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.
SAGE CREEK
Soft grassed hills, sage brush and cedar,
cottonwood in the gullies by the slick green creek.
The kind of land we came from
when we descended from the trees:
watered, rooted, peopled with game,
the long look with no surprises.
Places to watch and places to hide.
Stars to tell the way.
IN THE CAFÉ: TRYING FOR ENLIGHTENMENT
~it’s like soldiers in combat—they’re scared, but they do their mission.
~a fragment overheard
It’s like that Hospice nurse with her to-go
latte. It’s like the pediatrician
with the plain blue mug. Who knows what they’ll see
today? It’s like that schizophrenic friend
of mine who time after time tells himself
the voices are demons Jesus casts out.
Look at them, will you? And tell me
you’re the only one. Oh somewhere in this
favored world the sun is shining bright—is
it here, where the north wind finally blew
away the ridiculous autumn heat,
where I can sit at a sidewalk table
and listen to psychobabble while I
pretend to be writing in a notebook?
September 10, 2015
April Prompts #25
Kari’s #3: people with animal or insect characteristics
HOARDINGS
Under the eaves,
in an abandoned robin’s nest,
a flying squirrel stashes mushrooms.
Chipmunks carry acorns,
sunflower seeds, kernels of corn
to hoard in their holes under the garage.
Cherry pits
in the mitten basket,
behind the cookbooks.
Between the rafters
dog kibble
piled in fiberglass nests.
In the freezer,
blueberries and broccoli,
applesauce and greens.
On the shelves,
jars of pickles, pails of honey,
bottles of water, cans of beans.
April Prompts #24
David’s #3: Explain how you got here
HOW WE GOT HERE
Some of us came from the Red Sea
and some from the steppes.
We lighted fires wherever we went.
I remember the Zagros Mountains,
the shores of the Black Sea,
the dark caves in the high hills.
Sometimes we walked by walls of ice,
sometimes we slept in trees.
We were hungry, and hunted.
We were frightened at night.
We were frightened of anything
we did not comprehend.
We made patterns on the ground.
We made pictures in the stars.
We made pictures on the stones.
We told stories to make us brave.
We sang to make us braver.
Our children are full of our songs.
This was a failed poem. I worked at it for quite awhile and wasn’t happy with it at all. So on a whim, I ran it through “Translation Party” and then did some tweaking. Sometimes that helps. This time, I think, it helped a lot.
The original–or at least, the version I finally gave up on:
OLD PATHS
Deer follow the ways their grandmothers made
beneath the shady trees and through the openings
to brooks and pools, where tender twigs
and grasses grow. Their pointed feet remember.
In winter, neat tracks on the snow
pass between hummocks and roots,
small distances, safe from hooting owls.
The tribes of rodents don’t forget.
When lions hunted in the night
and dangers skulked in every shade,
the paths were set in primate brains.
And still those tracks remain.
and the redone one:
Stoop under the pine-bough shade,
open the door to the swift-growing grass
where grandmothers of deer have flown
like winter rivers. Remember
their pointed feet. Roots track
through the forests beneath
winter snows. Owl, owl,
one calls from far away. Remember
our feathered tribes.
Night hunting beasts
skulk the ancient paths.
Their tracks remain.
ENDING
It doesn’t take much of a ritual;
but you do need a definite ending:
a monogrammed handkerchief bound to a bough
of the gingko tree you started from seed,
for example. A four-leafed clover dropped
into the brook where you used to go fish.
A coffee mug, a wine glass, or perhaps
a porcelain vase smashed against a stone
on the edge of the forest. You’ve made all
the usual gestures of course: the clothes
and books tossed, letters burned. But still, you need
one more small and private thing to seal that
door. (The German Requiem played loud,
and all alone, you cry and sing.)
