Presently

Let’s say I am writing you a better story. Happily
ever after? Wait. Here you are, still tangled
in the thicket. Struggle, scraping by, grief
from earth to sky, as far as you can see.
You wanted a fairy tale? Wait. You are the hero
down, broken, sword at your throat. But. Any moment
the coin will spin. Let’s say we take you forward,
through the tunnel and out, over the walls…

Old Friends

if our lives became a line
graph: how we grow closer
intersect, grow farther again

or those overlapping circles:
same, not same in definition
dreams, religion, kids—

so we smooth, repair, strengthen
this thread, spin it out stretching
holding over miles and years

on creating

everything fades in time, you know
how all was black before your birth
and after—you have nothing else to go on
clinging to every look and gesture
winding yourself into being

*

not every spark ends in a sun
transcendent, though
your hand is on the work
indelible

National Poetry Month is ended, but I still have pages in my Yes-Words journal…

(the daughter visits)

and I’m thinking of our slow spring days
fascination with eaglet, cygnet
all unfinished things in leaf or on wing

the pleasure in daily checking
pea plant, lettuce bed, sunflower sprout
until that startling morning

we see all is grown beautiful, glossy, wild
shining, confident beyond need
or desire of our shaping

 

Scarf Daughter (2)

I finally felt regretful
and came to my what-ifs

only because November
drains all other light

from the world you inhabit
to where I sit—time, filters, filaments

and again I tried
to imagine how you fill your days

because someone will ask, expecting
an answer of fine, fall-ripe ache

All these geese

basking roadside, pondside, sun-
side, ignoring thunderous trucks,
whizzing cars, even the thump
and whine of the garbage collector—
but humans are something else
altogether, and all together, uneasy
at my approach, they turn their heads,
long necks, move in smooth unison
closer to the water. A few startle,
take wing at a runner’s passing
breeze, plunge into the pond,
three white furrows and four more
behind, wings wide then down,
tail feathers shaken into place—
and what a goose I am, trail-walking
roadside, pondside, sun-side,
to startle as the first man runs up
and past, and again to turn my head,
uneasy, when the second, walking,
overtakes me.

Building the Dollhouse, Part 2

cream paint today—Buntlack
in the German which reminds me
there’s no hurry, not for me
(rain sounds like peace and wind
can’t rush it away)

if you’re a little older than when
we first dreamed up this project
that only means your skill
and taste have improved
but then I wonder

(the geese fly over
again the rain sighs
and stops)
if some twelve years of after-
adjustments have made you

want to leave these details
to me and should I be glad
you don’t mind?
we can’t be free of second-guessing
in any season

Building the Dollhouse

Firstly, and to my surprise
it gets me out of bed, mornings.
Planning the work—all this trim
cutting, paint, glue. What to do
while waiting for things to dry.

I wish I’d known sooner
not to keep these projects
out of sight, out of mind (spiders
gliding between rough-ridged
roof and basement window).

No, put it smack in the library
incongruously turquoise and yellow
in the mellow, bookish front room.
Cover the writing table with stuff
like paintbrushes, sandpaper, tape.

We said we would. We will.
From piles of unlabeled wood
like any noble endeavor, bit by bit
imperfect. You need to cheer
each day’s slight progress now

that we’ve stopped pretending
you care about construction.
Waiting for the decorating
you are here for color consults
to tell me when I have blue in my hair.

Delicates

I tried to take my mind off this hook of always smooth-correct, put together
dedicated caring upright faithful true, unselfish and nice but honest
that shape of trying warps the way a hanger stretches your sweater’s shoulder
so no amount of wash-cold-lay-flat-to-dry will fix it and now I remember
folding away in deep lavender-tucked drawers would be a better bet

 

Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt challenges us to write loooong lines. Poetic Asides prompt is “take off.”

As the Old Gods Will

Sea whispers to me in my drowning dreams,
and you who balance life and death must know
the debt to pay for treasure stolen thus
from those whose hurts and needs you’d sworn to heal—
blood gold with which you build on burning sand
fool’s fort to keep my heart and gift well-hid.

And if I wished to be their sacrifice?
My people’s fear now spills in hissing waves;
they know the sea god means to take his price.
Just hear! His call to me is calm and deep:
a silent slip into a lover’s arms,
brief storm, then stillness, peace—my part fulfilled.

Thanks to Jane Dougherty for sharing her two-sentence story inspired by this painting, and for inviting me to add this imagining of what happened next.