The chill of an early
January morning
wrapped in frost and
layers of ice remind
her of the jagged edges of
unbearable loss as the
tears of angels roll down
her cheeks.
She realizes the darkness has
not eclipsed the promise, as
she looks out the kitchen window,
views the magenta hellebore
blooming its own defiant dance
against the cold and ice.  More
mauve and white velvet blossoms
peek out of snow drifts graced
with sparkle under early morning
sun as if a child threw a handful of glitter.
The mythical knowledge these same
blooms saved the daughters of Argos
from madness with tea seeped in
petal and leaf gives her hope. 
If only she planted more, she
says to herself, to take away
the sweep of winter.
The lenten rose ripe
with forgiveness, lure of the 
bluebird as it perches on the
weathered grapevine wreath,
memory of the wild ponies
running along the Eastern shore.

She brushes some flecks of glitter
from her hand.

1870-1872

Sowing, cutting, stomping,
the seasons passed,
and he grew almost as tall
as hemp
stalking
her
from afar.

He would never touch her,
never hurt her,
never harvest
her joy.

He watched her
blossom in a way
that made him blush
on the rare occasions
their paths crossed.

Looking down,
each to their own
shoes,

for fear of breaking
too many rules,

offsetting
the almost peace
that almost came
after the generals sent back the troops.

Hanging in the balance, mere exemptions,
refusing to return to their old tasks.
The reprobates swung high.

He picked petals,
that flew downstream.

He would never suffer
to see her plucked
from this earth.

He swore he’d stop
anyone who tried.

Convert me to Islam
to kindness
to Christ.

Convert me to Hindu, 
the trimurti,
HaShem.

Take me from evil and 
all those

converted to genocide
to oil rigs
to crucifixtions. 

Convert me to conversion 
of roads and ideas;
the youth.

Convert all to learning 
and kindness 
to Earth.

They’d ask you first: How much distance
to bridge this gap?

And then they’d lead you down
to the gullies where the bluffs
bare themselves to you.

They’d test your palms for blisters,
read each crease–crooked creekbeds—
press agate into your pocket.

Could you hold up under
their weight?

And if you’d let them,
they’d show you the dry creek
where the coydogs hide their bones
and how the limestone scarp lists upward
as palisades embrace the Kentucky River.

They’d show you hipbone
on sandstone–where many wild mouths
touched the salt-lick.

Even in a drought year
when the heart cracked open.
Even in the flooding season
when the Kentucky River forgot
and reforged its name.

                –inspired by John Branch, “Tracing a River that Was Freed After a Century,” NYT

Dammed by the arrival of
beaver trappers,
gold miners and timber harvesters,
farmers and ranchers,
the river was strangled
by 400 vertical feet of water stoppers
and lake makers.

Not until tens of thousands 
of dead salmon and trout washed up
on the lower banks of the river
did the dam-removal movement
gain momentum and the power brokers
pay attention. The sacred fish reappeared
days after the last dam fell.

This month some 30 Indigenous teenagers–
whose ancestors could cross
the Klamath on the backs of salmon–
embarked in kayaks on the 310-mile
First Descent to the Pacific Ocean, 
singing a water song to celebrate
the return of their living relative.
Elders blessed the expedition
by burning root of wild celery
and the feathers of a hawk.

The shoreline of lakes have faded
as the river has found its old course.
Now the water that carved the canyons runs wild again.
The young kayakers are naming the rapids.
They are paddling on riffling currents, 
passing salmon swimming upstream.
With the journey to the ocean, 
all their relatives will be newly connected.
Water has memory, the tribal elders say.

(For Karen George)

                                                A teenager on spring break

                                                               this strange bonanza

                                                                        lying

on a beach towel,     a 

                                                demigod

            spendidly named

like a youthful nobleman 

                                              turning away from the world
toward the world’s reflection.

You see how my brain works,

                                                                   captive rapture

                                                     not water but blood
surging through tympanic membranes,
                                                         time’s echo chamber.
                                                               
The glory of the sea may be salt but the glory
of the mind is                                                    on my tongue—

                                                but I’ve never touched it,
                                                                              never will.
     Let it glow with the        light of          unobtainable
                                                                     secrets.

An erasure of “Glory-of-the-Atlantic,” parts 1 and 2, by Campbell McGrath, published in Poetry magazine, July 2024. You can read it at https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/162701/glory-of-the-atlantic                                       

Dear homeless, we see you. Something has to change, to serve all, allow all to prosper, live a new life in an old way in tiny homes, rooms or apartments that could sustain the evicted who have lost all hope, the addicted who try from a wounded brain to send messages impossible to decipher, the homeless, 2020 lepers without even a colony to be relegated to. Unless, of course, we call the streets their colony & take pride in offering them our old winter coats. Nothing more.

27 mil

200K study said

3 years to complete.

Portuguese Man O’ War washes
        up in white foam
                where I walk the wide stripe 
        of wet sand. A little girl, just three or four,

plays at the water’s edge, pink
        plastic bucket, dark curls of wild
                summer-child hair. I turn and say,
        Be careful. Stay away

from that thing; it can still sting,
        but she doesn’t know me, maybe
                doesn’t hear, barely
        glances my way as she sets her wet

foot right on the purple
        puffed edge of the pillow
                full of knives and
        screams.

I try not to panic, scan
        the colorful sea of faceless
                people dotting a desert of beige.
        Where are your parents, honey?

She doesn’t answer, only picks
        up her foot, examines
                the wound, still wailing.
        My heart pounds

to the rhythm of her father’s
        feet, beckoned by her
                ear-spitting keen. He sprints
        from his chair, lifts her

in the air as I tell him
        what I witnessed. When he carries
                her away, I ache, wonder
        what more I could have done,

retrieve the drifting bucket, set it safely
        on the sand, stand
                around until someone comes
        to remove the carcass, tell

the throng of kids who gather,
        Don’t touch it. Please
                don’t touch it. This can hurt you 
        even after it’s dead and gone.

the low, grumbling chords of the introduction
lead into a fanfare in the relative major, just
before the first theme enters, firmly
in the minor key–
an insistent, haunting tune
over an active, arpeggiated left hand

the second theme is an echo of the first,
inverted, forcing the accompanying harmony
into dark corners and dissonance

the development weaves both themes together,
with hints of the fanfare,
mocking the despair of the minor key themes

the recapitulation is a work of genius:
combining elements of the exposition and development
in a way that reveals the melody that was always there–
hidden inside them–
only revealed when the
contrasting themes
unite

the coda is a series of quiet cadences,
ending in the same progression as
the opening fanfare, now trapped
inside the melancholy of
the minor key