doll resting

doll resting
head by the sill
of the bedroom window open
does she
can she
feel the
summer breeze?

June 21 2011

Bargaining

Found this in my local notepad. Including it now for completeness' sake.

Receding from us at the speed of time 
you are threatening to take with you certain memories 
I would rather have you leave behind in our care.
Take instead this blanket, redolent of your odor,
and this brush, with which I used too rarely to take
handfuls of your unused fur for the benefit of birds.
Here is a bone you never finished, and a ball just given
that would have been a better match for someone younger,
but kindly meant. Exchange for these clear recollection
of an autumn day when you cajoled me into chasing you
fruitlessly around the tall blue spruce to show me
clearly the advantage of four legs over two.
Give me back the memory of sitting at my peril
on the dawn dark kitchen floor with your black shadow
frantic to re-greet me and if necessary
bite my nose to say how much you loved and missed me.
Let me have to keep one summer walk 
along the sandy trail, with you nose-down 
until we reach the open sky and then turn home again.
You are gone no matter what I say,
but if you will permit these memories to stay
and not be lost along with you, I promise to be reconciled
to doing what is proper, and turn away.

April 2011

That She Has Given You Shoes

That she has given you shoes with which to walk upon
a pebbled underwater;
that your new bicycles stand half-mastered,
gears protected by the overhang of our bedroom;
that I can drive back from the store, tired,
along a turning way
that turns the day to evening,
with a young dog still eager in the wayback:
You know that these are currency more sound
than any I could spend,
whose tally tells the richness of my secret bank account,
upon which I will draw, yet never drain,
from day to daunting day
until the end.

June 18 2011

Thunder

Thunder made it all more serious.
The flapping wind,
the way the trees all rushed to lean to me,
but casually, as if to say,
"Yes, I could fall and take you with me,"
the momentary calms into which
the birds dropped calls as usual--
all these were only grace notes,
like the teasing drops of rain
to which the dog danced with panicky bravado.
But when the thunder uttered,
in the calm voice of the omnipotent invisible
in an unseen room next door--
then, yes, I stood,
and then, yes, I heard.

June 12 2011

The Only Constant

Once up the short and rocky beach 
we slipped and scented across the  cold stone field 
to the seal cairn on the grey marsh side.
Someone considered that proper respect,
due an eyeless corpse spray-painted orange
with the date of death or finding.
Contrast this to the southern shores:
The dolphin's momentary arch, liquid in the sun,
the flat moon shells' pale spirals,
and the endless competent patrols of pelicans
up and down the endless reach.
But remember that there too the dolphins and the tortoises
may roll onto the sand, lifeless, 
fit for only sad remark and final tally,
and consider today's fine wash 
of blue and yellow northern surf
in which the young dog bathed, ebullient.
Life and death change places;
places are changed by death and life.
The only constant is the sea.
The only constant is the sea.
The only constant is the sea.

May 31 2011

Driving Through the Rapture

Sadly, it was apparently not.
In fact, against high heaven's wall, 
the contrails all had seemed to be descending,
suggesting a falling trend.
But though we laughed to think of saved ones rising,
we could not help envisioning how the hopeful spent the day
in prayer, in goodbyes,
in anxious countings down,
in the strangest of possible glad anticipations,
to think that this bright day might be the last;
and when the hour had passed
and we were still just driving,
did we not yield one most private sigh to think
the world no more divine than yesterday,
or that we were left behind?

May 22 2011

A Million Hands

A million hands have opened in the yard
along the lines of branches
to show what they were holding as they grew;
opened as if finishing their prayer,
and what they hold is answer
to the same one prayed by you.

May 18 2011

Revisions

1. Today I will not require the spoons to match.

2. It is completely different to be in the bath,
I suddenly see, as opposed to giving it.

3. The mango's tang revives sweet memories
of jacaranda and unusual hotels.

4. As I look at your questioning eyes tonight,
I feel the wrench within
that says the time may finally have arrived
when I should own and guide you.

Is it wise to trust these reawakenings
or is it wine? Can I make these choices mine?
Be calm; I will let the time decide
and if it will, the night can hide
the sorcery that slides revisions in,
and in the morning I will feel,
or not, them living in my skin.

May 12 2011

Turning Out the Light

Turning out the light
is the beginning of morning
because
sleep is a rushing river
that sweeps you swiftly toward
the next day's ocean
along with the flotsam of dreams.

May 4 2011

Story idea free to good home: The Empathic Bone

This is an idea for the premise of a story. I am not a fiction writer, so will probably not develop it. If you write fiction and are interested by the premise, please feel free to adopt it. Just let me know.

A psychotherapist is in a car accident and suffers some injuries, including broken bones. After recovery, he notices intermittent pain at the fracture sites, and at first attributes it to weather changes, but soon realizes that it seems to correlate with emotional pain experienced by his patients.

From this premise several directions could be taken. A few thoughts: Obviously, there is the question of whether the correlation is real. The pain itself could also be real or psychosomatic. Would this phenomenon be useful, or a burden? Could he treat patients experiencing extreme pain, or would he be forced to drop them? How empathic was the therapist before the accident? Is this pain somehow reflective of his own process of becoming more empathic, or the result of denying connection with his patients? Is this a story of the supernatural, or of psychology?

That's all I have for now. Might add more later if anything occurs to me.

When You Coast In

When you coast in to the calm,
slowing, your momentum gladly checked at last
by shallow water,
you do not regard at all what storms may still
wreak havoc on the shore. No,
you are holding as you stop a memory
of what great tempest drove you, and your heart
is savoring a fragile peace, 
released from turbulence to quiet.
Soon enough you will disembark,
turn up the collar of your coat, and trudge
on to your next goal. For one more minute
as you loose the anchor let your resting place
be here, where no wind is your master.

April 28 2011

Benjamin Franklin, Dissatisfied

No, I can't honestly say I know what this one is about.

In my dream, Benjamin Franklin was dissatisfied.
The colonies were growing well, but there was no room to raise wheat.
All the minor crops--rye, barley, flax--were flourishing in their small plots,
but where were the wide expanses needed to support great waving fields?
Benjamin Franklin knew he wanted to move on,
but what of the colonists' thirst for independence?
He went up to a high place overlooking all the towns
and was amazed to see how quickly the land had been developed,
how houses and roads had filled in all the empty spaces.
In spite of his restlessness, he was pleased 
with what had been accomplished.
He lay down on the green sunny lawn
and pressed his body into the warm grass
and knew a moment of great happiness and fulfilment
before he woke.

April 19 2011

We Must Scrupulously Observe

We must scrupulously observe
this coming growing season
and make the summer full
not least because the lives we lost
deserve our best memorial.
Plant your seedlings from their plastic packs
respectfully, and drain the dregs of your ruby drinks
joyfully, being sure to ride your bicycle 
thoroughly, so that your winter lungs feel to their deepest part
the pang of life returning; and in the firefly evening 
distant weeks from now, listen
so that possibly you may hear the message of the insects
from the dark, saying that your gift has been received 
and found  acceptable.

April 15 2011

The Ocean Cannot Greet You

The ocean cannot greet you more gently
because you have never seen it.
It does not know you come from inland
and are only young.
It is up to you to bite its waves
and test its cold and salt.
Shake its seaweed like your prey
run here and there; defy, deny, ignore it
till you can decide
if you can treat this ocean like your playground
or must bark without effect against
its heedless, ancient roar.

April 14 2011

Let the Day End With the Dishes

Let the day end with the dishes.
Let the night so gently implode
along its usual lines of fracture:
pajamas, lunches, and ironing.
Let the last unraveling of evening be
into familiar threads whose ends can easily 
be gathered for tomorrow's weave
but not tonight, when our only remaining concerns
should be with letting go, a final chapter,
one more child to put to bed,
the turning out of a light, the kiss,
the whispered promise of return,
and last, the possible nearness of a quiet other
in a dark good night.

April 5 2011

Valedictory

I saw a conflagration.
I saw how every animate thing might be a flame
and in the general fire find its place.
I dreamed that all of us are falling upward
toward a vast and strong embrace
in a region unimaginable, yet undeniably home
where our candles rise to meet the greatest light;
and I am glad to think of you falling so high
so far above me waving you goodbye
not wishing to ever stop this conversation but
comforted to see you rise
and keep on rising
just flying 
till your cherished, reborn glow is out of sight.

March 30 2011

Another Spring Time

One step shows the earth's begun to give again.
The poet taught us to distrust that yield
and yes, the season's one for suicides;
it even kills itself, or tries.
But something always rolls that rock away
again, and when we look inside,
trembling to think of losing our precious doubt
nothing's there, and we are left to decide only
how long we will hesitate 
before we turn to face
what waits for us outside.

March 28 2011

It May Take a Little While

It may take a little while.
The habit of you is in everything;
ivy in my walls,
and you know how hard that is to kill.
It's hard to tolerate the weight of things I no longer have to do.
You're always waiting for me in the other room;
and it isn't just a matter of throwing out your unused food.
It's also about walking past the spot
where I used to have to stop to stroke your face.
You just don't need that anymore;
and it wouldn't be so damnable
except that I still do.

March 27 2011

She's Been Throwing Snow

She's been throwing snow at us
all day long. It's the kind of behavior you'd expect
from an infant season, and speaking as a parent, really,
there isn't a lot you can do; it's hardwired at this point:
Newborn, she has no settled paths; they
just aren't there yet. This is an exercise in patience;
clean up the mess and don't be angry:
Soon enough you'll be wishing she
hadn't grown up quite so fast and moved away.

March 21 2011

You're Everywhere These Days

You're everywhere these days. I can't
turn the TV on without seeing your face,
or being reminded of your spectacular life as a dog.
How did you get into the sky?
The next time I go into the yard
I expect I will see you there,
looking out at me from under last year's leaves.

Last night, I dreamed I saw you charging around the yard
like a mad dog. The way you planted your feet 
like a bull, then ran, tongue out, ears wild,
like fourteen years ago; it was so good at the end
to see you clear the fence with ease. In my dream
I figured out how to get you back, but you were so
scratched up, I think now the best thing would have been,
and yes, still is, just to let you keep on running away
until you can't see me and I can't see you anymore.

March 18 2011

I Felt the Palest Yellow Glow

I felt the palest yellow glow
come in at evening when the sun pried off
the cloud lid from the sky
with its final exhalation
and while it lightened me
I also feared a change had come to you
silent
while I cleaned the dishes in the kitchen.
That is why I came to look at you
no food in my hands, 
just to see your liquid eyes
look back at me
again 
again 
again.

March 11 2011

Today My Wish for You

Today my wish for you is that
a warmer time will see you end.
Not in cold despair, but in a comforting sun
would I see you lie down at last,
feeling heat release the grasp of pain upon your bones
and small breeze stir your greying fur
and sleep, a friend, 
nuzzle close, sniff you softly,
and curl around you with a familiar dream
of open air, your owners,
and the happiness of the endless chase.

March 3 2011

At the End You May Find

Sorry this one's kind of a downer. It doesn't reflect any recent tragedy; it's just something I've been trying to write for a while.

At the end you may find
the path is longer than expected.
You delve the wood
and with each turn expect to see 
a termination: something final to untether you
from him or her with grace. But the way winds on,
and though that cord is also precious, 
more than you can bear to simply sever or unlace,
these old trees have held you both 
too long on a narrow trail,
no turning back, no stopping place,
and only God is limitless,
and He will not retrace.
It is not your fault if you secretly long
for a clearing or the sea to tell you
here you stop, no more to this race;
and when the end surprises you
as it may, in a hard and unsuspected space,
you will measure the depth of your loss and love
by the clangor of your solitude
and the bitter loneliness of freedom
burning on your face.

February 24 2010

First Earrings

Another minor milestone passed.
She clenched her teeth and saw it through.
You cried; you held your breath;
I gave you quarters in the mall
to turn your thoughts to plastic pigs
and bubblegum, which conquer all,
and then we stopped for cookies.

The shock is sharp, but fast.
For all of us, it lingers;
but this strong wisdom I have learned from her: 
Fear no future earrings, for in the aftermath,
though you are taken farther from your birth
and me, a person even more like you is born 
with greater grace, to walk a greater path.

February 24 2010

In a Dream of Family

In a dream of family made real
we passed the woods and streams reblanketed
beyond the windshield wall.
Slowly as we turned
the song rejoined us all
and the children in the back seat 
sang sweet hallelujah.

February 22 2011