THE FEAST OF ST. FRANCIS: leaving facebook, part I

It is right that on this day–

remembering his nakedness, his simplicity,

his begging bowl, the broken church,

the wolf and the birds, the peach–

I should separate my worldly self

from so much busyness, should turn

away from a virtual world.

The real one compels.

The last crickets.

Coyotes in the dark.

The moon rising as the sun sets.

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DNA

DNA

I spat into the tube and sent it off

and now I know:  I descended from a

crabapple tree. A nettle by the river

was my grandfather, but the oak I call

Grandmother is not an ancestor at all.

The snapping turtle I moved from the road,

the wolf spider I met in the garden

scurrying away with her white egg ball,

are second cousins. I am part fox, stillness

on the edge of the meadow. I am part

owl, passing on silent wings. I am thrice

removed from an otter, four times from a deer.

Catbird is my brother—I knew it all along.

We sing the same cobbled-together song.

NOTES FROM A ROAD TRIP: found, mostly, in my notebook

NOTES FROM A ROAD TRIP, August 19-23, 2017

1.

Nomads: I’ve seen them in a movie,

taking down their ger.

Everything goes with them:

the stove, the rugs and beds,

the painted chests. Maybe

if we took it all, too,

like those people with bus-sized RVs do.

But home would still be home.

 

2.

The sun comes up later in the south

and it’s hotter. Every time we take

a long car trip we say,

“Next time, let’s stay home.”

(Is this a poem?)

 

The world’s worst coffee—is it

even coffee?—from the weird

machine in the hotel room.

Must constipation—or worse—

go with travel?

Why in the world did I sit

cross-legged for three hours

in the backseat of the car?

At least I got some knitting done.

 

3.

Crepe myrtle is in bloom, and cotton.

This is the farthest south I’ve been in a car.

Today is the eeclipse, 96 percent

here. The place we were headed

will be 100% clouds so here we stay.

I’m just as glad. Who needs

another six hours in the car?

 

4.

And now we’re home.

I lost two days of daily poems,

and gained a fearsome sciatica,

richly deserved. I reduced

the eeclipse to prose.

I’m still too close to write a poem.

Home is still here, with its overgrown

garden, and dog happy to see us

and cats as happy as cats ever are.

The moon, still dark,

still orbits us, and we still

turn around the sun,

and turn around again.

TO MY SISTER SUE

TO MY SISTER SUE

November 29, 1955—June 27, 1993

After you died, I determined to live

more worthy, left work I was not

sure about, took up my pen.

 

It’s been twenty-four years.

I’ve spiraled back toward something

maybe like god, but not

 

the one I thought I knew,

for how could that one

have let you die despite

 

our prayers. How could it

allow so damned much pain.

The pottery monk you gave me

 

stands with his folded hands,

beautific smile, next to a jade tree

in a green pot. Your photo hangs

 

on my study wall, your face

pensive, dark eyes gazing

toward something I cannot see.

 

June 27, 2017

MIDSUMMER DAY

MIDSUMMER DAY

The Feast of St. John the Baptist

 

Rain again. Again. Again.

Not the gentle pitter-patter rain, but

the tropical kind, the pounding kind

that washes out roads and birds’ nests,

that splatters mud on the lettuce,

soaks gray squirrels to brown,

gives mosquitoes everything

they need but blood. I can’t

sleep in this rain. It’s something

primeval, some anxiety

about the river rising, roots

rotting, everything I know

being washed away.

EQUANIMITY

Something happened back when I wasn’t

looking, or maybe I was looking and didn’t care.

Maybe it happens to everyone by a certain age,

or it doesn’t matter. Or it’s what is meant

by equanimity and it’s something to strive for

only I didn’t, or at least I don’t think I did,

and yet, maybe it’s the fruit of all that prayer,

the hours on the front step with my cup,

watching the sun come up, or set.

 

 

~Solstice 2017

WHAT IS TRUTH?

WHAT IS TRUTH?
 
Truth has a tranquility to it,
a kind of ease that no artifice
can equal. There is nothing frantic
about truth, nothing bombastic.
Complex now and then, but not
so hard to untangle, not so hard
to recollect. It doesn’t make
itself up for preservation.
As comprehension grows,
there is a duty to correct.
It listens for clarity.
It can look you in the eye.