Give it life again. Be bold
in empty rooms the echoes are stilling
of what we made, what we talked over,
plans, the building of it: paint, floors,
curtains, yard. Wildflowers, vegetable rows,
perennials now overgrown with vines.
Get to know each creak and pop,
the cold corners and where a breeze will be
most welcome. Which window bursts pink
with bloom, which frames unfailing tulips;
how squirrels run the line
from garage to house with stolen tomatoes
or the neighbor’s peaches. The deck swept
clean and awaiting fall of maple leaves,
the golden slanting light; here a cat
might like to bask or seek shade.
Where snow will drift and pile,
how ice can encase every slight branch
of the crabapple, every perfect red fruit
Tag: houses
All blackbirds in silhouette
It’s air-tight, this insulation
house silent except
the wicker crackle
of my chair-seat, periodic
ping of the furnace. Outside
before the sun, before even
the start of a down-street engine
swinging headlights, distant dog-bark
if I open the door (if)
a wealth of opening
joyflood birdsong, after-rain
dirt-scent, green
purelife welling a balm
worth its wait
Thank you, Jane, for the blackbird gold.
Suburban Tech
Dear Sirs, you’ve lost control
of your traffic. These platoons
of driverless cars, routed
from the highway
and through my yard?
There are ghosts enough
in the concrete rows
of former cornfields—
the sky too blue
the clouds too white
Inspired by PAD Chapbook Challenge Day 10, technology/anti-technology and by this article about the future of transportation.
Girl and Bat: A Poem for Two Voices*
Half-dreaming
against full moon
Dusky-nightmare
mission
Shadow soaring
over skylight
Mistaken
exploration!
Wing-swept wind
above my nose
Heart frantic-beating
It’s from this
skimming smallish jerky largish
creature
Get it Let me
out!
I can’t see! I’m afraid!
She’s more afraid of me?
*Performance note: I have adapted the format used by Paul Fleischman in his wonderful Joyful Noise. The poem can be read aloud by two readers at once, one taking the left-hand part, the other taking the right-hand part. The poem is read from top to bottom; lines at the same horizontal level are spoken simultaneously, and lines in the center column are spoken in unison.
Housework
things are gathering dust:
a mountain of must to sort,
slates to clean, a mean pile
of work to make this smooth
clock tick
but we have time, a garden art,
in these few hearts planting seeds
where the world’s wind will
snap no branch, let spirits
grow sky-straight
it’s not too late:
a touch of forbearance
at the end of the world
goes down cozy as coffee
and heartening as wine,
true-vine compassion
that forgives this mess
Literary in the Forest
Miss Havisham, dear Ophelia, let us flee
this dark house, the cruelty of misplaced
desire, the paneling of which is suitable
only for our coffins. Let us find another wood,
a brighter home of our own choosing, lush
with fern, moss-hushed, honeysuckle glinting,
scenting the sunlight and the hill-born(e)
breeze. Let us step from the shade into glade
of pink foxglove, listen for rocks’ water-song
and silence of trees.
There is no revenge in pity,
no sympathy in surrender, so cast off your wrecked
dresses, your sodden tresses; care not about full-
filling hours. We will study butterfly wings, speech
of birds. We will deck ourselves with wild roses—
or toss them at the b(r)ook.
Houses (A Love Poem)
The one where you built, brick by brick
the half-walled flower bed, where we never
got around to the deck, where scorpions came
in the showers, where we set up the first crib.
The one-bedroom up a flight of dark stairs
where I wrote stories and school papers,
where we ate Hamburger Helper and the kitchen
rack slipped our wine-glasses to the floor.
The one with 1940s flooring and south view
of winter sun, where the laundry chute
opened on the basement where I worked
while my father died. The crib again, there.
The one with the teeny yard we cut with shears,
marigolds on concrete and opossums on the fence.
The one on the cul-de-sac with kids, a military circle
of playground, hospital, sleepless nights and 9/11.
The one I loved and you hated, money pit with
garden surround. Another crib, endless contractors.
Where you built, board by board, the deck,
where for 10 years we slept to rain on skylights.
This one, concrete-modern, echoing white and screenless,
where I have my very own workroom overlooking
neighbors’ lush gardens, where rain and stars are muffled
by a host of concrete houses, strangers shut within.
It is easy to forget, day by day, the places outside
of photos, the 22 years of furniture, curtains, carpet.
Where we fell into bed, fell into and away from each other,
began a new day again and again and again.
Last night, I glimpsed the full moon shining
through the balcony’s metal blinds.
You were sleeping but I wanted to tell you,
I would go with you anywhere, and still be home.
Graceful Press Poetry 