small poems: early 2014

lining up all my pens

new year

I am ready for you

January irises

filling the space

between us

moving the photograph 

an inch to the left —

the still life becomes

an altar

cracked

the teapot you gave me 

for my birthday

back when we were still 

best friends

gray day —

I could always pin 

a pink plastic peony

to the collar 

of my black winter coat

something as simple

as moving the garbage cans —

this crow can't take his eyes off me

winter daydream —

in six month we'll go on a picnic — 

who will we be then?

a twist of tissue

grandmother's bookmark

nestled between War and Peace

gone

the warmth of your hands —

last winter's mittens

come closer

speak to me of Paris

while the streets of this city fill with snow

dusty and untuned —

your piano —

such a melancholy day

second-hand quilt

no memories

no comfort

my fake smile 

smoothing itself out —

at last the train leaves the station

in her kitchen window

a vase of silk daffodils —

my good neighbor

all day

on the other side of the window

crow — 

yes, you

wherever I go

it follows me —

this wretched cough

the difference between yesterday and today

is the difference between February and March —

later I'll go in search of flower buds

neighbor crow

your impatience teaches me

patience

Saturday night

party time —

slow dancing to Mozart adagios

delicate Japanese cup

you lived with me for 28 years

shattered in a careless moment

   I tuck the shards

   among the Clementine peels

   and tie up the trash bag

hello butterfly!

this busy intersection

crow keeps careful watch

once there was a frog

who fell in love with the moon —

I am that frog

gone — a small blue stone

from my new earring —

no point in crying —

wabi sabi

wabi sabi: acceptance of transience and imperfection

library book

lost and found —

someone else's long gray hair

calm and content —

all the houseplants —

waiting for the storm

one after another

3 candles burn out —

heavy snowfall

shaking off snow

neighbor crow 

re-claims his dignity

how far did I walk this morning

back and forth

with my yellow shovel

heart racing

getting nowhere

early morning walk —

a different route each day

just to confuse the crows

"not far

as the crow flies" —

but we are not crows

the horizon

still out of reach

rocks

in the stream bed —

their winter was also long

the distance between us

I'll draw the map

you color it in

crossing the bridge —

where are the koi?

long gone…

where are you, my friend?

long gone

5 women in a boat

circling the shore —

only one is a ghost

neighbor crow

with his drum and kazoo

flying off to welcome spring

this morning

not a single person

returned my Hello —

but oh

the crows the crows the crows

Burlington, Vermont — June, 2013

out of the rain and into a tea shop

we lunge for the last available table 

drop our wet things onto an empty chair 

shake ourselves off

the menu is brought by a young man with an old face

he brings a small brass bell, too

we are instructed to ring the bell 

after we've considered all the tea choices

which are mind-numbingly numerous

we are still dripping rain all over ourselves

not in the best of moods

the day got off to a rocky start

we don't sleep well in hotels

I'm not wearing the right shoes

your eyes are burning from allergies

but here is the menu

a dense tome devoted to all things Tea

and also, the little bell

it is all so dear and pretentious and exactly what it should be

you order something chilled and milky and sweet

I order lavender tea

we ask the waiter to leave the bell right there 

in the middle of the table

in case we just want to ring it again for no reason at all

we stay a long time

you order a second cup of chilled tea

I ask for something different 

something that doesn't taste like drinking a bubble bath

we watch as the candle 

(not really a candle —

more like a blob of wax in a small glass dish 

with a wick that seems like an afterthought)

burns out

after a while

you look out the window and say

it has stopped raining

later

looking back on everything

I think this was the best hour of our trip to Vermont

small poems: from the last few months of 2013

buried beneath all the hats

my favorite mittens

(I thought I lost them)

solstice morning

forcing my steps to slow down —

the sun so late to rise

my proud father

doesn't know how to drive —

posing his daughters

beside a neighbor's car

(I was looking at an old photo of my sister Laura and me, late 1950s, taken near our apartment building in the Bronx. I don't know whose car we were standing in front of but it certainly was not ours; Dad didn't learn how to drive until a few years later.)

hibiscus tea

a deeper red 

steeping into this winter day

oranges for you and me

today, tomorrow —

grandmother's bowl

can it be?

my great-grandmother —

a shadow moving behind

my neighbor's window

a week in West Virginia

weeds as high as my waist

and every night

green beans & ham for dinner —

we never saw each other again

that summer afternoon in Central Park

a thousand strangers chanting om —

the boy next to me

leans his head on my shoulder

and takes a nap

thank you 

for the amaryllis —

yes, it is still blooming —

and you already live

on another continent

a child

both dreamy and wise

polishing a single square

of kitchen linoleum

(Praise song #1031, for Marty Blue Waters. This childhood memory was shared with me the other night as we were drying dishes in our kitchen. Apparently Blue spent about an hour on that square and couldn't understand why her mother wasn't more pleased by her effort!)

6 a.m. or p.m. —

hard to know the difference

December

icy sidewalks

pine cones and one squashed worm —

I step carefully

birds call to one another

admiring my

purple scarf — I'm sure!

under the weight

of 8 rotting pumpkins

my neighbor's sagging porch

my neighbor's front step

plastic pumpkin 

head over heels

Halloween morning

my own shadow

creeps up on me

a shallow hole in Kansas dirt

rainwater reflects 

the moon on my face

walking along

counting my steps

counting my breaths —

a Blue Jay crosses my path

as if to say

lighten up —

a few blocks over

here he is again

checking in —

I bow to the Jay

as he flies away

(encounters with the Buddha early on a Saturday morning)

grey upon grey —

this wet September morning —

until my neighbor turns the corner

under her emerald green umbrella

after the rain

my neighbor's neat rock garden

wilder

rain on a tin roof

watermusic —

nothing to do but listen

morning walk

on the same vine

emerging rose, fading rose

heartflowers

blooming

between each breath

open windows —

my neighbors' well-stocked bookshelves

curious cats

all along the beach

tiny shells

sharing big secrets

listening in —

ocean to moon

and back again —

good night

good night

A Dozen Zebras

NOTE: I recently found this piece in my computer files. I remember that it was written in response to a painting that showed zebras running past a group of seated Zen monks, but I'm not sure when I wrote it (at least ten years ago, I'm guessing) or why I chose to enter into this particular fictional persona of a woman considerably older than I am.

There is a place I know, somewhere on the vast expanse of sandy beach we call our coastline, where I once sat cross-legged at dawn as a dozen zebras galloped past. 

Or perhaps not. It might have been a dream. Difficult to say. These days, with my mind creasing in upon itself, how do I know what is real and what only appears to be so?

There is an ocean nearby, of that I am almost certain, I can hear waves caressing the shore like an insatiable lover. It used to make me restless, the endlessness of it, and when I was particularly cranky — and I will admit to that now, why not?, although there was a time I would not acknowledge the slightest deviation from perfection — I dismissed the ocean as so much static, a radio left on after-hours when the station had already signed off. 

Yes, I was arrogant. I admit to that as well, and any other accusation you choose to hurl at me, I was that, too, I’m sure.

Thank you. I did need to be reminded. I am not on trial.

Shall I call it a habit? Self-defining, self-excusing. Self-annihilating.

The mind, this treasured, precious mind, relentless as the ocean’s waves. For how many years now? 

It’s a relief, in its own peculiar way, to hear the hinges creak — slowing down, a trap with no teeth. The mind loose in its moorings, nobody standing guard. Perhaps no one is there to care anymore?

I cared about everything, once. Every silver spoon and cut flower. Every single one of the body’s movements — an approving nod, a dismissive shrug. 

Now I care about my bones. Will they be there, all in place, whole, when I wake up? It makes sleeping difficult, worrying about one’s bones, not wanting to turn too quickly, not wanting to wake to the sound of anything snapping.

When I was a little girl I didn’t ever want to go to sleep. I begged my mother: one more star to wish on, one more wave to count, one more goodnight kiss, only one more. 

She was kind, my mother, she indulged me. Too much, they said, but what do they know? She’d lie down beside me, so many nights, stroking the inside of my wrist, soothing me to sleep as the candle on the windowsill flicked shadows on the wall.

They say we return to childhood in the end. It used to amuse me, all of the things “they say.” The hind-legged pronouncements of men with their proud theories, so pleased with their own brains, so taken with their hollow utterings.

Their bones are nothing but crushed meal now. 

And here I am, lying still in my childhood bed, on the same carefully mended linens, the candle no longer flickering because They Say it is not safe for me to burn a candle. Safe? Can I be saved?

My mother is here with me, in this bed, in my head, and the ocean is also with me, and somehow — I think this might really be true — I hear the approach of a dozen galloping zebras. 

Does that make you want to laugh? Go ahead and laugh, it’s a beautiful sound, your laughter, and then I will know that I can laugh, too. And I will be fairly certain I am still alive.

small poems, Thursday morning, December 5, 2013

This morning in the Writing Circle our inspiration came from a calendar that showcases some of the art and artifacts from the vast collection at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. These small poems popped up in response to 10 images.

my old friend

looks more and more

like her old dog

inspiration: Egyptian Papyrus, c.1050 B.C.

after dinner

my mother twists chopsticks

into her long grey hair

inspiration: "The Oiran Yoso-oi Seated at Her Toilet," by Kitagawa Utamaro

filthy creekside

how delicately he steps —

the heron we call Rupert

inspiration: "Black Stork in a Landscape," 1780, Indian watercolor

four of us at the lake —

nude, aging

blessedly nearsighted

inspiration: "Bathers," by Paul Cezanne

when we sketched each other

I was less talented

but kinder

inspiration: "Young Woman Drawing," by Marie-Denise Villers

crow on the roof

his caw interrupted —

Friday drumming circle

inspiration: a Chinese watercolor of a musician playing a drum, late 18th century

young frog

on a lily pad —

until a hard rain knocks him off

inspiration: "Water Lilies," by Claude Monet

delicious

this orange

you just peeled for me

inspiration: "Lizzie at the Table," by Fairfield Porter

shoved behind the dullest knives

a doily 

you no longer treasure

inspiration: "Victorian Interior II," by Horace Pippin

your diary

left in the dorm bathroom so long ago

I'm sorry —

I read it

inspiration: "Portrait of a Woman," by Egon Schiele

small poems, wednesday morning

this day          moving into          deeper gray

your gentle heart

a rose

leaning toward home

dream dancing: in my purple robe

the moon drips silver

on my upturned face

wandering the icy driveway —

lost gull

I would help you if I could

my darling

if only you weren't

allergic to flowers!

years ago

we lit a dozen candles —

now one flame is enough

when you are not here

I know you are everywhere —

but still . . . .

stretching my ears

your footsteps descend

the stairs

the drummers have all gone home —

welcome back

birdsong

this melancholy morning

Rumi and Sappho

whisper to me