Pull the water hose.
It stirs through the lavender:
I, too, am wakened.
Posts in: Poetry by me
Unfolding
I write to you from within a constrained world. Caring for my elderly, injured mother, thinking only of the next task, I make phone calls and listen for her stirring in the night. What do I have to do with the world of presidents and wars? I dimly recall the Strait of Hormuz as I fill my gas tank and worry about Medicare coverage. There was a spot on Stumphole Bridge Road where long ago (last week?
Rare earth
I continue to come across some old drafts as I clean out my Dropbox. Here is a poem that I can’t date exactly–maybe a couple of years ago? I listened to a podcast today about rare earth minerals. It didn’t help my mood. As the rage built inside me, I imagined writing a poetic diatribe. But I’m tired. And my tooth hurts. And I’m just so sad about everything. What good would it do,
I’m moving stuff out of Dropbox so I can stop paying for it. I found this in a drafts folder but I have no memory of it. So I post it here, contextless.
Time is a stalking beast,
Watching, waiting to bring you down.
But we are distracted,
Unconscious of the danger.
A nightly benediction
Growing up, I watched my dad check the door locks every night–and I picked up the habit from him. I’m probably worse than him, actually. I have my theories about why we each acquired this compulsion, which I won’t get into here. And though I don’t know where the clinically compulsive line is, I’m probably too close to it. Besides, it sucks as a nightly ritual. This morning it occurred to me that this whole thing needs a reframing.
The Joy of Being a Heat-Generating Body
Shard of the sun spalled into space, hidden in bodies in far-distant days. In jubilant work, we spend our new heat, continuing creation. The task is complete. The fire within cools to a cinder. Other warm bodies become the new tinder. The cycle renewed, the new morning dawns. Heat calls to heat: our body responds.
In memory of my dad
My father and I, we check the locks– that’s what the Abels do. Neurosis passed along the line just like his Craftsman tools. I see him there, on his rounds, nocturnal sealing rite. Here I am, securing doors against encroaching night. There was a time when I asked what does this signify? Now we double check the doors and do not worry why.
The proud tongue is tied in prayer.
The parched tongue is quenched in prayer.
The prayerful tongue is loosed—
occasionally, mysteriously—
in co-creation.
Enveloping mist.
Bare trees bloom from the chill gray,
Lonely shapes in black.
Columbine flowers,
red and yellow atop long,
thin stems: spring lanterns.
