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, Uncategorized

sidebells wintergreen facts

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

rainy day ramblings

rainy day ramblings

i

am I doing enough
to earn my time here?
(and, is it possible to also read a book?)

ii

rain on rose petals
silver linings everywhere

iii

companion = [with] [bread]
this also delimits my friend/acquaintance line:
who can I invite in next
to serve a warm thick slice?
the words around us bear
the weight of deep meanings
we don’t even bother consciously knowing

from now on companion will have
a more complex, savory taste
every time it rolls around my mouth