Hand Over Fist

Hand over fist

He's making money
Hand over fist
Like a sailor hauling on a line
Raising an anchor, or a sail
Buying and selling
Fuel, food, land,
Politicians

It doesn't matter
Where the rope or the profit
Comes from.
Where the endless coils
And by-products land.
There is only the rhythm of hauling it in
Addictive,
Unstoppable

He could be
Raising a sail to the very moon,
Or weighing the anchor
That holds the earth
Constant in her orbit.
Buying grain patents,
Watersheds,
Governments, and principalities

Who knows
What will happen to us all
When he comes to the end of his rope

Will the impossible world sail
Reach the top of the mast,
Grow taut, and
Catch some cosmic wind,
Carrying us off into the stars?

What then,
When everything is his, 
Food, water,
Continents, seas and air
And there is nothing else left
To own?

Who knows
What will become of him
When hand, then fist have nothing to grasp
When he must remember
How to unclench impossibly strong fingers
Letting go
Opening his palms
To shared
Moon and stars,
Air, water and still-warm bread

Reincarnation

Reincarnation

After this life is done,
I imagine
Each of us
Like actors
Walking off after our final scene
To the more muted light
Of some celestial green room

There we will
Shed our lives
Like heavy brocades,
Cocktail dresses, wigs,
Overalls, or Roman togas

We will fold them neatly, or hang them carefully
In some great wardrobe
And
If we are truly enlightened
Make the gentle,
Sunlit climb
To the after life of our chosen gods

If we are not yet ready
Still in need of improvement, perhaps,
As many of us
Regrettably will be,
I expect that we will be re cast
In some edifying role

Imagine our surprise
When some deity
Or angel
In the interest of simplicity,
Justice and humor
Changes our circumstances
Entirely
By shifting one, chromosome

Cool

Cool

You are
Cool,
Always enough room
Between you
And other people,
Friends, and strangers
For a breeze to brush through
Never the warmth
Of close bodies

Always a skim of ice
Over the still pool
Of your heart, soul and inmost thoughts
Transparent,
Untouchable through solid cool
It's all about the exterior

The mirrors over your eyes,
Black elegance of
Jeans and jacket fitting close,
Devouring any revealing light
Sliding curiosity off
Like snow

Where will you go for warmth
To share the brush of bodies,
Break the ice,
And make that first awkward move
Revealing humanity
And allowing
For the hot blush
Of imperfection?

Drowning

Drowning

Must the water hold
Identical chill,
Tug with the same irresistible weight
At your swiftly filling boots?
Must the curled, green wave
Drink the air from your lungs
With the self-same
Casual, icy slap,
Sending you to rest on
The very bones
Of that other drowned man

Well past the point of return
You remained certain that you were stronger,
A better person, more wise,
Protected by God
Until

You reached the bottom, resting beside
The one you refused to pull
To safety,
Scorning
His weakness,

Only now,
Have you come to understand
finally knowing the bitter truth of salt water,
Tide, currant and
Human frailty

Learning, too late
Lessons
That would have saved both
Of your lives

Fascination

His favorite gift
Was the old toaster oven
Unplugged,

Standing at the coffee table,
Face serious with
Intent pleasure of exploration,
We got a sense
Of how he would look
Years later, reading Chaucer or
Designing a system of
Sea walls and sluices
For a coastal city.

Now and then,
Delighted laughter
Opened his mouth, wide,
showing the first early teeth.
This was even better
Than the clash of pots under the kitchen counter,
the Kleenex box with its endless banners
Drawn forth and floated
On the whimsical air.

Open, close, clang of catch,
Rattle of pull-out racks,
Stuffing crumpled wrapping paper,
Crackling, full,
Pulling it noisily out,
And stuffing again

While we
Talked over his head,
Smiled to see him
So engrossed
Used this time of intent
Distraction to address more adult interest,
For a moment,
Then
Returned to our wonder
At this apple of our eyes

All the while,
The shiny,
New, plastic extravaganza
Of toys
The latest books,
The art work, clothing and other
Costly gifts of the day
Languished
On the sunlit floor.

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Change is Good?

Who said
That change is good?

Was he desperate?
At the end of the road, where only
Going over the bank,
Scrabbling through the underbrush,
Held hope

Was she a prophet,
Knowing the beauty
And inevitability of the new road,
Beyond the massive landslide,
Stretching toward
Mist-gold cities,
Sure
With the portent
Of God in her veins

Or perhaps a fool,
Revving his engine
To beat the odds and
Take the blind curve
At speed
On that narrow, unfamiliar road
In his raging, irrational need
To get ahead.

The phrase must have come
From one of these,
Or perhaps from some unholy
Combination of two or even
All three.

For the rest of us,
If we are honest,
Change is like the patch of ice
Under the tires,
No knowing
If we will keep to the road
As we fishtail
Flashing past insubstantial guardrails, and
The perilous drop
Toward an oncoming log truck,
Or perhaps careening helplessly
Into the gentle arms
Of a pristine snow bank.
Shot with diamonds
In the morning sun.

Public Transportation Sonnet

Public Transportation Sonnet

I have not read the signs and portents right
I missed the vital deviation, so
Although I wish with all my grumpy might
I have to go where I am forced to go
My close-planned day is stood upon its head
And non to blame but my misguided glance
If I had been more careful when I read . . .
But I was rushing in my usual dance
To get things done, no matter what the cost
So here I sit with naught to do, but wait
While all that precious waking time is lost
Annoyed and helpless, frustrated and late
But busses travel when and where they will
Whether or not we have the time to kill.

　

　

Midwinter

Tart scent of tangerines,
Scorched, wet wool,
Fresh cut greens
And shortbread baking

Hands parched, and winter rough
Bright cold face
Stamp and puff
Bones stiff and aching

We pass these sun-starved days
Inward turned
To quiet ways
Of warmth and making

The earth is fallow now
Shrouded, still
Snow burdened bough
But not yet breaking

We count the cold dark days
With hand work
And sugar glaze
Until spring's waking

We bring the sunshine in
boxed, sweet sun
Juice on the chin
Gold for the taking

Tart Scent of tangerines,
Scorched wet wool
fresh cut greens
And shortbread baking

True Confessions of a Happy Poet

True Confessions of a Happy Poet.

I have great friends,
Smart, fierce
Loyal, quirky and odd,
Kind, fun people
Trustworthy
Mostly clean,
If not brave and reverent

I know
This doesn't leave me open
To inspirational angst and pain
Preferred diet
Of poets

I even love my siblings
So different in lives and tastes,
We would never have met
Except for our rearing
Under the same roof

Shockingly, I like to spend time
With my strong willed,
Generous, mother
And enjoy the company
Of my ex husband
As long as we don't share living space.

I know,
These are poor credentials for an artist
who should write of great conflict
And dire trauma.

But sometimes,
Not often enough,
Life is good
And language
In all of its glory, should not be meant
Only for the cadences of despair

How else
Do we encourage the good
If we can not sing praise
To the people we love
And the joy
They bring us.

　

The Road to the Corner

The Road To the Corner.
　

I remember the road to the corner,
First road out
If ever
I was going to leave.

I walked it whenever
I needed
Air, darkness and solitude

　
Down to the brook,
Then up the rise by the pasture gate
Along the flats edged with raspberries,
Past the butternut tree,
And sweeping view of the valley
To the main road,
To the world beyond
Where I would turn,
Not ready yet
For the longer journey

　
On nights, loud with spring peepers
Moonlit nights of brilliant snow and smoke-breath cold,
Or warm windy October nights, rustling with dried leaves
I would walk it alone

　
Sometimes
Needing more space and time
I would leave the gravel
For dew-wet grass
To sit on a bale of hay,
Or fence rail,
Listening to chimney swifts and crickets
Cupping a firefly briefly in my hand
Wishing for that simple past
Of early childhood
Already missed and mourned
From the awkward
Desert island of adolescence

　
Sometimes
Throwing back my head
Pouring out ballads
To the distant stars
Because no one
Was listening to my song
in this remote place.

　
Yearning ahead
To love,
Acceptance
Comfort within my own skin
Promised
By worried, wise parents

　
Both past and future
On that lonely road,
Felt inaccessible as the moon
And close as the breath of a breeze
Against my cheek
As they still do.
They still do.

In the End

In the End

"It's about the same in the end,"
He said
" Depending on when the end is, of course"

He spoke of cars,
Whether to buy or lease,
From the dealership down the road.
He was, for the most part
A practical, detail man
Not tending to the profound
Or poetic.

But in the silence that followed
His casual, wry comment,
His words circled each of us,
Conjuring countless judgments,
Calculations,
Wild guesses and wishful hopes

From shoes to lovers,
Appliances to careers,
How much of the choosing
Was due to careful thought,
What measure of impulse and hunch
Wishful thinking,
Or impatience and fatigue

And how many
Of the costly, desired and transitory
People, places and things
In our lives
Had anything to do with care
Or carelessness
In the choosing,
In the unforeseeable
End

The Leap

The Leap

The trapeze artist
Soars out
Into star spangled space
Hands reaching
For her partner
to shape an arc of
Trusting exhilarated flight

Without a net,
A powerful accord
Lies in the space between
Where hands meet,
Grip and swing
Above the awe-struck crowd
As those hands have done
Night after night

Sure that this leap is right
We soar like that
Forgetting for one reckless moment
That we have never practiced
This intertwining of fates,
Don't yet possess
Timing, skill and Strength
For the upward swing

Sometimes
We learn the miraculous
Interchange of flight and
Trust
At high altitude

Sometimes
We swing out
First flight in glittering tights
To find the catch trap,
The trusted partner
Had other plans for the evening
and we dangle
By our ankles
Above the crowd.

Sun Worshiper

Sun Worshiper

In this season of low clouds
And snow squalls
The sun's diminished
Pewter smear of light lies
Low on the horizon
Giving little away

Listless
Without nourishment of light,
I narrow life down
In these December days
Living in short spans
Between dark and dark again

I inhabit the small arc
Of daylight
Between long swells of
Cold bottomless night
Doing what I must
In the waking valley
Between waves of primal sleep

Wrapped in down and wool
To venture out
I don't go far,
Returning quickly home
To purchased heat and light

Now and them
clouds of early winter
Fly before the north west wind
Sun pours in my window
Turning me like a blossom
To works of color, music
Creation and industry

In the rare blue-gold light
I remember
what will come

There will be no need
To light lamps
Wear wool
Or ration spirit and will
Taken so sparingly now
From this weakened sun.

When the earth turns
To spring and summer
There will be
Light, warmth, and life
In abundance
 

Old People

Old People

I always thought
Florida was for old people

I could see it through my young
Scornful eyes,
Signs for early bird specials and
Shuffleboard
Frumpy clothing on time worn bodies
Ambling down the beach
Blue haired women
Making cautious right hand turns
In big, slow cars

I laughed quietly
To hear over-loud geezers
Reminiscing at the bar
About when this land was great.

I smiled with patronizing indulgence
At paunchy men, arms wrapped lovingly
Around silver haired wives
Dancing to the music of their long ago youth,
Played by other paunchy guys
With comb-overs
Who still had that swing.

How did I
Walk into this place,
Sandals over my socks
To hear old guys
Playing Nitty Gritty Dirt Band and Eagles songs
To sit reminiscing
About the glories of our flights to the moon
Back in the day
Over two dollar drafts and
Half-price peel-and-eat shrimp

Packing

Packing

What should I take on this short journey?
Clothing for warm weather,
Swim suit, sandals
A book or two,
Whatever I can't find,
Or don't wish to buy along the way

Taking all that I need
In one small bag,
Wondering
Why I require so much more at home
Than when traveling

More clothes than I will ever need,
Even in this four season climate
More amusements,
Unused yarn, books, music
More food, Furniture
And time saving devices

What if I were leaving for good?
Had to take all that I would need
Forever?

I like to think
I could travel a longer road
With fewer things,
Moving lightly,
Looking out at the world,
People and places,
Not peering inward
To the stuff that clutters
My time and thought

Ruck sack of food and clothing,
Sturdy shoes,
Fiddle slung somewhere near the bed roll

Stopping to chat with the
Old man at his gate
Play a tune for dancing children
In a spring meadow
Noticing the tender subtleties in newly green hillsides

Then moving on
Carrying everything on my back,
Easy stride, covering slow, observant miles,
All the while, still having the breath
To sing.