Gift

I give the earth,
indescribable as it is,
soft words
to catch the hem
of these wide cotton skies.

What else have I to share?

I am small and simple
as the prayer I breathe;

Even the ivy sings more sweetly.

Little art I own
to claim my place
that I should walk rightly
in this vast and wondrous world.

My words, soft as air,
are the humble gifts I offer.
Poor widow's mite,
what else have I to share?

If they gunned me down

Photo from Internet images. 

If they gunned me down,

ripping through my head,

would they leave me there

for dead, afraid my years would

would snatch them up?

Is walking in these old white bones

crime enough?

Everybody knows how they are.

I'm not prejudiced, but...

old white women, capped

and dyed and tucked!

You can't disguise deceit.

They're Dangerous, not Us.

Would they let me bleed,

if they gunned me down

because I'm white and old?

Would I lie there dead and cold,

and would they ever see

a human heart shot through?

If they gunned me down

If they gunned me down,

you?

I saw this quote on Unvirtuous Abbey: "For those who say, 'I'm not prejudiced but...,' Let us pray!"

Circa '62

Circa '62

Through a trapdoor

down steep stairs

on the dirt floor,

beside some dusty shelves, 

it stands: a rusted can 

as tall as we are tall.

Even with the cover tight,

the odor fills the room,

and in the dim light,

we swoon in yeasty haze.

We fill our cups

and dare to tip them up,

secret in our ways,

these heady home brew days.

Peace Song

Peace Song

Someday, we sing of peace

as shadows sing,

as wind.

The cherry blossoms still;

yellow birds sit branches.

Heaven holds its breath.

Someday, we sing again

of peace,

as shadows sing. 

As wind.

This poem is written on the 69th anniversary of the bombing of Hiroshima. God help us.

Prompt, Me

PROMPT, ME

Write about the stars, you said,

The Tour de France, how music looks

If you can see the sound.

I draw short rays, points of dust,

A spiral then a snail

Atop a bug. And clouds.

I've settled now,

Into this sack of bones. Where I want

Is where I go.

I can no more prompt me

Than I can stop the sparks 

In the eye of this winged pig caught in a net 

Of my making.

Prayer of the Soil

VanGogh

Let me not be rocky ground,
parched and cracked, burned by sun
green then yellowed, bitter, brown,
all good intent, but fallow, shallow.

Let me not be choking weeds,
grasping, climbing, blocking sun
roots that run, smother seeds,
thick and high, but sticking, pricking.

Let me, God, be fertile soil,
tilled and plowed, enriched by sun,
abloom with wheat, embody royal
Word made flesh to flourish, nourish.

Mourners Come and Go

 

Mourners
come and go,
come and go.

The ones I know
sit alone in
separate rows.

We're all of us
alone as we come
and as we go

to and fro,
to and fro,
alone, alone,

all, all alone
as we come,
as we go.

Morning, Royal

         Photo credit unknown Internet source. (Please let me know if it is yours.)

Morning, royal

the finest time of day.   

Sitting at my work,

I watch and wait

for the world to show her

magic: trees not trees

and then, they are.

Looking from my book,

already I see leaves

now greenish,

in the time to form these words, 

now golden glow.

Alchemy: darkness into leaden grey to gold.

Above the hills, azure sky.

Time for me, too, to turn,

my finer self dissolved by morning light, 

into baser things:

earth and air to

breath and blood.

Transmuted in the dark,

I turn, return, to clay 

in brighter light of day.

What Lingers

WHAT LINGERS

What lingers

When all is said --

Not words or even breath --

When all is done --

Tools in the shed,

Crusted Gloves 

Drying on the shelf --

Creation, dying cell by cell.

Even pruning

Asks too much,

When all is said.

When all is done --

This shell.

Mother's Day

Painting, Mary Cassatt

"Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you."  -- Kahlil Gibran

This poem is for my children and grandchildren, nieces and nephews, those who have flown, are testing their wings, and those still in the nest. I love you all. 

MOTHER'S DAY

Your breath on my cheek

My neck, cold when you leave

My arms, suddenly light,

Raised in thanks and praise.

I learn from the birds.

Relentless in their task,

They feed their young until at last --

I shade my eyes 

Against the endless sky

And watch you fly.