Poetry

About Your Mother
For Madeline
(1997)

When she was young and busy
writing her life
the story of you was a vague flicker on the ceiling
foreshadowing promise, mysteriously constant.

And when you grew from hope to seed to flutter
and tumbled from her body
she wept with gratitude
on wobbly legs
for the power in her
that conjured up you.

Now she sometimes thinks 
the world moves too fast 
and she is tired from all that it takes 
to hang on
to keep up. to grow into 
the mother that you deserve.

But more, she is afraid
that she will forget to remember
your warm pink face after a bath
your strawberry hair
your bright blue eyes that form a prayer in her
thanking God for you
every breath, every strand,
every moist eyelash of you.

String Theory
(2007)

Is it random suspension?
here, where we move to and
away from each other
strung up and together
a bouquet of young doves
or a necklace of souls,

Or is it connections?
gooey spaces between threads
where invisible jelly messages bubble
and swell, recede and crest
commune in the language of honey
the lexicon of flow,

Or, is it a tired conversation?
dressed up as the
theory that explains everything
no more fluid than dirt
binding us together
like a dry tight confession
or caught fish,

Is it filled with moist air?
the suspended belief that is not quite matter
but liquid faith
the blinding fog of thick regret or
the deep salty pool of true love,

Or, maybe a place?
the crossroads of two people
hard and supple, sweaty and sweet
where we eat and are eaten
by the keen synapse of want,

Or, is it this?
the thick oozy glue of life concentrate
the breathy dance of birds
hope and consequence
boiled together like strong tea.

 

Angels and Ghosts
(2021)

I saw you today
walking up the hill slowly
on thin crooked legs 
deliberate, but not defeated
steady and certain
you were masked, as we are now,
with short white hair and pale blue eyes
that flashed to mine 
and I knew it was you
this old lady in my neighborhood,
a stranger, with your certain gait 
and pale blue eyes
I wanted so bad to take her in my arms,
to hug you one last time
but instead, I cried a little and walked
a sudden splash of grief landing on my lips.

I was sure that you would visit me
after you’d gone
and in those final months 
I tried to talk to you of heaven
and the after
but you, who had lived your whole life in faith and dreams
could no longer imagine the unimaginable
I felt sure that once
you were restored to your whole self
of dreamer and seer 
you would find a way to dance 
back across that hard line
between this life and the next
to give me a sign
to comfort me, as you always had.

But the ghost of you is not an angel
as I had hoped
but rather 
a quiet glance of light 
as I drive across the bridge
a rustle in the trees,
that startles me, as I run
the deep spreading warmth in my chest
at that first sip of morning
these sudden flares of joy 
these flashes of bliss
are the mundane treasures 
of the common day
that is when I see you
your angel heart holding fast to mine 
and I say,
oh hi Mama, I was just thinking about you.

Encaustic 
(2002)

This painting waxed poetic, intoned gloss and thick
Meter while light unraveled at its feet 
Rhymes and waves and minutes
Caught under dense muddy glass
Stilled in time,

Who owns these heavy hands, that drip wax
And ambition as if they were icing a cake?
Who pounds this music, these particles of light
And tiny little minutes 
Into something so still?

Remember, there was a living thing in that amber,
A thing that flew and breathed
And might just dance in your ear
Like a favorite song
If you listened closely enough,

This painting waxes poetic, hides lost truths
And found objects, under layers of
Thick luminous goo
Yellowed verse and music stilled. 
A butterfly in mid-flight
Alive in amber.

 

Deep Inside Your Own Story
(2019)

On the phone, our conversation is a 
Found-object sculpture of words, crooked and sublime
Pieced together from our shared history, shards of time
Half spoken truths and the story inside,

Today it is Marge, your nursing school friend
Absent 50 years, but here in our talk
Smack dab in the middle of us, she sits without a face
Her story, her house, her poor son
Eclipsing my daughter’s new job, my recent trip
My casual question, your easy response
Marge is crucial to you today
So I listen with care and try to understand
What no-one can truly understand,

You are here with me now, I remind myself
And yesterday is forever away in the place of your mind
But Marge is close. Your silly college pranks, your happy laughter
At the thought. I look for shape in the story, but
Your 20-year-old self doesn’t care to remember this tale
In the stale box of my questions.

I wonder at the strange order of things,
Our conversation, an imperfect shadow 
Of the perfect shape we used to be.

Oh Mom, I miss you thoughtful. I miss you curious
Your kind questions and unquestioning love
That Is the foundation of every single thing I am,
I try not to forget that you forget
What you did yesterday or are doing tomorrow, 
You are here now
So I laugh on the phone 
and you laugh too,
Deep Inside your own story.

Seachange 
(2010)

On this warm May afternoon
Our children play like children
While I try to show you
How the surf dancing to meet the sand
In splash and sparkle, under clear blue
Is like music
Jazz and rain
Or touching God,

And the clouds are outlined 
With powder
And small shards of glass

I want you to keep looking 
Up and out with me
And I hold a rock I’ve picked up
Rounded by surf, wet salt
And toss of ocean,
A journey of gentle compromise
Shaped by crashing waves
The elements 
And time

But you are not a man of water
So I put my slippery rock 
And my own rough 
Edges away
Looking up and out
For the both of us.