HOTEL POEM, 5:30 A.M.

HOTEL POEM, 5:30 A.M.

Terrible coffee from the machine in the bathroom—

it’s too early for terrible coffee from the lobby.

I can write by the bathroom light

if I sit in this chair by the door.

John still sleeps.

All night I kept waking

and drifting off again trying to remember

the words to “The Highwayman,”

who kept morphing into Paul Revere.

Romantic figures on horseback—

one all fiction, one nearly so.

Revere did not ride into Concord, for example,

and he already knew they were coming by sea.

And there were two men in the North Church tower

sending the signal in case the riders didn’t make it.

But “The Somerset, British man of war” was real,

and when they rowed across the bay, they—

he was not alone in that boat— were afraid

they would be seen “just as the moon rose.”

Who cares?

The nameless  highwayman, on the other hand—

well, the musket drives me crazy.

How could Bess reach the trigger if the musket

was beside her and her hands were behind her?

And wouldn’t the trigger be too close to the floor

for a woman “tied up to attention” to reach?

Maybe someone on some online forum

could explain, but I’d rather

think about that than a few other things

I can name, but won’t. In the meantime,

Will “the people” waken in this “hour

of darkness and peril and need”?

Or stand around “dumb as a dog”?

Except dogs are hardly ever dumb.

Advertisements

ON LEAVING FACEBOOK: part II

 

ON LEAVING FACEBOOK:  part II

I went there

when I was lonely or bored.

There.

As if it were a place

like the back porch of my house

where I sit with the dog

or The Bakery where people I know

go to drink their coffee

or the yarn shop full of color and light.

 

I liked

things there so casually,

not the way I like

a cat on my lap

or a walk in the field with the dog

or sitting beside my husband on the sofa,

each with a book and a mug of tea.

 

I could share

things there mindlessly,

not the way I share

worries and joys with Meg

when go for our morning walk

or the way I share with my Real Godmother

Eleanor when we email every morning,

or the way I share recipes and rants about the news

with my old friend Kathy

or the way I share time on the phone

with my sister or my son or my grandson

or lunch with Linda or Megaera or Carol

or pie with Jean and Mel

or energy with the Tai Chi class

or books with the Heretics

or life with the Spring St. Poets

or music with Encanto.

 

They said it was always free

but not as free as making music

or knitting socks or reading Proust

or weeding the garden.

Not free

like the smell of bread or apples,

like sunset across the meadow

and sunrise through the branches of the gingko tree.

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.

IT IS A SEASON FOR STRANGE DREAMS

IT IS A SEASON FOR STRANGE DREAMS

It is a season for strange dreams:

The white elk who crashed through

the front window and stood staring

with pale blue eyes before dissolving

out the back door. The child

who offered to give me his tricycle

for my daily commute. The president-

elect as an audiologist who cleaned

the wax from my ears and loaned me

his denim coat because I said I was cold.

April prompt#28

april 28 prompt

You have been sent to apologize to a foreign power on behalf of our government.

Do it in a limerick.

Ray’s #4

(Except I cheated and wrote it nearly a week ago while walking in the woods and when I drew another one, I put it back because I wanted this one today  since I have to go to an all-day Tai Chi workshop again and call my mother’s old friend in Norway first.)

 

TO THE WORLD IN GENERAL:

SORRY.

AT LEAST WE’RE MODERATELY ENTERTAINING.

PROBABLY.

 

Here in this country called US

The system is all in a muss.

The rich guys control it,

Politicians extol it,

‘cept Bernie, who’s making a fuss.

NEW CLOTHES

NEW CLOTHES

 

Our fabric is woven so tight and fine,

garments stitched up with pride—

gunbelts and helmets and gold—

We have the combinations,

watches, buttons, colored shoes.

This hat will keep you safe.

This cloak will end your pain.

See us in parade, wearing

mirrors of our own devising.

 

But where is the little child?

Around the next corner

on the street of clowns?

Down by the river

where improbable ducks dive

below the ice to feed?

Beneath your coat,

under your itchy skin?

Somewhere in your throat

they’ve worked so hard to close?

How much it is like death

to hear your fear exposed.