Unnatural Consequences

As the congressman looked down
each morning,
He saw his belly
inching out over the tips
of his polished dress shoes.
No workout at the gym changed things

　
It had worked
when he first came to Washington.

Then the fat had been easy to put on,
luncheons, dinners,
drinks
with colleagues
and of course lobbyists.

The gym had helped then
And he had learned
to pace himself,
Taking more cash
than meals
and insisting on only the best when he ate and drank,
Quality, not quantity.

　
But now his belly was constantly growing
and firm,
Despite the workouts
Even eating less did nothing.
God knows
food wasn't appealing these days
Not even the delicacies

But even
When he felt the first fluttering kick
He didn't understand

His high priced doctor did though
After all
It was only a matter of time
The Congressman had sold himself
so often
to so many

Paternity would be complicated
Big oil,
Pharmaceuticals
Monsanto
Investment banking,
The gun lobby?
Which one among many
could it be?

They would probably know
When the baby arrived
By what it required
Money wasn't much of a clue.
Of course
They all screamed for that.

Drug use was common
among the pharmaceutical children
And the fossil fuel kids
all had terrible flatulence
And the Genetically modified kids
had identity issues
Neither fish nor fowl
and the gun kids are never, ever
satisfied with toys. 
Best to keep the guns locked up
until you know.

No there was no chance of ending the pregnancy
That ended
With last year's vote
But you never could see
why choice mattered.
Until now.

Blueberries

Blueberries


 
















The color,
Just that summer-luscious
Ripe, sky blue
Made me reach out,
expecting to pluck
sweet, round fruit.

But my hands
met cool, thin leaves,
And when their angle changed,
under the brush of my finger tips,
I interrupted that blue,
summer dream.

Red leaves,
Already touched by frost
Sharing memories
With the
Vivid, September sky.

Asking the Unanswerable

Tears burn to hear
Of a girl,  not yet a woman,
Keeping an infant still
so he will not be shot,
Because they were killing babies too.

To hear the words
of a poet*
who poured out his life
so beautifully
in verse,
so hideously in blood.

I tremble
at the random acts,
Innocents, terrified,
wounded,
slaughtered
By the hot, thoughtless
fire of jihad.

I ask the unanswerable questions.
What God wishes such offerings?
Prefers blood to poetry,
Dead children
to live ones, running, laughing?
Murderous piety
to frivolous, loving
abundance?

What God,
And in what horrific world
would that God
earn such passionate, violent,
grim,
obedience?
What world?
What God

*Kofi Awoonor

Mistaken Identity

About ten years ago, these incidents actually happened.  No one died, but it was a near thing.

Mistaken Identity

"No, I am not his mother!"
I said
As the woman pointed, insisting
that my son was on the beach
Just there

It was her third declaration
Followed by my third denial
although
No cock would crow.
on this late summer afternoon
Because I didn't deny truth
as Peter had

As my husband walked under the trees along the shore
I looked at his ageless face
and wondered what changes
had made my own seem so old.

This had happened before,
Just weeks before
A customer buying dinner,
But he was
more easily convinced
and embarrassed.
once he heard my terse denial

Today, under bright sun
I could not convince
this strong-willed
tactless woman
Never truly brought to believe
that I knew spouse from son

Anger and laughter
ran side by side
Until laughter won,
For the moment

But with only four years difference
even with black hair
no silver thread at all
And unlined face,

How could I look so alike,
to be his blood kin,
yet so much older
How did they see such resemblance,
yet such difference.
as if I had been
transformed, chameleon-like
to accommodate him
And given up my youth and self
to make the change

Wishful Thinking

Wishful thinking

My thoughts are full
of wishes this morning

Not all of them
Large, or unlikely


I wish
the September sun would warm
enough for my fingers to
play tunes at the farmers market
That the $85.
I think I may still be owed
would come in
before the
micro burst of dental bills

I wish fervently, with a little desperation even
That the young tenants will be able
and willing
to keep paying rent


I visit the
ever present wish
close to my heart,
for requited love
maybe today . . .

And upon hearing the morning news
Send out a fierce wish,
closer to a curse
For a dose of justice to the
Self satisfied powerful who
Could do with a year or two of poverty
For a revelation among
Industrialists
Perhaps as they stand in flooded homes
Or on some private, oil ravaged beach
that maybe the planet is more important than
profit

As I wish,
dreaming,
drinking coffee,
Thanks be, I circle back
To smaller wishes
For sun on a day
when it is promised
For good food
and music
Which I can make with
only the tiniest
divine intervention

Advice is Not Confirmation

There are times when the answer you get doesn't go with the question you asked.  

Advice is not Confirmation.

"An I on the right path?"
I ask two travelers,
who look
to have passed this way before.
Their boots sturdy and worn,
their packs, tidy
and spare on straight, lean backs.

They answer with suggestions
For my hike,
detailed and kindly meant
And I listen
and nod patiently

Yes,
That shelter sounds most excellent,
And I will be sure to carry water
on that section of trail,
I know it's been dry.
And I'll look for that splendid view point
you mentioned.

My patience thins
as they add more advice.

Of course
I do have flashlight,
sleeping bag and good socks,
And yes, the first aid kit as well,
for emergencies

But all I really asked
Was for reassurance.
That the splash of paint on that rock
does mark the trail,
That the star, glimpsed through passing clouds
is the true one,
Confirmation that I am not
altogether lost.

　

　

Changing Season

Changing Season

Apples litter the side yard
and the nearby street
scenting the neighborhood when
Pressed under the wheels of
passing cars.

Trees on the nearby hillside
lose their deep green,
fading at first,
then brightening to gold
under heavy bellied rain clouds

The nights lengthen,
And under clear stars touched with frost
I bring plants in from the porch
to clutter the hallway.

And in the late dawn,
the furnace makes its
first, rumbling entry,
Filling the house with the faint scent
of fuel, hot metal
and disturbed mold and must,

The cat chases mice
who know what is coming
and take risks
Seeking perilous shelter
from the oncoming cold.
migrating indoors,

Even as thin ragged Vees of geese
cry and fly
following the river.
east and south.
in their greater migration.

It always used to feel too early,
The dying of green,
The coming of cold.
The early stars
and late sunrises. 
And the great and small migrations.

I don't take the changes
as I used to though.

When the hills are bare,
but for the dark spruce
and lingering ragged bits of gold
and rust,
I find I love the resting,
fallow time,

I have license to slow down,
to dream,
sit still with the cat,
or a book or poem,

To walk slowly under dripping trees,
Taking the time to see
the colors
that once only looked brown,
To name the lavenders, reds, rusts, sage and deep greens,
and know
How much I have missed
in my
hasty
grumpy,
impatience with,
subtlety and change.

When We Become the Clan Elders

When We Become the Clan Elders

　

When we become the clan elders
Sitting in rocking chairs
Shelling speckled beans
For the winter stews,

　
When the young ones
Weary of their chasing, climbing
and hiding games
Gather, lulled by the gentle rustle of empty husks
and thud of polished
beans in the bowl

　
They will sit, wide eyed,
and ask us about
The time
before

　
Back when snow lay thick in winter
and a bucket of water
left out over night
would be made into a
thick walled cylinder of ice
that would hold a candle for weeks
of winter darkness

　
Back when the summer rains were gentle
and only rarely tore plants,
and never trees, from the ground
in their violence
And there was equal measure of sun and rain
during the three months
which they now know for 
the constant drumming of monsoon rain

　
Back when the big coastal cities
Thrived,
Full of people, commerce and art
Yet un-drowned.

　
Some wise child
will always ask
When?
When did you know the Change was coming?

　
And we ponder,
as our hands pop bean pods
and slide hard, speckled pellets into the waiting bowl

　
Was it the year the temperature soared
to summer heat
during the spring lambing,
The year of the two big floods?
The first of the hurricanes to drown lower Manhattan?
The summer the fields around the cabin were ankle deep in water?

　
We hesitate before answering,
In part
because we are unsure of when
the warning signs were too clear to ignore,
but mostly because we know that
the next question will be
The one we can not answer.

　
Why?
Why didn't you do something,
When you knew?
When there was still time?


　

　

Frost Warning

Frost warning.

Last night
I brought the tender plants in,
Standing on the porch,hefting terracotta pots
in a quick, chilly triage,
Rosemary,
for lamb roasts in winter,
Jasmine
for the hope of one more sweet scented profusion of white, 
And aloe.
for it's thick spikes, full of healing salve
on my careless cook's hands.

The impatiens
I left in the ground
rooted, immovable,
Too fragile to cover,
cheerful blooms fated to die
soon or late
no matter what.

The air was crisp
as I balanced pots
and opened the door
into warmth and shelter
and bid goodbye to
the gleaming blooms
across the way.

This morning, the impatiens
still bloomed,
succulent leaves, still green.
I gave a silent thank you
and apology
for the choice I had made,
and for the weeds,
looming on all sides.

We give the tender ones
more care when we can,
the hot house plant
the tomatoes even

Until they are too difficult
to protect or save.
or the return
is too small
given the effort of nurture.

Thyme, mint
and asters
will thrive without such help

The Brussels sprouts will
demand the cold,
frost touched green globes
on their stalks,
And some of the apples,
which in spring
sent forth tender blossoms
perilously close to the last frost,
will only ripen to sweetness
after they have felt
the sharp, crisp cold
on taut, blushing skins.

When is there a need?
When is it deserved?
when is it unwanted?

I am glad that I
am only a minor goddess
of a porch garden,
and a small patch
of neglected flowers.

Such decisions on a larger scale,
a family garden, even
let alone a child,
or planet,
would leave me
standing on the porch
in the cold,
weighing the aloe pot in my hand.

　

　

The Spider's Web

I am amazed at the small beauties in nature, even along a sidewalk on my way home from town.  I just have to keep looking.

The Spider's Web

The spider's web hung on the deep green needles
of the hedge,
Beaded with dew,
a delicate mesh, fine as cheese cloth.
A silver weaving made overnight
for some spider's harvest,
A beautiful snare.

Why so regular, neat,
spiraling out precisely?
Does the spider know how exact
her engineering?
The threads, working outward,
each rectangle in a circle, matching it's mate,
Each circle, just enough wider to accommodate
the growing radius.

Does she
view the neat lines
the dew drops, turning her work to silver
there,
just where she thought they would
with a sculptor's critical eye

I look at her work
with my amateur artist's eye,
and can not believe
that her only goal
is the death of a blundering gnat
or hapless fly.
as she builds so precisely
on a night
when the dew will work magic
on her fine,
gossamer weaving.

The Toothache

The Toothache

The ache came in waves,
Startlingly strong
with nothing to stop it
but time.

The relief when it passed,
a brief wash of peace and pleasure,
intense,
almost soporific,
A warm blanket,
A soft resting place.

Then a settling back
to where pain was forgotten
and life went on.
Only a faint wariness
of the next twinge
Certain to arrive
Sharp and sudden.

How like loss,
that quick, acid wash of grief
A death
A lost love
lime juice finding the cut,
bringing sudden tears,
before fading into daily routine.

Then
Catching the breath
Surprising,
not in it's presence,
but in its capricious,
painful coming
and going and
coming
again.

Entropy of Harvest

 

Today I went to my brother's farm to harvest, process and freeze corn, a process that took me from early morning until late afternoon.  Amazing what you think up when you are handling upwards of 200 ears of corn. 

Entropy. Of harvest

The tall stalks and broad, deep green leaves
 were wet with last night's rain
 as I made my way,
 rustling down
 the dim fecund aisle
Plants taller than my head
 thrusting out fat, full
 ripe ears
 for the picking

My bag grew heavy as I ripped
 full-eared corn from stalk,
Then made my way to the cart,
Bounty tumbling pale green leaves,
 tipped with silk turning from blond
 to russet, ripe.

 Later, I  reached for ear after ear
Pulling husk from cob
Building neat stacks of butter yellow ears,
 with even, sweet kernels
And carelessly discarding husks,
In a haphazard pile
Untidy as the boudoir
Of some beauty who will only
 wear all of the shades of summer green,
And can not decide
without tumbling the contents of her closet
 on floor and bed,

Later still,
I drop ears in boiling water.
 where they darken a little
 to the yellow of spring daffodils
And soften a little,
 ready for the severing knife
 cutting cob from kernel

Tens of  thousands of kernels
in neat bags for winter eating,
Thousands of husks
for the goats
 Hundreds of empty cobs
 Scattered for the chickens
All
returning to the earth
one day.