Leaving Rose Hips

The last of summer gardening ends.
Hoe and trowel, knee pad and sunbonnet
Hang in the shed with the shears.
The final petals of the rose have fallen,
Leaving rose hips,
Like tiny crab-apples
With a crown of rumpled hair
And calyx now dry and stiff
As a starched collar
Trying to hide the crimson berry
That stands erect upon the high
Seat of the peduncle.

I gather these petals for a sachet pillow,
And press them in books
To mark the poems I love
With summer's fingerprints.
Then make my tea with those rose hip
Berries and honey,
The last taste of the season.

Written October 2009

Breathing as One

[dedicated to John, August-September, 2010

"That which dreams in you /Dreams in me." Anonymous. An unknown friend left that with a few other lines in a college notebook many years ago. Someone told me it was a loose translation of a line from Pablo Neruda's Sonnet LXXXI :"Already you are mine. Rest with your dream inside my dream." Ya eras mia. Reposa con tu sueno en mi sueno."]

That which breathes in you,

Breathes in me.

For every exhale as you doze

I inhale the images from your fantasy,

And I hear the music from your trance

Echo in my dark sleep

Where we dance to that melody and share

Our song of love.

You see we are joined at the heart,

As mystics have long believed:

A soul has two halves --

Male and female in equal parts --

As they imagined God to be.

Then at birth the soul splits

Only to be reunited if once grown

That pair finds each other

In the world and weds.

So we share a common space;

We commune in one spirit.

For every kiss there are two halves

Just as there are two sets of lips

And on each side the nerves

Of touch excite both skins;

The nerves of hunger

Delve into this feast,

As we feed each other

Mouthfuls of sweet liquid and tongues.

The nerves of sound

Resound with our moans,

Our cries of joy.

And later after the heavenly soaring

We nestle into each other,

Purring with deep snores

That seep into this bicameral soul.

"And that which dreams in you

Dreams in me."

written August-September, 2010

Children of Grief

  A baby is God's opinion that the world should go on.”
― Carl Sandburg

 

In the days after 9/11
All over New York City,
Babies were born, some came weeks early.
Even across the country the birth rate hiccuped a little.
People began calling them
“Children of grief” and “children of fear”
From all the stress and anxiety
Those mothers went through,
no matter if they lost someone close to them or not.
But surely God wished to comfort us
For all those gathered to paradise in their prime.
The streets of heaven were crowded
That day with heroes and accountants,
Firemen and secretaries, soldiers and lawyers.
Perhaps some souls had to leave God's side
To make room for all the new occupants.

And is it not said,
“Every child brings into the world
Their own blessing, ”
Yes, we need that grace in the worst way.
So it rained babies.
And from New York it went out
Across the land.
As the light from the top of the towers
Went out forever,
A beacon of hope in our hearts
Took its place and each
Infant carried a spark. 

Written January, 2010

Potters' Hands

Potters' hands are dry

From handling wet clay.

As oils in the skin are stripped away.

Potters' hands are calloused;

Not as rough as hard labor leaves them,

Those scabrous scales that form on flesh --

No match for wood, brick, stone, or steel

That rubs skin to blister, then thicken and scar.

But these are from labors of love

Caused by movements as repetitious as rituals,

And like the smooth callouses of playing guitar

That make performance more of a dance,

These hard nodes produced

By throwing pots perfect the task.

Potters' hands know the patience of mother's work:

Swaddling an infant,

Kneading dough into plump loaves,

Wringing out the wash,

Soothing a feverish brow,

Smoothing wrinkles with the heat and pressure of ironing,

Plaiting hair, knitting a sweater or mending a garment.

Potters' hands are strong,

Shaping clay is not for the weak:

Earth resists being molded.

God could tell us a thing or two about that.

written July 2009

June Bugs

For a long time they frightened my brothers, sisters and I.

If those bumbling fat beetles had a bite it would be vicious.

We measured the potency of bites by the size of the insect.

Ants and mosquitoes mostly made us itch,

While the sting of bees and wasps could make us cry.

And by that standard, these chafers had all the signs of a killer.

How were we to know all that bumbling about,

Bumping into us was not testing their targets,

But simply poor navigation.

Finally when we saw no one was hurt,

We gave them the same deference we gave

To butterflies and lady bugs,

Dragonflies and doodle bugs.

One brother once observed they looked drunk

With their unsteady gait and faltering flight patterns.

We thought that was so funny

We started calling them boozy beetles.

But we did not know what made them tipsy

Until I observed them one night

Through the door left ajar

To allow a fresh evening breeze

Clear the air of supper smells

As we cleared the table

And argued over who would wash dishes.

Kneeling on the screen in summer's heat

In adoration of the yellow bulb burning on the porch,

Those drunken June bugs gathered

Drinking in the glow from the kitchen.

written February 2011, publshed in Rejected Anthology of AIPF 2012

Austin Streets

 

 
O sing to the shrine of the street called Pine

 

That lost its name and found a number (fifth)

O say Amen, Amen! to the hymn of its pith;

Shout Alleluia with the chorus of remorse

For all the streets of Austin that were renamed,

And all the buildings that have been razed and erased.

And raise your voices in praise of the powers that be

That left the names of Texas waterways where they were.

You can still drive down the streets San Antonio and Neches,

Or navigate those called San Jacinto and Nueces.

Now don't get me wrong:

I would not try to brake the wheels of progress

Any more than I would try to push these rivers.

And digits are fine for the hands and feet,

But streets in a city that's been around this long

Need their stories told about the days of old

In the labels we give to the boulevards and byways.

They whisper their history if we learn to listen.

Cruise down these hilly avenues

And from the pavement over cobbles

Where horses once were hobbled

We hear the music of horns as the traffic swishes

Carrying poems of our dreams and wishes

In their wakes as roads roll like rivers of rhyme.

Stroll down the sidewalks that course under the tangle

Of branches of Live Oak and Linden, of Peach and Mesquite,

Of Mulberry and Cherry, of Cypress and Cedar.

(Their streets became feeders on to I-35)

This city that re-invents itself every decade or so

Sloughs buildings and businesses

Like snakes lose skin or people change clothes.

The next and newest is always the best.

No one wants to hear about the Russian Tea Room

With its quiet mystique, or the peace

Of a petite rose garden tucked away

Behind a biology hall on the main campus,

Now paved over for more parking spaces.

We must dig with trowel under these streets

To find the skeletal remains of the city of old,

We can make mosaics of the shards of broken glass

And chipped plates from that lost culture,

Or sprinkle the pieces in our poems.

And like words of spells and curses,

They have the power of old Magic

To heal and charm.

written May 2011, published in Preoccupied with Austin 2012

Between Us

The distance between you and me
As we swim in the lake
Is only our breath.
The distance between you  and the sun
Is the whole sky.
The distance between me and the setting sun
Is only my outstretched arms.
See! I touch fingers of gold,
And you braid it into my blazing hair
As you comb your fingers through it.
The distance between the setting sun and us
Is only our skin.

October 2009

Signing the Adoption Papers

From the warm, liquid darkness of my womb
To the glare, blare and cold of an all white room,
He arrives: my helpless, raging child.
For nine months I nurtured him
On my heart's richness
And visions of how he would grow fat
On my milk and wonder.

Now I must surrender these hopes
That we dreamt together;
While another mother dreams.

June 1971

Senryu Series III: Sundown at Altas Lakes

Trek in summer's heat:
we're lost, dizzy in thin air -
suddenly, a path.

Deer droppings lead us 
to pool's edge: shh, not alone!
the pair bends to drink.

Ears twitching, alert
for danger. Sniffing us out,
they leap... blur of brown

Snow melt cascades here:
wet prisms break sunset hues,
many rainbows.

Damp clothes hang on shrubs.
We bathe naked in cold lake.
Dust, sweat wash away.

Under waterfalls
I drink from your golden skin -
My thirst, unquenched.

Path leads back to camp.
We eat cold snacks. Who needs fire?
Aflame with passion.

First Car Totaled

 Pink stickers appeared on our block
One Sunday morning.
My old wreck along with the others
Looked as if it had been kissed by some painted hussy,
A cheap trick -
Twenty-four hours to move or be towed
Away with all the other jacked-up,
Tireless, mangled heaps parked on the street.
I guess it was just our turn.
I had procrastinated three months,
Knowing a deadline would finally break
The bond of guilt and ownership.
But I would not sever it myself.
If I had sold it at my leisure
With an ad in the Sunday Trading Post,
I could have gotten a hundred and fifty, ... perhaps.
But no, greed could not be our parting word.
So it went to a man for seventy-five bucks.
Walking to my local bar,
I bought drinks and had a proper wake.

May 1980