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#fullmoonsocial Penumbral Garments

 

Penumbral Garments

You turn your blonde head away from me

where I can still see the shadow on your cheek

My naked eye is always looking for your tender skin under all of those garments made in the east

the search for you is never tiresome as the loss we turn away from

or as weary as this pretending that you don’t have a dark side

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Talking after running

Translations from the English

talkingafterrunning

Talking after running

The heart after running is less likely
to lose itself to ledge or leap. It has

Asserted resolve over a measurable distance.
So if the heart leaps after running, it is more

Than a magnitude of muscle memory. Doesn’t
The steady heart know the world’s greatest

Victories are like fireflies in a July field
I walk across after the night’s mile has cooled

Me down? Steadier than these glimpses
Of what threads through us, across time

And space. Yet it leaps as though into the light
for words it might wander toward

If this path did not already describe it best.

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home after dark

eventually we will catch up to ourselves.

the fireflies will be messengers to tell us of all of the things we have missed in our absence.

we prodigal sons waiting at the gate of our father’s home will be let in.

and the lamps will burn.

and the music will play.

and everyone we’ve ever loved will be smiling by the firelight waiting to greet us with open arms.

I prefer my little poems but I can

do as I please.

Ten years ago I started making soap. I used the ingredients found in a grocery store and I paid with food stamps. I loved it immediately. I was reading Sue Hubbell at the time and in the middle of Book of Bees. I was incorporating honey into my soap. And everything else that I was doing. Sue inspired me to head back to nature. Back to solitude. Back to dreaming of a life I wanted ever so badly. Besides being broke and trying to make money by selling homemade amateur soaps through a local herb shop, I was also in nursing school and Trying to keep a 4.0 and still be a patient and loving mother and wife. Which I felt I was always and forever failing at. I don’t know why I say these things now accept that I’ve started my soaping again. No Sue. No Book of Bees. No husband. No food stamps. And really, only an occasional plastic straw filled with honey. Now it is wordpress. It is Chinese poets or New England poets. It is working around the clock to pay for soap supplies and green smoothies. And it is texting a stranger into the early hours and pretending that he and I are deliciously connected by a universal energy. One strong enough to make us feel each others body cuddled close and tight and even strong enough to know each others scent. I can only wonder now if my lifelong impression of myself as an intuitive person was totally off. Imagination.. eh.. yes. Intuitive? Maybe not. Maybe all of the yeses that I ever heard were not there at all. Maybe all the sadness in others eyes that I thought  I saw was just a moment of constipation or gas. I just caught them at a bad time? Maybe when I thought God was telling me to get up and go get my dream, I really just woke up happy because the sun was finally out. I’m starting to get why people stop following their heart and follow the rules. But still, count me out of that fish pond. If I die pretending that my life is individually special and that I am individually loved by a , the, Grand Creator, then I will die believing what I pretend.

But still. At 41, shouldn’t I know a truth when I hear one?

Here is to Grace for not always knowing and to Sue Hubbell and her bees.

A Firefly on The Railing

They light up the trees and in the trunks
I see inscribed, “You will never be a child again.” And in the leaves, “Your children will never be small again.”

Now, instead of catching them and putting them in jars to watch them closely during story time, we watch them from distances.  One is crossing the porch railing on his tiny legs. Before he turns back to light, I say a quiet farewell to no one in particular. 

Jack’s river 7

Before I open my eyes :
A Cottonmouth in the river’s rise
a child is singing for the forbidden thing
it does not know what wreckage brings.

Mimosa sitting  with the sleepy dusk
an eloquent pink humid musk
Summer shows a blushing breast
before it forms the void of eternal rest

Frogs here laugh at the dying sun
As if it isn’t the only one
I am alone on my worthy rock
In the summers root,  a hollow stone.

waiting place

It is enough for a lifetime.
It sustains the man.
Love.

But
The man is numb.
He needs distraction.

Because he was not made to walk alone.

What thing happens
when our good foot forward goes
Without us?

What is left in the waiting places
for the broken?

Garage door repairs

Cooking classes

Walking the dog along an empty street beside other people waiting.

 

 

Dandelion Patch by the Elementary School, Early May, 7:50 a.m.

Translations from the English

dmoon1

Dandelion Patch by the Elementary School, Early May, 7:50 a.m.

They pluck them from the ground and smash
Them soundlessly on another’s head or back

What floats off their violence like a helicopter’s
Skeleton? Lighter than an elementary school

Morning. Directionless as a flying fifth grader.
Wish wands are what they call them. Why would you break

A wish on a boy’s stubborn neck as he tries to twist
Away? On the shoulder of the girl who’s too fast

For you to catch? They don’t wait for the fractured
Moon to pop free of its stem. When the field grows

Quiet I look up at the great yellow flower. If I wait
Long enough it will turn white and fragile against

The dark. I’ll meet you at the base of its hollow
Column, or wait till the wind dismisses me.

dmoon2

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because i promised i would write before my next birthday

the last day that i am forty proves to be a quarter moon in the center of the sky.

the air is half could and the other half sun.

that sun rises earlier on my side of this mountain and sets earlier too, but a few short miles around the foothill and i have forced this last night that i am forty to last an inch longer.

i have climbed the mountain of that foothill.  i can see half of everything on either side of this town.  i can see half of everything around who i will ever be.  i am at the very tip without a tether.  but the tether is me.

 

 

Saproxylic (for Geoffrey Hill and Frank Miller)

Translations from the English

saproxylic

Saproxylic

for Geoffrey Hill and Frank Miller

Spiders spill out of a storm struck oak
On the rim of my childhood’s forest.

Half buried mathematical sign
Of the world’s inequality.

We were walking it down to earth
When the wood gave way beneath us

And the honeycombed beetle wandered paths
Were pried open by a thousand things

Of furry mindlessness, lost hands scrambling
For their owners across the crumbling bark

Toward the drowned crown’s leaves’
Black and brown shadows. Who was the eleven

Year old boy, barely a root,
And who was the hundred ringed world widener

Downed by a bolt? Who jumped from bank to bank
The great Skunk River’s rimey surface?

Looking for a clue, we found it: a footprint
Filled with muddy rain

Through which we’d read the tread
Then swirl it with a stick and claim

Some understanding, though adulthood
Stared us in the face with…

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