MOON POEM #1
A Child's Moon
a waiting room of whispers
waits inside the moon
bridges of fireflies
arch across her chest
inside the moon
mountains hold news
of pets and kin
gone from sight
soot-winged bats direct traffic
to a star-shine path
there is one door
where clouds enter and rest
gods and goddesses pledge silvery secrets
tiaras and marshmallows are inside the moon
moon exhales cool
soothes polar bears and icebergs
magic carpet rides mobius the moon
carry steaming teapots to our ship of dreams.
ON THE PORCH
I wear my hands today
mostly in secret
as the crows caw
claws the railing
Sun, rays the porch
to the pulleyed line
you tied from post to oak
across the lawn
the clamping on
of damp sails
to drink clean breeze
Remember the mason jars
full of broken plates,
lined up in the funky green hutch?
My hands re-made them
hold willow basket hold kittens
do not withhold cream hold each other gaze hold pages touch lips hold the
sign hold my thigh hold the brush of color the lead the dead wren hold warm
bread cut the cold with coffee in bed do not hold a gun or a blade
to practice removal do not hold-in sadness or truth do not hold
or swallow hidden swords do not follow too close
do not ignore the soil do not scratch the scab to bleed again or bring
Jello molds to friends hold warnings extinguish taboo do not hold
loneliness or mourn the mirror hold each other hold a spade a place
at the meeting do not hold your breath or anyone else’s do not
withhold imagination do not smoke too much or drink to tremble
hold green bulrushes hold a river stone do not hold back your hip’s
sway do not buy fur hold your unwritten scripture pen to page write as
if holding a feather or gun shake the can rattle paints-blood mix hold
evidence of wide letters sprayed tall do not leave traces on your pants
do not break panes or doors hold yourself straight mountain pose hold the off
button on your screen hold butter to pasta do not hold diamonds
hold snowflakes wander in internal rhyme hold the child’s hand walk the land
walk the land hold a place.
IN HEALING THE WOUNDED
What made us,
this clan of wounded
ferried across from wholeness
Every precious foot turning
through interstellar matter?
What blankets our scars, in so much webbing
as to strengthen, cover, bring two sides together?
As we mouth words of open, of tender
of, I expected to walk without a stick.
Like clumsy beetles, pick our way
through green blades and joe-pye weed.
Remarkably, arrive in milkweed fields
as mariposas, suckle the pink umbels
rooted in earth, magenta stem a straw
a long throat of rescue.
the white canoe rests
on the sloped bank, trout kiss
circles on ponds face
the grapevine arbor
wears its morning glory wig
wild tendrils reaching
the first time she wore
her gold blouse her fingers moved
like a queen's ringed hand
last night the wolf-moon
loped across my forehead
left a silver trail
Coyote cuts dark
of night's middle
hollow hunger woke
calls her pack
bristle chin to stars
small O of mouth-howls
she makes everything
tooth and nose-scrape
rolls on her back
in time parallel to mine
unaware of true endings.
BIRTHDAY POEM KIRT
My brother of the buffalo plaid
wool coat, taped horn-rimmed glasses.
My quiet brother ducked the baseball.
My brother who followed orders
to gut the fresh caught brim & bass.
My brother the collector of crystal center geodes
tiger eye agates and afternoons walked the creek
split sandstone, eyed trilobites inside.
My brother the cub scout, boy scout, eagle
scout, explorer, scout leader.
My brother who watched over two sisters.
My brother earned Dad's approval, later.
My brother on his motorcycle.
My brother who showed up for me.
My brother the craftsman--
turns gnarled wood in a shop on the land
he cleared near the house
he built, the road he made and the pond where
he feeds plump goldfish.
~ to wash against
The lid will not close
inside my head wild
teas from leaves and roots wash me
far back to rust—patina’d
WAKE UP wake up wake UP
offerings for altars inside my head
synapses click a line of stitch
find a thread a line--------------------
of stitch make sweet memory tea
leave the shadow of the dark-knit father
unravelling at the kitchen table
the bottle is not empty of chemistry’s
old magic photos in the basement
under a lid
that cannot close chant rattle bones
near the keep for the dog’s leash
hooked to collar for a walk to the New River
where a stunned wren lays on the road
ink dot eye half closed
she is alive
hammocked in my skirt.