presssendpoetry

Clean for Tomorrow

Women before me look out past their sinks.

My mother with a lawn

of full trees and cardinals.

My grandmother in an alcove

of cheery wood cabinets.

I see blue Norman Creek as day slowly melts.

Familiar porcelain aches fill my sink.

Cookware, utensils, all

spent pots and pans.

Burnt-on leftovers,

Stuck crumbs hanging on,

Hands pruned in water; spine bent to task.

Watch plucky bubbles soon find rivulets

of air. Feel tension ease

as you look up and shift.

How doused we are with

indelible fortune. Tonight, I

chose scrubbing. To be clean for tomorrow.

[Written in April 2020]

Garlic Bulb Miracle

Written back in 2020 while I was on pandemic furlough … seems like a perfect post for today!

Dark kitchen corner,

a forgotten

bulb bursts

open. Single green

arm reaches out

and instantly air

like a rush of

electricity zips

down verdant

limb, a first breath

of vast unknown.

Rustle imperceptible

of former self, there is

no going back, only

brave burgeoning start.

Here, Time, Gather

Here, time to gather myself

To gather hands

To gather together my hands as if in prayer

As if to hold myself in a way that is kind,

As if to create energy that is bigger than myself

But is still myself

My Self holding hands together, to gather

In a moment, all of what is and what can be.

Silver Linings

Pandemic furlough –

My Walden pond.

A chance to sit quiet

On a snowy couch

With Sandburg and

Whitman, and my great-

Grandmother who,

With silver thread,

Ties the past to my

Future roads. How

She loved Frost asking:

Which one will you

Take?

all i know is nothing

all i know is
i know nothing,

air invisible now
feels viscous.

inhale and accept, i
exhale to let go.

grief is outrage is
paralysis is promise

is a messy reaction,
nodding and grimace.

don’t look to me,
peer closer and within.

i may know nothing
but i can learn.

when air becomes
voice then we may

see intangible
become action,

the many breathing
new life like light.

Dreaming of Tuesday’s Parties

Dreaming of Tuesday’s

parties, glorious rippling

colors, all manner of

food and gaiety, strangers with

strange stories, big ridiculous hats,

cacophony of singing,

and drunkenness, lots of it

spinning, hours disappearing

under the weight of the night

and slow dancing whispers,

all versions of us

unwilling to believe in a

dawning Wednesday.

Wake Up Little One

Wake up! Wake Up! There is so much
To do! Watch the trees, flush with green,
How they open their sun catchers
And breathe just like us. There are ripples to create and
Secret worms to unearth.

Come, test this messy black dirt
With your bare feet and count the many
Grains of light on your tongue.

Wake up now, small one, and find your life in the dawn.

Over lunch, a mantis settled for my Stella de Oro day lilies in the
blazing west sun on my roof deck in Baltimore. A capricious whim,
or calculated move – its motivation irrelevant. To the immediate south,
basil sage perfume, and wild-eyed purple petunia. Air conditioners
hummed mildly for the mantis on a deepening yellow bloom and
just as motionless as a cat perched two roofs away. I watched, captivated.
I willed the insect to move. Electricity rushed the wires. A car door closed.
Wind rustled pollen loose as a police helicopter
charged us to the east. Not one spindly leg twitched. I looked up.

– a liminal space, a sudden tumblingwhirring cacophony of
skin
and privilege
and good blocks
and protection, and
murder and
bad blocks and
fear and
and grief and so much grief –

Then looked down. Mantis had moved while the rotor blades roared.
It perched upside down mindful, head bowed,
tiny insect arms set in prayer. Steady as the sirens followed
like clockwork. Steady as we thought of our neighbors, knowing not a single one.

Written 7/11/16

I’m with the majority

Today I think
1 of 2 people love poetry,
one half is convinced 5 of
12 words deliver peace, and
the rest are worthy of
derision, humiliation, and worse.
90% want freedom
from rhyme, 6% love
structure, the others
undecided. I heard 2.75% of grown-
ups are afraid of the dark, which
seems low, and 83%
of kids still believe in
multiplication, which seems high.

I’ve made
my camp with the majority,
who is always right. 1 of 2 of us
is happy about it.

Written 7/11/16

Week 2 of Furlough Begins

Time and its relativity are clear now.

The animals and I keep a same schedule, and like them,

I believe I still matter. Hours are meaningful

Although they carry no cash.

Instead of colleagues, I converse with a cold front.

Clouds dash by at a pace I

Don’t know. Underneath, fears lap like

a flooding creek. I let them go;

tossing pieces of grass with gravity.

Time is stretched by gratitude.

I no longer rush. Let’s throw a ball

for the dog. I choose my adventures and

look up when I like.

There is space to expand and contract. To be.

We are now our own universe.

Tomorrow, a concept, just out of reach.

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