POEMS NO LONGER POSTED HERE

For those of you  who follow the blog, I apologize, but I'm finding that poems posted on a blog (or on facebook) constitute "previously published work" for many journals and publishers.  This means that the hundred or so poems here are no longer eligible for publication in a lot of places.  So I'm changing the way I get poems out there.  I can send them out via email.  If you wish to be on the email poem list, send me a note at hendrixfiddle@gmail.com  I may post here on process from time to time, but the poetry bonanza has to stop.

Miss B

Miss B

We hit Miss B. like a pitcher of water
Hits a brick wall.
Racing into junior high
Full of ourselves.
Top of the heap
From sixth grade small ponds
Where we had been big, bad, best fish


She ruled at the top of the stairs
Fog horn voice slowing the headlong rush,
Quieting the roar of teen adrenalin and hormones

Leaning her muscled, bulldog form on the metal railing
Overlooking the stairs,
She saw us all as God does
From impossible distance. with horrifying accuracy.
Commenting on our careless clothing, headlong rush, or furtive hand holding
With deadly aim
Naming names

"Miss Reid, tie those laces before someone steps on them?"
"Mister Brown, SLOW DOWN!
"Miss Rollins, Mister Jones, sex is not a spectator sport."

Impartial, firm as rock
She offered a no-compromise bridge
From child
To adult,
Impulse to control
Headlong and loud to civility

She rode us hard
From the top of the stairs,
And the front of her math class
We complained about her loudly
(when she wasn't around, )

　
　
And we
Who slowed down on the stairs,
Reluctantly released sweaty palms,
And tied our shoes in the middle of the lunch rush,
Remember her still,
Stance wide, folded arms, fog horn voice,
Forty years later,
Long after the math
Has gone clean out of our heads

Learning to Walk the Tune

Learning to Walk the Tune

At first
It felt like following someone who knew the tune.
Walking that unfamiliar path, 
Balancing the bow lightly on the strings,
Ready to travel wherever the melody went,
Weight shifting, core wobbling over black ice.
Loose gravel, uneven concrete.
High and low surprises in the pattern,
Long or short notes, up, down on the strings.

Fingers poised over the neck,
Quick, but not always fast enough,
Finding the right note, first, third, predictable arpeggio,
Always a little late on that weak fourth. not used often
Feet mostly landing on pavement,
But not always.
Sometimes sliding on ice, adjusting quickly to firmer footing
Except when that knee
The right one,
Twinges and misses, painful lurch.
Off note.

By the time the tune has gone round a few times,
And I have rounded a few corners on the switchback path,
I have the rhythm of it.
Ready for repetitions,
For the feel of the same slide,
Got my balance
Got the melody
With all of the necessary swing.

 

Bungee Jumping

Bungee jumping

It took a while for the winter days to catch up with me.
The accumulation of cold and dark
Like some potent drug
Building in my veins

Even as the brilliant afternoon sun gains strength
I nod and yawn
And by evening
When the sky still holds a little light
Lethargy weighs me down like a diver's lead belt

I am not unlike the planet,
Cooling down for months after the sun has retreated
And begun to advance again

What was resilience,
An orderly descent into dark
Is now a plummeting helplessness,
Free fall against the rise of light and warmth

I hope, with the torpid inaction
Of a freezing or drowning soul,
That the cord to which I am clipped
Will grow taut and catapult me up
Into spring,

I Could See It Coming

I Could See It Coming

I once hit a tree while skiing
It was small,
A scrubby pine, no higher than my hips
And all alone
On a white sweep of snow

I was fine, though embarrassed.
It wasn't my blindness caused it,
Though they assumed it was and teased me for it.
I didn't correct them.
I could see it coming.

Why was it there
In a slight fold
No others around for shelter
No pollination on bee-rich summer days
Or rattling conversational shiver
Shared in a night of bitter moonlit wind

Some mountain bird or rodent
Dropped a seed in a fold of land
A little dirt,
Trickle of water
Just enough to live and grow;
Solitary,
Slow and patient
Unharmed by elements
Or even my blundering impact.

I reached that mountain at fifteen,
Awkward, with thick glasses
Having watched childhood friends
Grow wise, realize and
Distance themselves from my difference
Thoughtless as a slap of wind driven snow

Small wonder
I was drawn to that tree
Strong, ancient,
Persistent, self contained,
Alive.

I could See it coming

Earth Worm Haiku Suite

While visiting a gardening education project in an elementary school, I learned this odd fact.  Same assignment as "Gamine"  

Earth Worm Haiku Suite

Five Hearts in a line
Pumping through the cool brown earth
Passing through gardens

Five hearts not much brain
Eating and beating; no thought
Passion without wits

Five hearts, lose one and
There are four others waiting
Beyond shovel's edge

five hearts, not true ones
Aortic arches they say
Just pumping muscles

Five hearts for one worm
for earth, food, travel, sex, life
What else are hearts for?

　

Gamine

The Assignment: Write a poem in praise of something in the world of nature that is not commonly praised. (without being sappy.)

Gamine

I can not fault her for her taste in chocolate,
Clean linens, paperbacks and over-stuffed chairs.
I love them all myself.

And she certainly is elegant
Moving lightly on dainty feet,  Dressed in black velvet fur.
Quick, observant black eyes, delicate ears,
Refined nose

In the summer house,
left alone for months at a time,
She is like the teenager whose mother and father are gone,
Hosting a party, which gets beyond her. 
I am sure it is only low life acquaintances, crashing the party
Who scatter food, chew carpets, and pee in the bedding,
Abandoning her to her fate
When they hear the parental car climbing the hill home.

Here in town,
A delicate rustling in the walls hints at her presence
I only become certain when the cat lurks,
Enormous and black, low to the ground
By the cupboard where pasta, oatmeal and cocoa are kept.
His patience is surprising after his intolerant yowls for morning food.
Waiting
for the panic which will surely give her away.
His speed is improbable and terrifying when he makes his move
And the terrible game begins.

Despite the droppings in the linen chest,
The chewed corner on the box of fancy baking cocoa,
The wasted food, cleaning and laundry to follow
I step in,
Scooping her from the huge black paws.
I use a wash cloth now,
After my one late night experience with needle sharp teeth,
Lots of blood
And a quick search to find out about mice
Rabies (no) and Tetanus (Yes)

I gently deliver the elegant, fur-clad lady
To the front door
Hoping that memory will keep her from retuning
That she will now heed her wise mother's warning
About the moral and corporal dangers
Of  the city's decadent food, warmth and bedding.

And yet, I am in awe of her daring,
All out of proportion to her size.
Glad
When she scampers away.

Walking Through Change

Walking Through Change

At first,
I walked quickly,
Puffing out breath on the cooling air
Grit and pavement under foot.
Trustworthy,
Unlovely.

Even as I walked the short, familiar path,
I could watch the crystals forming,
Quick glints on the black backdrop
of pavement.
Copious as sand,
Whimsical and treacherous
As fairy dust.

Under foot,
Tiny, shifts and slides,
No telling in which direction.
Weight, balance and walk change
Exploring,
New gravity on a different world
Taking the risk
Of walking on diamonds,
New-born in the cold
Winter dark.
 

I Am Thinking: Are You?

I Am Thinking: Are You?

When I walk through town
I think on large topics,
Mortality,
Vulnerability,

I am practical too,
Concrete as pavement,
More so than usual, 
I obey the rules
Sticking to the cross walks
Using the walk signals
Making sure
Drivers know that I am there

Lacking experience, I still guess
at reflexes
And abilities
What can a driver see
When it is rainy and dark?
How quickly they can stop
On squishy snow,
Coming down faster than wipers or plows
Can push it away?

I consider brakes, tires,
And, above all, the massive weight
Of a car.
My motto always
"Better safe, than flat"

Sometimes,
In a cross walk I will watch a car
Flash past.
There is almost always
An acceleration,
An acknowledgement of sorts
Last minute realization
That I am there
Embarrassed exit, like a cat
Leaving a tumble of
Books or dishes brushed from a shelf
As if speed would hide the transgression.

How can they know
That I can not see
Whether they are distracted
Tending a wailing child in the back seat,
Reaching for a lost item in a purse or back pack,
Or on the phone

As they race by,
In their three thousand pound
Bubble world,
Mind on the destination ahead,
The other task at hand,
How can they know
That I can barely see
At all.

Never Date Anyone Dumber than your Dog

Talking with friends about "dates from hell."   This one needed a poem. 

Never date anyone dumber than your dog

I should have known.
When he veered away from any talk of books
Like a drunken bicyclist

Humor low, heavy as a sagging belly
Scatological
Or blond
Not getting any other plays of wit
Or words

He had already begun
To back away
Head lowered,
Belligerent as a thwarted bull
When he took up the tennis ball
On the way out to his truck.

First feint,
And the dog looked baffled, then accusing
At the hand, still holding the ball
Despite the promise of pull back
And forward lunge.

Laughter at his own joke,
Outwitting the bitch,
He honks
Like some old car horn.

Then,
Since it worked once,
Another feint.
This time, the wise old dog
Trots to a patch of shade
Not even a glance

Good dog!

Thinking It Through

Thinking  It Through

If wishes were horses,
Who buys the hay,
Shovels manure
And carts it away?

Who trudges to chores
In the cold winter rain?
Who hauls the water
And measures the grain?

Who cleans and polishes
All of that tack?
Who takes it out,
Puts it all neatly back?

Who curries and brushes
And sees to the feet
And wipes off the slime
After palming a treat?

Who hefts the saddle
And puts on the bridle,
Re-tightens the girth
While the horse huffs and sidles?

And who, may I ask
Had the nerve to decide
That the beggar knew how,
Or wanted to ride?

Eggs

Eggs

She stands just so in her tidy kitchen,
Cooking with neat economy,

The egg, flesh colored shell
Perfect, round, tapering
Smooth as a flat, flawless, painted surface
Balanced perfectly in her hand.

She has a certain way of cracking an egg.
Breaking shell and inner membrane, all at once.
White protein, clear unblemished,
Dripping after the first deft crack.

There are foods she won't eat
Mushrooms, some shell fish, it's the texture, she claims.
And people who are not to her taste either.
Too self assured or judgmental.

Yolk, yellow as daffodils
Whole, unbroken, held back, discarded.
She separates the whites, 
Whips them, beats in cheese gently.

Given time and telltale dash of rooster Intrusion
What would the egg become?

The tall souffle comes from the oven
Practical and beautiful as her household.
A warm, welcome meal
Set with carefully chosen friends, music, humor and discourse

But what if,
Out of liquid gold and nourishing white
She allowed wet, shell cracking
Fluttering, Jonquil colored
Life to just . . . Happen?
 

Cattitude

Cattitude    (for Hendrix, who is only this snarky upon being waked rudely from a nap.)

 
He wakes,
Opening one baleful green cat's eye
Cat nap done, for now
Pink tongue licking, flicking
Streaking sleek fur

His cat's paws stretch
Blackberry thorn claws flexing,
Needles snagging fabric
Kneading a memory of
Long ago mother's milk

Rising, arched body,
Black as Friday the thirteenth,
As a witches dream
Elegant, plush, velvet
Cat's pajamas
Elongating in an impossible stretch

Cat's meow drawn forth,
Part yawn
Part immediate insistent demand
For canaries, cream
And the head of the cat down stairs

Prince of cats?
Disdainful tail.
Hell no!
I am the Emperor

And while we are clearing up cat tales,
I have no one's tongue but my own
And would never
Subject my paws
To a hot tin roof.
Not in ANY of my wildest
Nine lives.

It Never Rains But it Pours

It Never Rains But it Pours

Once
It would rain gently
Pattering on blackberry leaves
Making them tremble,
Just a little
Like kittens, gently licked
By their big
Cloud mother.

Once
We could sit in
Quiet voiced conversation
While raindrops
Lightly rummaged
On the roof
With the swift, delicate
Dance steps of mice

Once
We would finish our walks
Under low clouds
Even after the storm began
Hair damp,
Light clothing dotted with droplets
Dried almost as soon as we
Reached shelter
Before we ever thought of a change of clothes.

Now it never rains
But it pours
Needle sharp, needle hard
Ripping leaves from their stems

It pours,
Hammering on the roof
A giant child's
Jealous tantrum
Drowning speech and thought

It pours,
Driving us indoors
Blind with water, wringing wet
Cold and shivering.

It pours
As if the rain
Wants us to pay attention
Before all is lost
Before we are washed away
Off the cliff
At the end of the world

Weight

Weight

Weight
Of head on shoulders,
Body on thighs
Borne on bent knees,
Pressing down,on broad archness feet
Rooting me, to solid ground,
Upright,
But only just,

Gravity has a hold on me
Drawing the water I drink down
The labored breath to lungs
And belly
My eye lids and
Weary head
Drooping

A puppeteer
Would have hard work of me
Tonight.
There is no lightening
With night and sleep.

If I dream
It will be of roots,
Thick, gnarled trunks
Squat boulders
And animals with short legs,
Low bellied
Thick
Loud breathing
And strong

Another day
I will walk more lightly
Another night
I will have dreams of
Delicate flowers,
Slender trees
And jewel-winged birds.
But tonight
I am earth bound
Solid, bearing down
Weight

Flame and Wave

Flame and Wave

I could watch fire for hours
The leap and twist of flame
As if struggling to leave
And strike off on its own

And at the water's edge
That enchantment is the same
Watching the changing waves
Rising up and sinking down

Restless, but bound
For the most part tame
Like the tiger caged and safe
Who I wouldn't meet alone

What draws me in
To dream on wave and flame
Part beauty part belief
That they could rise
And overrun

The Walk To Work

The Walk to Work

I didn't deserve it.
I was just walking to work.

Rain falling,
Almost,
But not quite sleet
All the world a study
In black, grey and the
Deep and pale shades of it.

He didn't mean it.
He was just driving home,
But here I stand,

The pool of barely thawed water,
Growing with newly melted snow,
Sent arcing .

Wet from chest to toe,
Keep walking.
He doesn't even realize. . .

Soot speckled snow banks,
Scribble of shrubs along the river,
Showing patches of
Ash gray, bitter water.
Shivering.

Plodding on
To serve other people dinner
Taken home to warm houses. 
As night comes down
Like a wet cloak,
Headlights and porch lights,
Dull gold on the wet. 

All the world a study
In black, grey and the
Deep and pale shades of it.
But for that gold.

Good thing
I keep a change of clothes
For the error of my own
Careless ways with dish water
And spilled milk
And don't just rest
On his fault and my deserving.

　

Contrary

Contrary

First learning comes
With the necessity of air,
Filling our lungs
Beginning
Our experience of the wider world
Milk,
Sunlight
Our own fascinating bodies

For a short time we are
Open to it all
Learning and living
One fabric,

Oh, now and then
We scream
At some painful discovery,
Hot,
Confining
Vile tasting
But only after the experience
After we have tried and learned.
For ourselves

How soon we learn
Rsistance
Before we know
Refusing even to try,
To hear
To give sensations,
Ideas, experiences
And the people around us
A chance.

Why is "no"
So early to arrive in our young mouths?
Must we learn it
To carve out
Our identity,
To make sure that we are
Ourselves
Different,
Separate even from love and
Reason

Is the world so hard
Or have we just been contrary
Ever since the serpent and the apple
Kicking ourselves
Out of one garden or another
All to say
"You're not the boss of me"

Thaw

Thaw

Yesterday
It was single digits,
Rock-hard ground,
Filtered, cold sun, and
A little nipping wind
Made worse
By the first moisture
Before the thaw

Today
The hills look like they are melting
Edges drifting away
Into mist
Even now, in the murk
Of what would be sunrise,
It is thirty degrees warmer,
And climbing

This is not benevolent.
Rain strips away
the grit we have laid over ice
Leaving glass under foot
Wet and slick
To send you flying
So fast,
You are flat on your back
Before you even know you are going down

And the rivers,
Calm, frozen yesterday
Are wakened,
Glutted on water,
Released,
They heave up ice chunks,
Big as houses,
Pile them threatening, grinding like giant molars
Then flow out of their banks
Reckless, taking this brief
January chance
To plunder fields, roads,
Houses if they can get them

By the day after tomorrow
It will be cold again
Like the cat,
Far from the broken jug
Of cream
Winter will say
"who me?!"

Breathing

 Breathing

Who thinks of it,
That tide of air,
In. . . Out

That unassuming nothingness
So rich with life
Casually drawn in,
Feeding blood, muscle, brain
life stuff transformed,
Transported
Beneath
The still surface of skin,

Only when
There is a struggle,
A coughing spasm,
A swallow of water, gone down wrong
A limit to the supply
Are we made
Breathlessly aware
Of mechanics
Complex and taken for granted

Forced
To slow it down,
Think about each breath,
Draw it in carefully
So as not to disturb
Irritable, ticklish
Workings of alveoli and bronchioles
Ridiculous details
Learned, in science class, forgotten,
Re learned now,
Truly

When we find the balance of breathing again,
We taste its sweetness
Lie back in the comforting,
Rocking gentle rhythm,
Warm waves of
Buoyant salt seas
Cradle of a mother's arms
Certain, steady.

Understanding at last
The focus/drift of Zen

Exploring, mapping
The world
In the moment of each drawing in,
Letting go
Of insubstantial air

Wish Bones

 

Wish bones

I found them this morning
On the window sill above the kitchen sink
Delicate, dry,
Bleached by months, years even
Of afternoon sunlight.

I am not sure why I keep them.
Childhood habit, I suppose,
And the deeply ingrained frugality
That always makes me
Strip the last shreds
Of meat from bones, of a chicken
Simmered for soup
After the easy picking is done.

I haven't wished on one of those brittle bones in years,
Not since standing
In the kitchen with my brother,
Supervised by  our Grandma Sal.
Or perhaps our mother.

What did we wish for then?
A pet?
A toy?
An athletic victory?
Then the snap of the fragile bone
And success and  failure facing  one another
With broken bone
Clutched in our fists.

I think of throwing the bones away.
Why should I keep such
Symbols of win and lose
And breaking?
Who would I want to face
Pitting my silent wish
Against theirs?

But I leave them there,
Among bottles and candle holders,
Because of the fascination
Those bones hold
 In their asymmetrical, sculpted beauty
And their aura of random
Divination
Which might make my wish
Come true.

Ice Garden

Ice Garden

Even in deep winter
Here in the north
Flowers bloom
Delicate fern and blossom
Crystals following
Faintest fault lines in glass
Giving back the cool blue light of frigid, clear sky
Amethyst and rose of sunset
Or silver grey of threatening clouds
Growing
In a different fashion,
But flowering nonetheless
First fragile hint
Inanimate portent
Of waking, uncurling green
To come

Two very short poems

Two very short poems.

　

Everly

Half of the harmony is gone
One
Of the two
Glorious,
Tightly twined voices
Bye Bye love



On a Bitter Morning

Minus sixteen
And the sun is up.
Pale and weak,
She can not fight the cold.
She simply hasn't the strength.
She has used it all
To battle the long dark,
And win.

Right Now

Right Now.

She came out, broom in hand
To sweep snow from her steps,
Deliberate and graceful as a bear
In her winter gear.

"Happy New Year" she called,
Whisking powder-light snow from the top step.
Then she paused, looked up like a bird,
Straight at me, and said
"Happy Right Now."

Without thinking, I said
"Absolutely!"
I didn't even break stride.
Rushing through the cold
To be indoors.

Yet somehow the wind didn't seem
As cold,
And the snow seemed whiter,
More beautiful than ever
In that focused now,
That instant,
Perfect as a six sided flake
Of snow.