Clanmother has very graciously included my poem titled Sleight in her Sunday Evening Reflection with her lovely video and outstanding photography. Rebecca’s reading evokes, even for me, those unforgettable moments spent in my little park.
Thank you, Lady Budd, for all your inspiration and support within our vibrant online community, which reminds one another daily that beauty and the arts are essential to life.
Spring can be so
winter encumbered
I learn to walk again
layered in a long-sleeved tee
and hoodie sweatshirt
and bulky jacket
and thermals
and jeans
But the sun is hot
and will no doubt
spot and freckle
my hands and face
The old woman
I never saw myself
becoming
Far into the woods
tracing my familiar path
around the little lake
worried frogs launch
from their spawning shore
stir up muck and lurk undercover
Minnows dart beneath
woolly floating leaves
survivors of last Autumn
then frenzy back
into clear warm water
when I pass
They pull up short
out in the deep cold
murky center of the pond
where bigger fish await
to feed off their mistaken
direction
A giant carp slowly
trolls the shallow water
surrounding the island
roiling up mud and
purling water along its shiny back
Game fish lie in wait
and jump
to snap up bugs
I rarely see them hit
but hear the splash and
watch concentric circles
left behind
calmly disappear
I nearly submerge a memory
one you often asked me to remember
that pale yellow sundress
with little blue roses
and twenty tiny buttons down the front
You plucked a wild violet
from behind my ear
as if you could
keep me fooled
Photos courtesy Wikipedia Commons
(Top: Jorg Hempel, Bottom: Mary & Angus Hogg)
The sun is
a weary yellow
behind flat gray sky
this December noon
Not like autumn
when that brilliant kingfisher
first came to our park
bluer than sky
diving in the glassy pond
rising with his juicy sustenance
Today he wings from tree to tree
eyeing the cold little abyss
rattling his dry raspy chatter
Flies away hungry
They say there’s danger
for the halcyon
as it plummets
from such high places
Birdwatchers tell the story
of a kingfisher
that dove into a lake
broke its wing and slowly
bled into the water
its mate frantic and circling above
I rise from my bench
solitary and free
wander off the path
with memories of green
Some leaves and twigs crunch
over mud not quite frozen
Blotches of thin ice
coat dark puddles
Sundress and straw hat
packed away for summer
bundled in my down jacket
I persist
Hobbling with a cane
twenty-six winters now
The invisible beacon
faithfully leads me on
I dream of spring
Top photo courtesy J.J. Harrison; bottom photo by Andrew Mckie
While everyone sleeps
I slip out into the night
and deeply breathe
the lilac air
I gaze at the crescent moon
worried at heart
begging
needing more time
Not one of us
escapes her pull
as she labors through phases
to bestow her faithful beauty
The lunar cradle
connects me to every tide and tremor
every person
lost and found
(Photo by Timothy Price used with permission)
Somewhere at dusk
light goes out of a baby’s eyes
The mother holds her son
to her dry breast
dropping her head
moaning dry words of comfort
rocking
Somewhere else
a son is dragged in the street
and left on the caked mud
his face contorted
in a silent scream
his still shining eyes
reflect the stars
Partisans reclaim the rope
Lamentations pierce the calm
and sputters of hatred echo
between quiet houses
suddenly lit
but hush toward dawn
when the sun ignites the sky
Wrapped in morning whispers
couples are moored to their hope
but when they separate
to begin their day
he’s recruited for the cause
that ancient failure of vengeance
When the indigo blanket of night
unfolds so softly and deep
over low silky clouds of lavender
apricot and the palest green
faint twinklings of starlight signal
new horizons of hope
I rise and grip my compass
Across this darkening desert
waves of hot sand swirl me
high above those statued saguaro
guardians of that wasteland
Cool breezes now whispering stories
laughter and music and dancing
I hear the ever green beckon
Near a cold glassy lake in a forest
where grasses are dewy and sweet
friends and companions are waiting
eager to share in our crossings
Sparkling eyes around the campfire
anchored beneath a wheeling sky
I sleep by this fire again
Scene One
In spring, well rehearsed
bright yellow flags appear
opening this matinee
At center stage rear
the duck’s behind, up-so-down
gets top billing
He does headstands and frolics
dives and eats God-knows-what
sucking muck
from the bottom of the pond
Scene Two
Robins bicker
They flit and fly
off then on
the broken branches
of this salvaged prop
an ice ravaged
but still pink
blossoming hawthorn
They hop down behind a
curtain of falling petals
Scene Three
As I leave my front row seat
startled bullfrogs plop
into the sun-footed light
shimmering on the lagoon floor
For this surprise encore
I smile applause
Another wonderful performance!
The park’s the thing
wherein I catch
the play
Always chasing them
On and off the clock
at work
Notebook in my pocket
on the park bench
Or in the kitchen
waiting for water to boil
stirring in the pasta
My daughter says
‘Mom, you’re not listening
You have that faraway look’
They collaborate
behind my eyes
At night whispered
into my husband’s ear
He says
‘I love their sound
Lull me to sleep
Keep talking’
But they ambush me
I’m wide awake
The moon shone brightly
through blinded windows
Woke me
Made huge horizontal stripes
on whitewashed walls
I turned toward its familiar beauty
Smiled widely
Then wrapped in my glowing sheets
rolled back away to sleep
The moon shines on
Kabul
Soweto
and Pine Ridge too
I want to be on the moon
and wait for the earth
to rise
THE WOUND THAT HEALS 
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