Traveling, a winter poem

I was that one youth

sprawled in the subway train

one leg cocked up against the pole in the 

center of the car

whose body was so unconscious of its display

as to actually draw attention to itself. 

I was not the one with the orange lipstick drawn on in broad strokes 

and a jaunty perfect linen buttoned vest and the collar peeking out just so,

who throws back her shoulders and says 

I do not feel old,

and then turns to me 

and furtively asks, can I learn this?

I was not the girl lying on the floor behind the sub way station ticket booth, young and laying with her coiffed head upon her small purse, 

with a coat draped over her legs, be-stockinged in aubergine. 

I was shocked to see her there. she did not have the gray aura and odor of the homeless. 

She did not have a big sack of belongings with her. 

I looked closer at her face and I was surprised to realize she was looking back at me. 

I was not her, although I could have been.

or the tall sturdy almost plump one in the pink wool empire waisted coat

with the pink scarf tied tightly around her throat twice,

with the knot squarely in the center of her long neck-

her determined boots echoed in the subway tunnel, 

and she felt me watching her and stared straight ahead. 

I imagined she felt exposed. 

I have felt that way. 

I may have been the guy who was gracefully perched against the tiled wall 

in the 42 st ‘n’ train stop. 

He was beautiful and all the way across two sets of train tracks so I could safely gaze upon him and I imagined him to be a dancer or an actor on a stage.

he was sitting there so serenely,

unconscious of the filthy loud station. or of my notice. 

or maybe that was a part of his performance. 

when the autumn day is a bit cool and hazy, 

as the warmth from the earth meets the cooler air,

and the mist causes water droplets to form on my skin-

then I feel the swirling of my ghosts around me and I am 

pulled inward to a place which exists only in some inner dimension  

and not in any present tense 

and I realize 

I am still looking for myself,

seeking my history, my bond with these people 

who I see only from the outside -though

I rise and fall on their stance and posture ,

and I dance and sway on their words

which I recall in my own conversations

from elsewhere 

and possibly in another time. 

I feel no shame in observing them thus. 

by necessity, I am a voyeur. 

I was excluded from their table. I did not partake of their horn of plenty.

I was shunned. and

no one looked into my face to see me looking back.

As I watch the people 

in their orbits

and measure their response,

and participate in their trajectories,

I realize I am looking for an opening 

into my own understanding.

I am looking for a way back in.

Oh yeah...

Train Knitting

And now back to our regularly scheduled programing...
Bonnie Hunter, the czarina of scraps has come out with a new mystery and I am in!!
It is called Orca Bay and I am going to try very hard to use only what I have on hand. Since the quilt uses special rulers, I was hesitant, but I found them in a polka dotted suitcase that I brought back from Florida. Both Rulers. Right there. In the black and white, polka dotted, linseed oil smelling suitcase that was specially designed not to get lost and/or stolen in the airport, by none other than my mother. I imagine if she added charisma to her many talents, we would be reading about her in Vogue. Be that as it may.
So the hunt is on. I will be entering the dragon's lair to pluck some feathers and sequester some fabric to begin. It has been many months since I braved the cool environs of my sewing room. Armed with Netflix and a cuppa tea, I go.

If I am not out by six, call the mounties.

amongst the dragons

Cecil sweeps
with vigor
and purpose-

no dust bunny  is safe,
nor dragon,

nor passerby.

He will likely not meet your eye unless invited.
Say hello Cecil.
Hello Cecil.

Cecil channels energy,
tai chi,
he says.
He is always courteous,
mostly,
adroitly making his way.

He sometimes smiles wryly-
the humor of the situation amuses him. He gets it.

We are all Supreme Beings, Cecil,
channeling chi,
observers of comings and goings,
learning new rules with humor and grace,
striving for balance,
heroically wielding our brooms against
the bloody dragons.

11/11/11 Markham Military Men

Note to self ;

Note to self ;
If the Muse visits in the middle of the night and you do not wake to greet her
You may still see vestiges of her presence in the morning when you wake:
Hair on the pillow,
An empty glass with her lipstick on the rim, and you may hear the far off tinkling of the keys,
But you will never remember the words that she spoke so clearly then
Quatrain. Sestina.
Verse.
In the morning light
they are but dim
silent stars.

Martha

Finished nonibag

Bought kit in rhinebeck, finished knitting on halloween, added hardware today. Must be some kind of record.

Birthday breakfast

November poem.

We did not take care of each other
As women must.
Ignoring your need,
We bent to our own lives and turned away from your outrageous pain.
And now your keening fills up what little silence we have left
And your dreams inhabit our sleep
Insistent querulous demanding.

As I walk downtown
Past galleries and shop
Windows filled with colorful baubles
I think how sad it is that I cannot share this with you. I take notice of a picture and deep in the recesses of my thoughts I am having a conversation with you about it. I regret that you are unable to see it with me , that we wasted what small chance we had. It is from you that I have this discerning eye. It is from you that i learned to see.
Yesterday described a woman to me
Her nails were a mess
You said
And I thought how much worse it really was for you,ludicrous really, coming from
Who had nothing
and yet it bothered you enough to notice that some ones manicure needed attention.

I made mental note to write this down. To preserve this thought so I could remember it for later. to try and understand it better, to decipher the code, balm the dried lips of the lie-
this certainty of our failure to heed what we needed to heed.
To learn what must be learned
to protect each other.

Those women whose sad songs we sense rising from the ground are the bodies of our failures.
Maybe the biggest failure is that we do not learn from each other's histories and return time and time again to models which as women do not serve to unite and protect us, chattel , whore, mistress, wife, prostitute-all iron maiden degrees of ownership and shame and claim.
How have we helped each other to create more gentle nurturing shapes of safety, solace and fellowship and love.
those women whose bodies are found half buried in the eroding wetland dunes, how did they come to be there if we did not ourselves turn from them because they did not fit into the paradigm of worth that we subscribe to. how did we give away our power thus and submit ourselves to the murderous intent of a sinister model-one that we both abhor and create,
allowing ignorance to be our teacher and fear to be our arbiter.

Martha