The wild pinks
are wilder this year,
their tiny petals, a profusion,
though yarrow and oxeye daisy
are ever the same.
I used to walk these fields
and nod to the flowers without
knowing their names.
In that absence of words,
I was less attuned to timing
or upward, downward trends.
Still, I wonder what
uncountable thing might
have broken off at the stem
the moment I learned
to clench a life
between my teeth and tongue.
The creek still sings the same old song
Through sycamore and stone,
And mist still wraps the mountains blue
Each morning soft and lone.
The church bell calls on Sunday morn,
Its voice rides ridge to ridge,
But fewer boots come through the door,
Or cross the weathered bridge.
The coal trucks quit their rumblin’ years,
The tipples stand like ghosts,
And weeds have claimed the railroad beds
Where whistles once rang most.
Old Mama sits upon the porch
With quilts upon her knees,
And watches taillights disappear
Beyond the chestnut trees.
One boy went south for factory work,
One west where deserts shine,
A daughter found a city life
Beneath electric signs.
They call back home on holidays,
Their voices warm and kind,
But mountains hold a different time
Than places left behind.
The schoolhouse echoes louder now,
Its playground swings at rest,
And rows of houses on the hills
Stand quiet, vacant, blessed.
Yet still the dogwoods bloom each spring,
The whip-poor-wills still cry,
And sunsets paint the ancient peaks
With fire across the sky.
The land remembers every name
That’s drifted with the years;
It gathers them like autumn leaves
And keeps them safe and near.
For though the young may wander far
Where wider roads may run,
The mountains wait with patient hearts
For every absent son.
And every daughter, too, someday,
May feel that pull once more—
The call of creek and winding road,
And home behind the door.
Poetry asks. A lot of brains
Soft mist curls crow-black hair
hangs down below
her rounded shoulders
Enters Oregon
coastal forest
hardwood conifer
Western hemlock, Doug fir
home of Pacific Wren
She hears bird’s song
distinctly long loud trilling
and observes
wren on tree limb
I have a full life.
A life full of love, given and received
To and from those with whom I share my everyday.
Those who know my name, all the names I call myself.
Who know all the ways this world twists and turns
And forms the me who wakes the next morning ready
To be the newest, freshest version of myself.
A life full of grief, sometimes shared and other times hidden,
Born of that same love.
It is said that this grief is derived from all love unexpressed
Either wasted or withheld, that gathers in my still, inward spaces.
More likely it is from the perfect, leftover love that waits insensible
Until teased out by a memory or a song, a fragrance or a touch
Bringing me once again into its fullness, rich and raw.
A life full of joy, so much joy that floods my being.
From joinings that blur the lines of my endings and their beginnings.
Carrying me to magnificent places that can only exist
When a path is created between heart to heart to heart,
Tethered to mine for the journey, should I lose my way.
Making the path luminous when I wander off and need return
To all that is real and whole and good.
A life full of fear, that what is to come may not match the beauty
Of what has already been…
I haven’t seen the sun in a few days
Just impressive clouds which he paints with light
to please me.
The trees dance proclaiming rain
The earth thirsting for the life giving cycles
we have unbalanced by our bombs & data centers.
I see it now, Mother Earth,
like my own body deprived of essential hormones
just trying to survive and still
love unconditionally
On my travels I passed a lonely lake
First light of day washing surroundings grey
Lazy wisps of fog clung to topwater
Where pallid hand reached up breaking surface
I paused peering into aquatic deep
I could not believe what I was seeing
Before me was the Lady of the Lake
Struggling against a fisherman’s line
I looked about and nobody was there
The cries of the water maiden muted
I waded from sacred shore to aid her
Hand retreated at my approach, unsure
Her arm and legs bound ensnaring her fast
Terrified, though, at the sight of my knife
I splayed my free hand to show her goodwill
And then she stilled to watch my slow advance
Moss-like hair suspended around her face
Her beautiful eyes widened in terror
Untrusting she watched my blade dip below
Sliding gently between flesh and the line
I cut it away and all tension broke
Then she suddenly fled away from me
With heavy breath I watched her disappear
Standing there in the quiet of her wake
With heavy heart I made it back to shore
I gathered my things and resumed my walk
And just as I made it around the bend
I spared a glance back to see her out there
Unbound from the unnatural torment
Among the loons and the waterlilies
She did not offer what fairytales say
No kiss nor embrace nor small flattery
She reached down below with eyes judging me
Then she cast something bright into the air
A sword plummeted, impaling the earth
I approached and drew up the mighty steel
In its reflection I spied my future
Invincible I’d become in battle
Any land I sought would be mine to keep
King of kings would even kneel at my feet
My grip tightened at what was yet to be
But with all my might I cast that sword back
Frowning she whispered, “Then what do you want?”
Shaking my head, I only said, “Nothing.”
I left her there to think on my reply
And over the years I trekked far and wide
Everyone said I brought luck to their sails
From time to time I’d look into the deep
Thinking back on the Lady of the Lake
It’s pouring rain, the kind
we walked as kids, I know
or we wouldn’t remember
rivers from gutters, drops
splashing into small ponds
on roads, sidewalks we slosh
through, soaked to the bone,
exhilarated, giving into wet
drenched through to skin,
scent of loamy soil, worms,
not yet petrichor, earthy joy
of summer shower on a Tuesday
in June when an hour walk
stretches, stopping time but
keeping pace without umbrella,
holding hands slippery, connected,
us, our dog on leash, a turtle
who lost his way we return
to pond, then watch as it crawls
its way back up glistening asphalt,
frustrated our act thwarted his efforts
kinda rain day my gardens absorb
with glee and my heart soars
with nostalgia, familiar
creek rising afternoon storm
transient as living
