you didn’t know you could be lovesick
for a place, two years on
and no cobble-walking, tender for streets
even crosswalk signals; so when your mind sits light
on the task in hand, stitching waves
on ocean waves or maybe curled winter winds
you’re startled to see just that turn
of the Holzweg, the shop with wine-glass
windows, outdoor stacks of rugs
was it the sudden sun-glint on your cheek?
all your pieces wrapped in a rush
still swathed in paper, waiting
What do you say to the earnest smiles
the hearty aren’t-you-glad-to-be-backs?
It was no exile from the first day you knew
you didn’t need to pretend to belong
You thought your skin must be stamped with it
a continent of rivers so swelling your breath
that you’d be forgiven the slow answer but
can’t they see you have no word for home?
Inspired by a new call for submissions at Silver Birch Press.
The forest path leads slantwise to the mill
through ancient pines thin-clinging to the hill,
and once a village throve here by the stream
that turned the wheel; thus for a time life teemed
with shouts and laughter, work and loves—now still.
Those lives long gone, what purpose did they fill?
Their words are lost, just tracings of their skills
remain. So life will pass for me, a dream
of forest path slow-winding past the mill
where water, just like time, unhindered spills.
Yet past its spilling, hear a distant trill
of bird, or dog-bark. See the sun’s late gleam
as beauty; worry less on how things seem
or what they mean. Another breath: distill
this forest path far-winding past the mill.
A rondeau for Yeah Write’s May poetry slam.
April, I remember nearly time
for roadside stands, Spargel
Erdbeeren, the apple orchard leafing
bees stirred, wildflower dreaming
beneath the Taunus, bicycle flood
forest brookside trail unfrozen
muddy with dog bark and bird call
cars parked anyhow
along the garden-plot fence
and the Kirche hill windy, chill
blue sky above, red-roofed lanes below—
forsythia, crabapple budding
just like here, daffodils golden
singing, but how different
to feel a thousand years, more
with my fingers and at my feet
and how could that not make me
your devoted and ever-longing
For NaPoWriMo Day 3, a fan-letter poem to the town where we lived while in Germany.
black and white:
I made it
you wear it
sometimes
*
I don’t know how to feel only
the hands keep working
regardless
you hate the cold
we text about weather
the sun slowly moves now
across an ocean
we keep the same hours
*
we stood on that castle hill
sheep scattered below
dog racing slant impossible
angles everything else
insignificantly small
*
from the earth this chain
of lands, hands, shearers
spinners, makers
green grazing
storm sky
growling
wear that distant sun-root
with your attitude
*
love is not in the saying
and not in the doing
then where? the heart only
a physical thing
blood beating regardless
*
it’s called infinity
but of course
there is beginning and end
seamed together
with trust it won’t unravel
To find the poet’s place, exit
concrete boulevard, travel mind-
star miles to a green hill overhanging
ocean (or a lake or merely more fields
of sheep and yesterday’s sum of time—
summer mist-cold and sheltered
by silence, silvered neighbors just there
if you need them, trees turned
by storm-wind, insect hum high
brook-chatter, the night-limned runner
far ahead, speeding path
to stone-walled moss-field
guarding or mourning
or both)
hide hollow below castle walls
note-soaring above modern city:
this mix of yes and no
push and pull and aching
almost-presence
the shadow of tomorrow
spilled in water
on upturned palms, pleading
Take down these dreams
like maps well creased, faded
small towns at the fold-lines
all but smudged away. Trace
routes with your fingers—
tender as a lover, regardless
as an army—to those deep rivers
of your blood it matters not
what eyes and feet once knew.
church bells far-ringing
rain soft music on warm earth
rejoicing in green
Marked by
light, shades, colors
death: fiery lightning flowed
and glowed, gift of vision leaping
cloistered
The NaPoWriMo prompt for Day 21 was an erasure poem. I “erased” around these words from a booklet called Benedictine Abbey of St. Hildegard, which I picked up last weekend while hiking the “Rüdesheimer Hildegardweg.”
Café umbrellas blooming (sunny days);
the gabled houses leaning eave to eave;
these lofty steeples watching maze-like ways
and cobbled fountain squares—how can I leave?
The castles standing lonely, hillsides strewn
with sheep; the mountains’ shawls of mist and snow;
the rustic doorways framing stars and moon
and shadowed cypress, olive groves below;
medieval city walls and Roman baths
in crumbled ruins; art and music born
and raised sublime; the bird- and brook-sung paths
through ancient forests—oh! for these I’ll mourn,
for now it’s time to turn and time to pack.
(I’ll nurture dreams for joyful journey back.)
Graceful Press Poetry 