feeding the children
I pile up platters of care
oodles of cuddles
vats of validation
chafing dishes of just-right challenges
ample heapings of acceptance
call them to the table
groaning under the weight
of what seems to me abundance
but only they are able
to part their lips
and allow nourishment in
only they can accept these offerings
meanwhile we all sit rigidly
waiting to see
if any fork is lifted
safer-at-home start
our first trip to town in 5 weeks
and the new reality is everywhere:
masked bandits entering banks
and mailing letters
it feels so different
seeing it all in person
my kind husband like a
stagecoach robber
and no end in sight
no way to know
how to best love
our loved ones
safe
this is the safe time
everyone snuggled in their beds
minds easy
in our cheerful cabin
at the end of the plowed road
we go unmasked
rambling around the hills
confident in our isolation
things are mostly black-and-white
in such a small world
we have already put the pieces together
in a way that spells out
safe
but soon
the closed roads will open
the drifts will melt
appointments will be made and kept
the wide world will beckon
and the confusion of a thousand choices
will return –
our life of too many options
for right now
I’m going to luxuriate
in this small quiet safeness
throw myself down
and make snow angels in it even
press my whole body into its
cold near-certainty
before brushing myself off
and steeling for the next wave
Moon Creek Breakup
it was explosive
I looked up from my book
to find the white mass had caved in
it clogged the stream
and the creek gobbled it up
licking the white grey
smoothing it like a snow cone
spinning and tumbling it
until it had been consumed
a few minutes later
the next performance
the creek first more constricted
then more free
this will go on all spring
heat + light = thaw
all the frozen forms in this world
eventually expand to breaking
collapse from their own need to flow
go rushing headlong
away from where they were bound
This poem uses a format George Ella Lyon has invited others to borrow to tell the story of where they are from.
Where I’m From
I am from newsprint
from Deep Woods Off! and Coppertone
three Rust Belt houses
moving up and down the social ladder
(the smell of the neighbor’s
lily-of-the-valley in the spring)
I am from creek shale and grapevine
twined into forts and swings
I’m from homemade applesauce
and too much booze
from Thomas Francis Browns
and William Joseph Schaafs
I’m from the secret-keepers
and the never-satisfieds
from the optimism of Good morning, morning glory!
and the poverty of That’s from hunger
I’m from Lenten incense, shamrock Trinities
I’m from Erie and Éire
from lake perch and cinnakuka
from the shot-up tail
of the Luck of the Irish B-17
that spared by German grandfather
and humid summers at the Shore
when Grandy showed me Saturn’s rings
the long wood shelves above my dad’s childhood desk
held the spiral-bound scrapbooks
with my grandfather’s cases and speeches
yellowed and tearing
charisma my father would never match
I am from immigrant industry
all of us broken
and heartsick for land
These are my responses to the Earth Stanzas project, a Traveling Stanzas project from the Wick Poetry Center at Kent State University and the Center for Earth Ethics.
Earth Stanzas
I am the snow slaking thirst in summer.
based on The Delight Song of Tsoai-talee by N. Scott Momaday
Remember the fire sky. Taking tiny breaths of smoke. The urge to flee and no place to go. Make a change so your children won’t know that taste in their mouths.
based on Remember by Joy Harjo
To be lived on gently, in harmonious energy with her cycles. To be respected, in acknowledgment that she is the source of all. To be given thanks, in reciprocity for the gifts she gives, including life.
based on Earth’s Desire by Thomas Berry
Holy the endangered. Holy the prairie dogs alarm-calling. Holy the oil shale penstemons dotting coveted white cliffs with purple. Holy the pikas gathering hay in summer heat. Holy the Gunnison sage-grouse booming while the wells pump. Holy the small and insignificant, magnificent in their complexity.
based on For Marcellus by Sandra Steingraber
Get out of all walls, where you can see sky. Face north. Listen for the farthest sound, at the very edge of hearing – note it with thanks. Face east. Bow to the earth, nose to soil, until you smell the scent of this place. Face south. Run your hands over the nearest living thing, caressing it and memorizing it with your skin. Face west. Open your mouth wide to taste the air on your tongue, sipping the day. Now turn until you see something remarkable. Thank it by name, or approximation. Do this every day you are blessed with presence.
based on Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front by Wendell Berry
We, this people, must know ourselves as no different from any other people, any other apes, any other mammals, any other vertebrates, any other animals, any other beings, any other assemblages of molecules/energy/space. We are all one.
based on A Brave and Startling Truth by Maya Angelou
Moon Creek, you sing to me even when I’m tired. I rest my eyes on your flashing flow and instantly relax. You smooth away the snow and bring spring here. Thank you for your unceasing song.
based on Thank You, Tree by Fatou M’Baye
I have been thinking about living like an otter, sleeping tethered to kelp, paws pressed, smell of the sea thick in my triangle nose, embodying the rhythm of wave, all softness, all play.
based on Ladder to the Stars by Ella Hassler
Rite-in-the-Rain
it’s the kind with the lines
even though I didn’t want it to be
last time I called up
and bought them out of unlined ones –
yes, I had that much adventure already planned
or at least expected –
but this time there were no more unlined ones left to buy
always the bright yellow cover
to stand out against moss, mud, pine duff, sand, snow
what else is that yellow?
maybe the ray flowers of sunflowers
the feathers of warblers
avalanche lilies
yellow stoplights (well, go cautiously lights)
the spots of tiger salamanders
some certain lichens
maybe the sun itself
(though you can’t be sure
from the sideways glances we’re limited to)
the pages are a little thicker stiffer rougher
than ordinary notebooks
to hold pen or pencil even underwater
to make your words as near permanent
as a thing easily left for years
on a dusty shelf can make them
it’s a little too big for a pocket
so you must either carry it like a prayer book
or a primer held by a barefoot schoolchild
from a one-room schoolhouse
or plan ahead and bring a satchel
but it’s best for that bag to stay open –
no zippers or clasps or catches
so there’s nothing to resist you
when you have the urge to open
it smells of must
of labs and field stations
and people with the word “Forester” after their names
it connotes the seriousness and objectivity of data
of a universal reality that will be recorded
by someone with training in perception
who knows how to take the measure of an experience
and make it replicable for someone else
except for the lines, there’s nothing I would change about it
except that yesterday I finished filling it
and have no need for more
letting go of corporate
things to let go:
traffic jams
commuting
smog
the brown cloud
staff meetings
getting splashed with slush by a passing bus
alarm clocks
business casual
casual Friday
high heels
happy hour
time sheets
parties you don’t want to be at
social obligations
close talkers
meet-n-greets
networking
looking at your watch
worrying about the meter
parking in the garage with the tight spots
getting out of jams at work
the paper circles falling out of the 3-hole punch
ice breakers
appetizers
hors d’oeuvres
the confusion involved in spelling hors d’oeuvres
ties
filing
annual reports
board meetings
staying awake at conference tables
small talk
performance reviews
hiring interviews
the smell of the office refrigerator
caffeinating to make it through the day
shredding paper
voicemails
choosing between the elevator and the stairs
getting home after dark
leaning your head against the bus window
(ok, maybe keep that last one –
a bit of meditative time
when the world unrolls before you
and you’re suspended between your two lives
having surrendered the driver’s seat for a spell)
one month isolation
now there is time
to witness winter melting
to sit and listen to icicles drip
to watch snow go to water to wind
and yet
there is still not enough time
to do all that should be done
the hours are filled by so much less now
we forget how to be busy
accept going slow
isolation/grief
so many small sadnesses
including putting away
this last filled fieldbook
closing our adventurous chapter
staring down rows and rows
of weeks of going nowhere
feeling like we failed
to do what we said we would
so many plans scattered
in the flurry of leaving
if only I believed in the kind of god
who wanted me to submit
and trust his plan
having most options wrenched away
would be easier to accept
but beyond all these petty disappointments
we’re alive
and grateful
and past caring for little else
