Tag: coronavirus

poetry

baby toes

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baby toes

his toe hurts
on the inside

my insides recoil –
is this it then?
it’s still weeks
(if not months)
til we know

do you remember
those round baby toes
tender as sweet peas?
they’re always on the inside –
my infant sons
embedded in these now lanky
sometimes sullen
more often wise and generous souls
like reverse ancestors
ghosts of their young selves
bound to the present
shades/shadows stitched to their current forms

when they were born
the curious asked
what’s the hardest part?
being so vulnerable
(I always knew)
so many new ways to come to harm –
these beings from my body
out in the sometimes indifferent world
and I so imperfect to guard them well enough

tonight I will pray
for soft pink carefree souls
toes running barefoot tomorrow
dodging disaster
one more day

poetry

slime mold over the rainbow

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This is in response to a prompt from Aimee Nezhukumatathil’s webinar Nature as Inspiration and Transformation: An Intro to Nature Poetry: make two columns – lovely nature and not-so-lovely nature. What are the first three things that come to mind for each? Write them down under the appropriate heading. Now write a poem: I don’t want to be the [choose one lovely nature item]. I’m more a [not-so-lovely item].

slime mold over the rainbow

I don’t want to be the shiny rainbow
to sing out Everything is going to be OK!
even though the thunder and lightning
just washed what we know away
I don’t want to be primary-hued hope and cheer
to mislead the bedazzled into searching for a false pot of gold
I’m not here to break dull antiseptic white
into all the lovely shades embedded within

today I’m more the slime mold
dragging myself over the filthy lumpy mud
following a quiet call I can barely detect
searching out the others in our tribe
joining together to grow larger and stronger
trusting in transformation
moving together to a new safe place
with no map or plan to guide us
leaving the hateful violent floodplain behind
forming spores that will someday sow clouds

poetry

mourning cloak

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Owen took this black bear photo.

mourning cloak

ragged wings still shimmer
in weak sun
against all expectations
weathering another winter
squeezed in the tight clasp
of bark and trunk

how sweet that makes
today’s taste of willow nectar
just broken from bud

poetry, Uncategorized

sidebells wintergreen facts

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sidebells wintergreen facts

one-sided
Orthilia secunda
both parts of the binomial mean this
with a surety that can’t be misinterpreted

all the blooms are on the same side
yes, it is unbalanced
and that’s as it should be
just a fact
the weight of the unembarrassed stigmas
cascading down a single plane offsetting
the smooth airy lack of substance on the nonflowering side

you might look at it from every angle
twirl the stem between finger and thumb
look from above
peer from below
it’s inescapable
you can’t fabricate a symmetry that simply isn’t there

sometimes all you’re left with
is the real, dried, preserved truth
between your fingers
confirming that growth beauty fragrance
-all of these-
sometimes belong more to one side than the other

now what will you do –
say what you see?
or what you think they want said?

before you answer
I’ll make the root into an eyewash
and gently bathe your lids
until you say you can see clear

but I sense you need something more
here, lie down on this plush moss
and look up past a crowd of crowns
into the blue depth
where cloud effortlessly becomes fog becomes air
at precisely expected intervals
(this happens every day)

now put one hand on this lichened log
and the other on your trembling heart
and talk to me
about sidebells wintergreen’s
chestnut brown pumpkin-shaped corollas (when dry)
that hold a hint of woody scent
like star anise
or cinnamon.
how you expect to hear them tinkle when you shake the stem

and now, when you’ve settled in
to telling the sometimes single-sided truth
let’s talk about whether
our children should walk into their schools
this plagued fall

poetry

this fairytale life

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this fairytale life

I’m waiting to find
what it will take from me
this thoughtless virus
this incomprehensibly fortunate life

no one in my bloodline got off easy
every one of them suffered
their own bit of soul-crushing loss

the stillborn babies
the blue eyes that went blind
the mother who starved herself
and the one who died a week after childbirth
the father who drank himself to death
or the one whose legs went blue at 40

there’s even the girl
who, walking across the room
on Christmas Day
while drinking from a glass,
tripped and sliced her throat open
(I could not concoct
this degree of Grimm fairy tale darkness –
my sister and I were told and retold
this tale, warned never to take a step
with a glass lifted to our lips)

when her distraught father went to fetch the priest
instead of consolation he found an open palm –
Father demanded payment first –
and my grandfather’s grandfather’s voice went cold
he paid upfront
and as soon as the Mass ended
he ordered the whole family out of the Church
his faith dead alongside his daughter

there are no happy-ever-afters in our family
and precious little happy at all

this is why I go around
forehead to earth
incredulously thanking
each leaf each breath
each lovely soul in my life
always wondering when
it will all come undone

poetry

mouthing the forest

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mouthing the forest

to feel at home
I put the forest on my tongue
little sweet safe bits
to bring the scent of sap and duff
right into my mouth

wintergreen leaves
sparked with living magic
cool, sharp, energizing

sassafras stems
the rich root beer taste of cozy mitten leaves
chewing the petiole flat
while the long blade hangs out my mouth
giving me the feel of a deer

Indian paintbrush corollas
drawing spring green from a fiery red throat
testing the base for the quench of nectar
in summer heat

wild strawberries
anywhere, anytime
little dabs of garnet lusciousness
never abundant enough to overdo it

honeysuckle (in town)
pulling the pink and yellow tube
from the green calyx
sucking sweetness through

raspberries
hands stained red
pulling off a few here and there along the trail
rolling the stuck seeds around my mouth later

chokecherry
best when they’re wizened
left hanging so long the acid’s been baked or frozen out
a dark purple deep old-time sugary taste

blueberries, crowberries, salmonberries, flower petals (some)

spruce sap
it sat bubbled on the bark
four small crystal balls
reflecting my own place in the world back to me
at a time when divination is a godsend
I gently pressed one, then brought my finger to tongue
and it exploded with spruce essence
opening my sinuses
and making me feel satiated
while also fueling a new hunger
giving a taste to something missing
or at least in too-short supply in my current day-to-day

it was like the day
my collarbones grew warm
or a kiss introduced me to the smooth inside of my lower lip
or my left foot first stood firm on the ground
unforgettable and exciting
leaving me wanting more
while also feeling amazed
at how sharp life can be

poetry

after reading the District’s reopening plan

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after reading the District’s reopening plan

tonight I am picturing
my sons
in half-empty rooms
of masked children
their shoes rooted to the floor
amidst evenly-spaced desks

how could they endure
not being able to move
or play
or eat?

tonight I am picturing
my sons
listless in our living room
realizing education
is such a small part
of school

how could I ask them to go
another year without friends
another year home with us
another year far from
what they know?

but I want to keep them safe –
how can I anticipate
what they’ll most loathe
about next year?

poetry

forbidden embrace

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forbidden embrace

each time we approach
the time when approaching
in the flesh is allowed
the goalposts move
and I feel your utterly human
animal selves moving further from me

if this ever ends
we will be hungry for skin on skin
like newborn babies
rooting around to feel the ridges
in the palm of the person in the next pew
slapping the back of the annoying
salesman at the door
combing the postal clerk’s bangs with our fingers
while purchasing stamps
sitting close enough on the bleachers
to feel the stranger-neighbor’s quad clench
before he leaps to his feet to cheer the play

but mostly I will hold onto
my mother, mother-in-law, father-in-law
with careful desperate bear hugs
swaying with them like a child
needing to be soothed
(I am)
so relieved I can clutch them to me
at least once more before letting go

poetry

tragic

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This poem was written in response to this comic, which deeply saddened one of our sons. I actually reached out to the artist to see if she might have anything comforting to communicate to him, but I have not received a response. The article explains that she drew the comic to encourage drivers to slow down for ducklings. Our kids found it by Googling “duck comic.”

tragic

all the departing souls saying
I’m so sorry
all the dying pleading
Can you say goodbye to me?

our sweet son sees a comic
of a ghost duckling
taking leave of his mama
and knows the devastating truth of it –
they’ll never know each other again

we are not the faithful it is written type
no, we’re bound to hang on to breath
and the dear flawed souls around us
with our heels dug in
teeth gritted
not taking any chances on some future homecoming
or even any afterlife

I want to shake that artist
until her own teeth rattle
and demand
What were you thinking?
There’s enough real tragedy in sight
without making him mourn
your damned duck
or his mother.
Why make his world any more sad
than tomorrow demands?

poetry

our shared grief

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our shared grief

in this lonely time of loss
each of us locked away
in our own sorrow
the future a grey haze
uncertainty dusting everything
we do or say like fine ash
the fear of dying alone
(our death or a beloved’s)
with no hand to hold
no last pressure between worlds
the one consolation is
our shared grief –
that you know a bit
of what I must say no to
without me opening my lips
for maybe the only time
our hearts share this unsaid knowing
that we would each gladly
take this away from the other

I want to splash warm red
and the smell of cinnamon
into your scene
let you remember
how spontaneous laughter feels
light the way forward for you
at least a few steps