MOON POEM #1
A waiting room of whispers
is inside the moon
poets sip tea
clink china cups
while bridges of fireflies
arch across her chest
Moon mountains hold news
of friends and kin gone from sight
at dusk soot-winged bats direct traffic
to a star-shine path
hot toes walk cool stones
one door for clouds to enter and rest
Gods and goddesses
pledge silvery secrets
tiaras and marshmallows
are inside the moon
polar bears and icebergs soothed by her air
Magic carpet rides arrive at 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
outside the screen door?
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
All our precious feet 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.
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 the plump goldfish.
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.
HOW TO MAKE SPACE
Use a glance when looking—useful in seeing
without feeling accordion's
Hold and sort quickly into efficient piles. One,
for the start then all the ruler’s marks in-between, until
Sort, like silverware. Forks on right, most
often used for lifting or
Spoons large and small for ladling, savoring
Knives dull for spreading, sharp
Now quickly, pick a few most relevant
held too long a stab of pain may begin to match
the change in your face.
Stop for today, rubber-band
each stack of time—place
back in the box.
the white canoe rests
on the sloped bank while trout kiss
circles on ponds face
the grapevine arbor
wears its morning glory wig
wild tendrils reaching