New Poem

I PRAYED

I prayed for fire and found enough
strength to burn the lies that bound me
to an unforgiving wife.
I prayed for fire and found enough
healing to believe the dawn
does not destroy my dreams.
I prayed for fire and found enough
inspiration to tell you the truth
and the truth and the truth.
I prayed for fire and found enough
passion to hold you naked,
smouldering in my arms.
I prayed for fire.

Back from Alabama

I've been in Alabama taking care of my mother. She had an ovarian cyst removed. It was benign and she has recovered quite well. I stayed until she was able to drive herself around. I really love sitting on her front porch early in the morning. Here are two cutesy poems that came to me there.


BEAUREGARD

Beauregard, the Labrador,
barks at buzzards. Not ground bound
vultures, but the ones circling

in the sky. I remind him
to get them down he should be
less lively. He’d rather bark.

The idea of carrion
he finds offensive. Who knew
dogs can see so far.



SQUIRRELS

All the dogs I know proclaim:
Squirrels! Most evil and devious
creatures in the universe!
Do not let them in your yard!
In my mother’s neighborhood
evil abounds. It searches
for acorns, chases itself
in circles, and flees up trees.
It chatters from a safe height:
All the dogs are fenced or leashed
and no one owns a kitty.

2 Poems

CAUTION

Newly divorced, I wanted
sexy friends and friendly sex.
I found you who knew her heart
was cold; romance, a failed dream.
A perfect match. We wanted
to get laid. Our bodies fit
too well. You advised caution.
But our spirits fit too well.
We tried to stop at respect
and adoration. Our minds
fit too well. We admitted love
and learned the truth of caution.
We whisper the same promise:
I’m as reckless with my heart
as I am careful with yours.



AFTER

After the wisteria
shatters and honeysuckle
becomes a fragrant tangle
at woods edge, it seems the world
has always been this lush green.
The memory of branches
stripped bare brown is powerless
to prevent the moment
from stretching to forever.
And vice versa. The moment,
whether hopeful or helpless,
grows into a destiny.
If it isn’t yours, just seize
the moment after.

Glimpses of Divinity

GLIMPSES OF DIVINITY


1. Beginnings

In the gravel of our drive,
I built roads and rivers, woods
and mountains. I was the force
that animated the trucks
and cars, horses and knights,
cowboys and soldiers. I was
God until Mother called me
for lunch.

I wore a clip-on bow tie
to visit God’s house. There were
so many of them. How could
this fieldstone Methodist one
be His? I didn’t feel a presence
except when sun-lit stained glass
colored floating motes with shafts
of tinted light. Where did God
sleep? Maybe the Baptists
built Him a bedroom.

In the woods I was at home.
Sitting in the cool green fronds
or racing down a rabbit path
through the tangle on the tail
of my dog, I became another
force of nature.

Because my skin was so fair,
Daddy took me to the beach
early. The rising sun cast
a glittering path to Africa.
Before I learned to swim,
I’d claw through the shallow surf
pretending to be a boat
or some newly created
life-form, safely tumbled
on the heaving breast of the sea.



2. Bottoms

As a teenager, I ate enough
psilocybin to see God often.
Shiva danced in oaks. Gaia
blessed Buddha as Raven croaked
a re-creation. Addictions
trumped the divine.

I listened to Pathetique
and I reconsidered God.
My closed-eye-visions resolved
into clear patterns flowing
from Greek keys to paisley
to Celtic knots. Focusing
on space or the denim stretched
on my thigh, I imagined
a force that flows away.

A moment before launching
a sixty thousand ton missile
from the center of a submarine,
I muttered a foxhole prayer.
Don’t let us break in two.

At the bottom, all is brown
or grey or black. A hopeless,
helpless place where I lost all
my answers.



3. Births

In the morning I prayed,
Help me.
At bedtime I prayed,
Thank you,
and, Who are You?
One night She replied,
I am the one who answers
your prayers.
I found faith enough to heal.

At the moment of release
our faces shed all our years.
We rejuvenate. We fly
between the bonfires, maiden
and swain, nymph and faun,
Goddess and God. On our lips
we taste immortality.

An unseen crow caws,
pops its head above the clover
like a black thistle, dances
two hops to the side, and flies
into the woods. She shows me
a dozen paths easily missed.

One day in every twenty,
at sunset I light a lamp.
I honor Her flame all night,
waiting for dawn to bring us
face to face, waiting
for the world to catch fire.

Plink-plonk-plink

Greenman hears a plink in the pond. He peers out of the solid wood and vast stretch of fern-blanketed earth on the verge of being swallowed up by night. "Maybe I'll plink a couple of poems into the pond, too."



BEFORE DADDY DIED

Before Daddy died, I didn’t feel
like an orphan the month between
Father’s day and his birthday.

Before Daddy died, I thought
the ocean safe, the forest
friendly, and life unending.

Before Daddy died, I knew who
to call when the name of a tree
or flower eluded me.

Today I ask him anyway.
Like school vocabulary words,
he says to look it up.



THE LOVE OF CROWS

When you love me, you invite
the crows. I open the door
and they caw good morning.
At each curve, they remind me
of past deaths suffered or caused.
You must hear the whole story.
Seeing them pick some last scrap
from the road and fly into
the woods, I’m guided to tell
a truth. They will follow you.
When I’m away crows will perch
on your mailbox. When we are
together, they’ll dance a jig
of mischief. Raucous laughter
caws at us or with us.
When you love me, you invite
the crows to foretell futures,
black as the space between stars,
filled with dreams. All true.

Greenman meets a mermaid?

Greenman thinks he has seen the mermaid gliding just beneath the surface. Or maybe he's heard her sing. Or maybe he's just imagining a reincarnation of . . .


NEFERTITI

When the sky turns deep dawn blue,
I sink in a bath of wild musk
rose petals. Though we proclaim
the One God, we don’t discard
our divinity. A Goddess
must seduce the sun. Daughters
shave my body, anoint me
with cinnamon and myrrh.
Their careful hands keep my nipples
hard. Arousal is my religion.
They dress me in gauze and gold,
bejeweled with chips of hard light.
A choir of blinded men sings
our praises. They hear me jingle,
smell the perfume of my skin,
my sex. Imagination
makes them hard. When the horizon
turns pink and purple, I loosen
the red sash. My gown whispers
to the floor. I weave between
the daughters and the choir,
stalking the altar, waiting
for the luminous moment
to sprawl spread eagle,
to thrust my hips at the red
rim rising above the sands,
to arch my breasts into the sky.
The first sun shaft penetrates me,
turns the slow slick heat to flame.
The blind men raise their voices
to match my cry. We rejoice
together. Blessed. Consumed.

Falling words

Mrs. Lytle stepped briskly onto the back porch to sweep off the pine pollen and ponder what to do about the zipped tent (did she imagine it, or does that tent glow in the dark?) that seemed to move about the side yard. She sensed a renewed energy on RUGfarm, what that flaky Zoe called "chi," in the last day or so. From the tall grasses around the pond Greenman hummed haunting melodies, and that mystical young erasure head was heating up the place with his energy. She would need help keeping the place in order. How could she get Butler to agree to help her manage the place again? What would it take to persuade him?

Brow furrowed over this problem, Mrs. Lytle failed to notice Zoe and Princess Afternoon stretching the prayer flags across the back yard. Zoe was explaining the situation in Tibet and urging Princess to delay her trip so they could chant mantras, but Princess was more intent on doing a few yoga postures before the long trip to New York. Greenman watched from the tall grass and Sophie from just below the pond's surface as Zoe's and Princess' words fell like crystal onto the new spring grass. They noticed how the words became attached to one another as they fell to earth. Greenman knew about connections. He, like Erasure Head, knew all about interconnectedness.

Nearly spring

Greenman is amazed. This new cyber-woods has turned him a tarnished coppery color. And more amazing there's activity again at the farm house. It's spring time and his thoughts naturally turn to baseball and nymphs.

OMAHA

Once I dreamed of Omaha
in early summer.
I saved spare change
to finance the trip
to sit in the stands
with my grandson
or in a grander dream
to watch him pitch
at Rosenblatt.
Far fetched dreams.
If they happen,
I will not be there.
Once I believed baseball
diamonds were sacred
geometries. Add sunshine
and grandkids,
and they could soothe
any trouble
like a well turned double play.
Lift the spirit
like a line drive streaking
for the centerfield fence.
Watching the game
is a pale passion
when the invitations stop.
Once my granddaughter
gave me a piggy bank
with the body
of a baseball. She feared
it was a stupid gift.
It was perfect
even with the crack by the slot
that Nana had to point out.
It was our last Christmas.
I still use it when change
jingles with too much loss.




NAIAD

The Shady Lady’s sign
proclaims:
Pool
Spirits
Dancing.
I’m tempted
to discover
what drought or dam
or sewage treatment
spill would drive
a water nymph
to domestication.
Is it chlorine
or gin
that makes her dance?
I don’t go in.
A world so full
of disbelief
condemns her
to a dive.