Sunday, November 30, 2014

poem for the not silent night

Standing at the edge
of the field of queen anne's lace
I know I belong there
sycophants notwithstanding 
I see over you 
“I  am looking through you”  he said airily

I turned and walked away 
back to my own field 
where he does not exist

did you think I would be silent as I was marginalized?

I have given birth to 

worlds of seeds 
tumbling like time
crashing through the river beds
into oceans I have wept

Monday, November 17, 2014

the places that change you-
memory is a canticle
informing the present with its solemn grace and cadence 
Like Lot’s 
anonymous wife, 
whose passion lay behind her,
we look back through the caul of the ever-
present consequential 
thrum of traffic and dialog.   
needs and must be. 
appointments with no consequence. 
No resonance. 
we drink from this the chalice of rotting leaves. 
makes good compost you say
always thinking of the garden
a thinning stand of trees 
a fire in the distance 
you can smell the smoke from the fire place 
where someone has bought expensive wood from the stop and shop.

I want to go there again. 
Like Lots nameless wife I am powerless 
I look back 
and am 
frozen in place.  
There is no forward. 
Cursed by a tide of unreasonable expectation and given no carriage out
I want to go there again 
To drink longingly from the river of Pieria.