Giving Thanks

I'm struck lately

by the bounty

of time given 

in retirement,

the stretch of day

to do as I want.

The burden is to choose

wisely, to plumb

my heart and play 

my stars, each day.

The grace

is the freedom 

of choice itself. 

What excites me,

interests me, draws me,

expands me? 

How can I move

toward those?

How can I fall

more in love with

life, this life, my life?

Read, write, run,

nurture family,

talk to John,

visit friends,

settle after years of travel,

become a hub,

although the 'of what'

can't be known yet. 

Weigh in

on what matters,

Step toward it.

Be an ally.

That's all. Except to

give thanks 

for this life.

 For Brian at dVerse Poets Pub who asked us to write what we're thankful for. I took the photo of the Swan Boats in Boston this past summer.

Race

It's the sheer scale of the problem that daunts,

and the skew of things contoured by years

of seeing blacks as shadowed strangers.

Lack of contact clouds judgement, fears

fly without relief from here to the horizon

at each report of black on white crime

with dirt retold on 24 hour news again

and again magnifying fear each time

as if we were waiting to be reoffended.

Are we? Offended is the right word 

but are we? Women are blamed for rape

and violence against them. Absurd.

Only men, allied with women, can stop rape and violence

against women. Only whites, allied with blacks, 

can stop racism. So, increase contact, read, listen,

speak up, speak out, have each other's backs.

Posted for my biracial grandchildren and for Grapeling over at Imaginary Garden with Real Toads who gave us a word list inspired by his plane travel but which I took in another direction in the wake of Ferguson, MO and too many similar incidents. In spite of the scale of the problem, we must believe we can effect change and then do it. If not now, when? If not me, who?

Who I Am

I'm red hair 

but not its quick temper,

except sometimes.

I'm freckles

that trace a map

of other lands on my face.

I'm muscular legs

that run me where I want

and take me to unfrequented places.

I'm fingers curled over

a keyboard capturing words

black on white.

I'm hungry mind seeking words,

filled by reading them,

yearning to learn new ones, 

playing games of them.

I'm celtic mix that savors

family, gathers it, celebrates it,

cheers it on, helps fix it.

I'm broken one

at home with other broken ones,

on their side, arms around their shoulders.

I'm woman in love

with other women, 

with bone feel for our 

persistent plight.

I'm woman in forty- year love 

with a man, a singular

bright light man who

shows me clear blue sky.

I'm mother, brave

enough to bear a girl child

and raise her to be brave.

I'm grandmother to two dear ones who

bring me dragons and build new worlds.

I'm threshold ready to expand. 

I'm wise elder to my tribe

and beyond.

Posted for Brian, who's hosting at Poetry Jam and asked us to write about who we are.

Fair Bones

The good thing about bones

is there can be no comparisons,

who's thinner, who's better looking or better dressed.

We can tell males from females, of course,

the angles of bones and width of spaces,

but expectations don't hinge on that

or judgements formed.

The problem with bones

is the lack  

of skin to hold us in, 

the vulnerability to breaks,

the hunger

that can never be stilled 

and the question we debate endlessly

of contact with the living.

We know things 

and want to pass them on,

especially to those 

who share our marrow

but the how 

eludes us.

That's what bones seek:
to be wrapped in skin again, to talk, to be heard.


Gay Reiser Cannon has us writing about "fair" over at the dVerse Pots Pub, Meeting the Bar. She gave various definitions but since I'm on a bone kick, I chose fair as "having a disposition free of favoritism or bias" for this and found bones to meet that standard in an exceptional way.

Bone Dreams

I dreamt last night.

It answered my question

about whether the dead dream.

Must mean dreams come from bones

not brains, bones as scaffolding 

for psych and soul with the DNA of generations 

carried deep within 

bones' marrow.

But about that dream,

some ancestral reverberation 

straight from the marrow,

grandfathers galloping through,

priests stealing things from children,

a girl rising up to accuse the priest,

she took things back too, wanted to reclaim

her grandfather's treasures, 

hand-carved.

That's what you can do with bones:

stand, yell, take, hold, dream.

Inspired by Grace at dVerse Poets Pub who wrote about The Book of the Dead Man by Marvin Bell and asked us for a poem written by one dead. The link has expired but here it is posted for Mama Zen with Words Count in the Garden who wrote of the circus and requested 90 words or less about which performer you are. This is skeleton man, or dead man walking.

A Country You Carry in Your Pocket

A country you carry in your pocket,

stays there as forgotten as pocket lint

but filters your perceptions, marks you plain when 

you walk through the world, it's not only you,

your country is in your pocket, carried lightly

or heavy in its heft, gravid as you meet others

with other countries in their pockets.

Posted too late for Mama Zen's Flash Fiction 55 over in the Garden so here it is for Kerry's Open Link instead. Inspired by Brian at the dVerse Poets Pub who shared the first line in one of his posts. It got me thinking of my experiences living in Italy and traveling around Europe.