I Drift Alone

I drift alone upon a cold grey sea

Without a star to pierce the hanging dark

Or cleave the clouds that gather over me

Or show a mirrored path to guide my bark.

Smooth silks and riches rare are in my hold;

Fine pearls and perfumes fill the chests I bear,

But treasures fall to ashes without hope

Of passage through this wash of cold despair.

Full weight of fortune drags my vessel low,

Slows transit of my ship among the waves,

Means nothing to the creatures far below

Who wait their time to mark my watery grave.

Oh Zephyr, sail me safe through this dark night

And set me on the path to summer light.

The Dark

Two children,
who should have

been in bed already,
strain to know
what darkness
lies beyond
the open door.

Still whole,
they push
toward the sight,
while their mother's
stalwart body
shields them
for a moment
from the night.

In My School

In my school

the boys slick

back their hair

with grease that

streaks down necks

on sweaty August days,

flash f-e-a-r

on every knuckle,

dots from pins

and blue-black ink;

Teacher sprays

the room with

blue Evening in Paris

against the heat

and stink of boys.

In my school

the girls go in twos,

hold hands, skip

down the path,

except on winter days,

when we never

feel the need

to go at all.

Those days,

we peel off

crusty mittens,

extra socks, wet scarves

that hiss and steam

on radiators blasting heat.

Janie’s tights are red

and mine are black,

and we learn

the words that we

must never say,

the vocabulary

of crime and punishment

together.

In my school

we read in groups,

learn county seats,

sing patriotic songs,

chew pencils that

record our dreams

in speckled books

with sewn down pages,

tearfully recite

our tables, hoping for

another chance when

we forget our nines.

In my school

we line for sugar cubes,

pink saviors

Mr. Sabin sent too late

for poor Christine.

In spring,

the rest of us

skate red dog lines

on green tile floors,

wash dusty boards,

bang chalk clouds in the air,

chase tiny frogs

that jump from

scummy science jars.

At lunch, we munch

thick meat sandwiches,

crunchy pickles,

sticky cakes,

drink milk with

bendy straws;

at the end

of every month

we feast on

thick commodity bread,

big chunks of creamy cheese,

and soupy beans.

In my school

we are six grades

three rooms

three teachers --

self-contained,

and we never know,

we never know as kids

we’re not the world;

we never know that

there is any other way.

Thanks to bluesugarpoet for inspiring this poem with her "Your School vs. My School."

Quicksand

In a heartbeat

on a moment

in a flash

on a dime

in a jiffy

in an instant

in the twinkling of an eye

like nobody's business

a bat out of hell, a bull at the gate

at the drop of a hat

like quicksand

everything

changes

now

.

Loss

In the white
cotton quiet
amid the ragged
rise
and fall,
rise and fall,
your fingers write
memories
on counterpanes
in disappearing
ink.

The Walls Have Been Breached

So, I guess nothing is really private anymore. I've been discovered by at least one family member and probably by more. Here's what happened --

I created this blog and felt so deliciously sneaky that I set my status on facebook as "Karen is keeping secrets." As I knew it would, that statement teased them and generated a good deal of nosiness and speculation among my grown children and children-in-law with whom I am facebook "friends."

Because I really didn't want them to investigate, I assured them that the secret had nothing to do with them or with family. I told them this for a very good reason. I knew that, since they don't know me as a writer, they would have a hard time separating "Mom" from Karen-who-writes.

This is exactly what has happened. My son googled my name and the word secrets, or some such procedure, and found the blog. He said nothing about it until today, when I told him I had something I wanted him to read. Then he fessed up. His next statement, referring to "Beneath the Veil of Winter Born," was, "...a little hard on Granddad, weren't you?"

Just as I suspected, my family will believe that anything I write is autobiographical.

Of course, I believe that all writing is autobiographical in many ways. It shows the deepest heart of the writer, revealing parts that are not apparent to the rest of the world. Writing reveals, and poetry may distill the essence of the person most of all. Yet, as much as it reveals, it also allows one to become someone else, and therein is the rub for those who know the writer. Which person is authoring the piece? Is it the one who is opening her heart for all to see, exposing her truest self, or is it the one who is creating a new reality that has little to do with the author herself but provides a wonderous landscape in which she may wander? Maybe the answer is both.

I have no doubt that all three of my children -- bright, educated young adults -- can understand that my father did not scorn me as the father in this particular poem does his child. I just hope that when they read my work, as I am sure they will, they can set aside "Mom" and just enjoy the writing. If not, then I hope they have enough discretion not to tell me.

Headline News

Your children said

you might have been confused,

maybe you were walking in your sleep,

were blinded by the snow,

you’d lost your way.

The neighbors said

you had been acting strange,

maybe you were walking off your fears,

since John’s been gone

you hadn’t been the same,

they think perhaps that

you had lost your way.

The expert said

he couldn’t speculate

why you’d be outside walking in a storm,

but he’d confirm the cause:

a frozen heart,

direct result

of having lost your way.

Writing and Rewriting

The thing I've learned about writing poetry is that the poem is never finished. I began this long narrative on December 21, and I know I'll continue revising. I thought I'd post it, though, to get feedback on this form. This is something totally new to me. Here goes:

Beneath the Veil of Winter Born

Her father strayed from home again that night,

So neighbors took her mother to give birth

And waited for the errant man to come

And watched the snow that piled upon the earth.

That winter night was shortest of them all,

When caul-born child was laid upon the breast

Of woman filled with sorrow and with woe

For husband gone and child aborn unblessed.

The doctor said there’s nothing for concern,

That babies born with covered heads are fine.

He skinned the child of soft, encircling womb

And cut the cord and tied it off with twine.

A child so born had once been thought a boon

To ships that sailed to lands upon the waves,

And sailors paid a fortune for the skin

That kept them from the depths of watery graves.

But when her father learned that she had borne

A veil that hid a face with dark black eyes,

As black as dirt of coal upon his hands,

He hawked onto the snow and made a sign.

“Protect me from the evil eye,” he said,

“Of babies who can steal your dreams at night

And take the sleep from out your lonesome bed

And fill your waking days with fear and fright.”

“Doc should have let her stay there in her bag

To drink that water where she learnt to swim.

He should have left her to the will o’ God

And left us to enjoy the peace o’ Him.”

Yet as a child is wont to do, she grew,

A strange and somber fairy child, they said,

And every night before she went to sleep,

She turned her mind upon their loathsome bed.

The child brought forth beneath the wintry sky,

The shortest day and evening of the year,

Born safe within a lonely veiled cocoon,

Sent mother all her joy, to father -- fear.

With passing of the years the girl grew fond

Of rambling in the hills to learn the ways

Of women who could cut a willow twig

Or blow out fire or take a wart away.

But as she hunted ginseng root for tea

To make a heart beat strong or heal a wound,

She always thought of him whose thought that day

Was that she was the twig who should be pruned.

Her stature grew in magic and in art;

She bent their use according to her will.

To those in need she gave what help she could,

But unto him who bred her -- only ill.

One day as she was digging by the stream

That ran behind the tipple for the coal,

She felt the hair arise upon her neck

And knew that nearby lurked an evil soul.

She heard his jaunty song before she saw

The man of heart much blacker than the seam;

She hid herself from him among the reeds

And willed him to the depths to meet his dream.

He felt the pull of water and of thirst

And need to wash the coal dirt from his hands,

So down he stooped there on the river’s edge

And looked through swirling water to the sands.

Beneath the water’s twist he seemed to see

A babe within a bubble all encased

That moved beyond the reach of his long arms

But strained toward him for watery embrace.

He stretched his arms to grasp the thing he saw,

Said, “Eyes play tricks on me, I know, this day;

Or clouds have come to shadow out the sun

And hide the things of sense from sight away.”

The sand beneath his feet beside the stream

Began to fall then shift and then to run,

And up from out the reeds his daughter rose,

The one whose face was hidden from the sun.

He saw that face reflected in the pool;

Her eyes there darker than the darkest coal

That stained his mind and filled his evil heart,

The waterchild that sucked at his black soul.

He turned and clawed with hands for purchase there

But pulled away the film of soft, smooth skin,

A shimmer that had covered fine dark hair

And held the heart that he had scorned within.

He fell beneath the eddies of the waves

That washed the black of coal from off his face,

And in a bubbled caul he sailed away

Cradled by the fairy child’s embrace.

Miss Haygood's World

What did she know
when she hung that picture
about being a cripple
in 1964?

What did she know of that white Maine world?

Horsemill Holler
mother and retarded daughter
school to teach white children
town to love white men

What did she know about shades of brown and tan?

chicken salad lunches
ride to school on buses
swing the shining sickle
cut the ripened grain

What did she know
when she hung that picture
of the handicaps of longings
and the struggle to get home?