to have

it’s much too soon to see
how this fire will mark us
how we might now meet the world
what tangled undergrowth might have been
cleared out of our chests by
such a fierce blaze

poetry

koimeterion

Photo by Nearmap.

koimeterion

driving past the burn today
I finally name what it evokes in me –
cemetery:

the structures low to the ground
the winding streets now going nowhere
the arboretum of cultivated trees
the metal shapes like iron railings
delineating a family plot

so many memories interred
in each rectangular basement-crypt
nearly everything gone to ashes already

from the Greek word for sleeping place
where souls once breathed quiet midnight dreams
(or tossed fitfully, as it may be)
now there’s only the eerie absence of an old life gone

poetry

Imbolc / Candlemas / Groundhog Day

St. Brigid's Cross

Imbolc / Candlemas / Groundhog Day

tomorrow we’ll be one day closer to spring than winter
though subzero when we wake
but we still won’t know where the spark started

my husband walks Washington
and says the burn looks like Syria
the devastated portion on the news

I stay away out of respect
and maybe out of not wanting the images in my eyes
and also simply out of staying out of the way

there are enough complications everywhere
without this body adding one more

this cross-quarter night
what safe candle can I light that leaves no ash
what flame might I set in my head
or milk in my hands to divine our future
what keening might heal the blackened hills
for we’ve no rushes to weave in this dry place

poetry

whether to know

whether to know

two ways today I’m asked
if I want to know
what’s in the air we’re breathing
and the answer is
I don’t know

because we can’t stop bringing it into our bodies
and we aren’t the type to pick up and move

the numbers may tell us
what we don’t want to hear
but if we don’t know
at least we don’t know

Margaret says,
We’re doomed. And?

Sarah says,
Don’t give your worries swimming lessons.

I say,
When can I just breathe easy?
And, will my children ever?

poetry

backs to open space

backs to open space

I wonder
walking most of the day
along the border of city and commons
where grass grows taller, browner

will backs to open space
stop being a selling point?

I decide no
that open unfettered view
has too much value
every day except the last

poetry

fire dream

fire dream

I dreamt ashes in our attic
soot on the windowsills
unnoticed for weeks

we’re all wearing ashes
on our foreheads these days
visible or not