Watermark

2008-12-09 Snapshot Poem

Not an orphan yet, I come to you.
Snow here is heavy and wet, sky
darker than ground. The doctor
reads the future in runes of blood
and bone.

I watch the snow fall, slant, across
the streetlight. The kitten brings me
her feathered toy, like a dead bird
in her mouth, a low growly purr.
A gift.

The body sends its messages.
Mine calls out to you in dreams.
I wake stunned and languid. I wake.
The doctor casts the coins, mother's
next few months.

Or years. They lay out before us,
dark and secret paths. The kitten
pounces, stops to watch paleness
pass the window. Now is for her.
Don't leave me.

   

Dreamer

Somebody came to my door and offered
to give me a child who had been abandoned.
I declined but thought of you.

They say that in dreams, the house is the body.
Or perhaps the psyche. A house of many rooms.
But who is the child?

Who is the offerer? Who the prospective parent?
What is the car, the truck, the train? They are,
each and all, the dreamer.

This is the vehicle, the work, the task. It carries
me where I must go. Me, the child, the parent.
The dreamer. The poem.

    

  Totally Optional Prompt: Sound -- I added the sound player in response to this prompt. More of my poems with audio can be found at Audio Posts. This prompt has nudged me to add sound to more of my poems. The player above is an experiment -- please let me know if you have problems.

     

This poem is already up at Poets Corner -- Thanks, Anny!

Frost Moon

Death walks with me
but there is no scythe.
For some it's sudden, done.
For others, no swift
taking, but a slow
evaporation, a stiffening,
a brittleness, a steady
sloughing of the self.

This rain is heavy, loud.
Fallen leaves turn black
and slimy, sink into mud,
slide on pavement. The moon
is invisible, but cold. This
is not a freshening rain.
This is autumn's rain.
This is winter's rain.

Nov. 13, 1:17 a.m. EST — Full Beaver Moon. Time to set beaver traps before the swamps freeze to ensure a supply of warm winter furs. Another interpretation suggests that the name Beaver Full Moon come from the fact that the beavers are now active in their preparation for winter. Also called the Frosty Moon.

Harvest Moon

I wake to a bright night, moon resting
on the swell of the mountain.

Geese pass noisily overhead, barking
like a herd of schnauzers.

A storm spins past Galveston
another spins out of Washington

and yet another from Wall Street,
each leaving loss and debris

in its wake. I listen to love songs
on the radio and try to remember how

that felt. It's time for the long nightgown,
the flannel sheets. Time to close

the windows against autumn. The stars
of my generation are dying off.

Somewhere, someone is bringing in
the crops. Long ago, I helped with that,

prepared meals for the field hands,
bacon sizzling, the women talking,

shelling peas, canning peaches. Now,
I lift my food from the shelves. It has

nothing to do with me.

   

   

UPDATE 16 September 02008: This poem has been selected for inclusion on Poet's Corner at fieralingue. Thanks, Anny!

Haircut

 

The Braid

Its weight unfelt
until absent, the
braid lies on
the hair dresser's
table. No tears
in my chair,
she said, and
there were none.
In the Twenties,
this was scandalous,
women cutting off
their hair. What's
left is grey.
Today women cut
their hair when
the divorce is
final, or when
he leaves. In
rage, or mourning,
or relief, they
take the scissors
to their own
heads; or, light-
headed, they step
out of salons,
new women. The
hair dresser sweeps
the floor, packs
away the braid
for the wig-
makers. Left behind,
a foot or
two of plaited
history. We shake
our heads, remember
that forgotten gesture,
pushing bangs from
the eyes,
running
our own
fingers
through
our own
short
fresh
curls.