Contact

She shuffles by lost
in the fog of mental illness,
mute, unreachable.
I make nursing rounds,
hum some old tune. She
turns, follows me, hums
the same song.
Across her chasm
of neural chaos,
contact.


The prompt from Fireblossom over at Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads was to write about calamities and from my 36 years as a psychiatric nurse, there is no calamity that touches my heart more than major mental illness. This is a true story of a client with schizophrenia in a state hospital in California who had been mute for years. I was humming a song my father used to sing and she hummed along. So I started singing the songs I remembered from him and she sang along. She had a beautiful voice. Eventually we learned she was a singer with Benny Goodman in the mid 30's. She loved to sing. I offer it on dVerse poets open link night as well.

Six-Word Stories

Can these be responses to a prompt at dVerse Poets Pub on open link night for poetry? They're only six words each but they each tell a story.

Nurse
first, poet,
writer after retirement.


Fast
car, blind
curve took all.


66
years but
loves sexy undies.


His
sneer tells
all, leave now.



Left
behind, her
too little self.



Decades
married, she
loves him newly.


Dogs,
they're all
he relates to.

These were indeed inspired by Karin at ManicDDaily who was herself inspired by Luke at Word Salad: The Poetry of Luke Prater who has a great article on micro-fiction six-word stories. I was familiar with the six-word memoir project and wrote one a couple of years ago: Life, my ancestor-in-training course. Luke put his in the above format to be more like poems. It's fun, try it out.

Long Partnerships - Erasure Poetry

From: The Last Gift of Time by Carolyn G. Heilbrun

Long partnerships are rare, endow
inhabitants with equilibrium
otherwise unknown.
A woman, her spouse
cherished, endured.

This moment, at last, overshadows
resentments, betrayals, boredom,
disallows a sin of omission to serve
as mental magnet.

Memory and anger recede,
dissipate. Life in the moment
no longer expects what will never occur,
expects neither more nor less
than who he is.

Marrieds of many decades earn,
as reward, mutual mellowness,
find life good.


This was actually sparked by Mary's prompt on Friday: Connection over at Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads and a continuation of Anna's Erasure Poetry from dVerse Poets Pub. Their current prompt is from Stuart: Missing You. Since I have the good fortune to be in a marriage of 39 years with my Honey, I erased all of the last chapter in The Last Gift of Time except the above as a hymn of praise to long relationships. And on the theme of missing, it expresses why I miss my Honey when he's away.

Erasure Poetry- The Hawkesbury

It was a sweet thing of a still morning,
river-oaks whispering, white birds
roosting in the trees like so much washing.

The land stood upside down in dimply green water,
a shiny morning, the river with a brush of wind
that sent handfuls of sparkles across the water.

Boats sliding up fast if tide was with them
to the reedy place where the First Branch
wound down among the hills.

That country was full of overhangs
where soft yellow rock big enough
to stand in were full of light the color of honey.

You could sit there and watch the breeze
shivering through the leaves, the river beyond
a band of color like a muscle.

When you sit in the rock the bush sounds
come to you sharper, like a big ear, listening.
The birds were company enough.

Taken from the book I just finished reading, Sarah Thornhill, by Kate Grenville by erasing all but the above from the first chapter and rearranging the order. It's a harshly beautiful book that often reads like poetry of a girl coming of age in Australia. This Erasure Poetry, a form of found poetry, is a prompt from Anna at dVerse Poets Pub for Meeting the Bar. She lists some fascinating examples so check it out.

Preparation No More - a Limerick

All my life up to now I prepared
made damn sure nothing was spared
- retired now and will confess
do what I want and I bless
that I thrive on not having to care.


On reading one of Hedgewitch's recent stunning poems, Mama Zen, in awe, commented: Dang, doesn't anyone write limericks any more? So, here's a limerick in response to the prompt at dVerse Poet's Pub by Mary for Poetics: Preparation is Key. Mary wrote a great article for the prompt but sparked my irreverent thought on the matter. Check them out, there is some good poetry going on over there.

This is How I Will Remember You

This is how I will remember you,
how I will recall you when I must someday,
astride the chair, ruddy cheeked. It's just this moment,
not another, that will echo you forever. You
know my spine stiffens when angry, fends you off,
so you reached out and touched my cheek. Just that. Knowing
gleaned from years together, decanted from our every day, suffused
in your bones with tenderness. That encrypted gesture,
vaulted past refusal, brought me you, not chined as
I expected, but tiptoed touch forged with covenant to
nudge memory of all we have and who we are. I
grieve my lack of heed, seek to encode that touch forever.

22 November 2012


This is in response to Sam's prompt for a Thanksgiving acrostic over at dVerse Poets Pub. He posted his wonderful memory/poem there as well. Because my Honey is in London, I miss him and realize the great gratitude I hold for the gift of him in my life. Happy Thanksgiving.

Farmers

From "Digging"

My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away

Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.

“

”

from "Digging", Death of a Naturalist (1966)

Seamus Heaney

Farmers

My cousin digs turf still,

west of Ireland, County Clare. 

Bog sits behind his house, gives

earth cut from ground for fuel.

Bog soil rich in humus, formed

by trees long gone, held

together by roots now recomposed

to offer heat and light.

He's a farmer, my cousin,

cuts turf with other farmers

in Lissycasey, tasked together

by this ancient pledge against the cold.

I farm different ground.

My bones conspire to write 

these poems, demand I provide 

muscle and heart to offer heat and light.

Mary H. Warren

16/11/12

This is offered for dVerse Poet's Pub hosted by Victoria Slotto who encouraged us to write inspired by a favorite poet in her article on literary allusion. Two of my favorite Irish poets are Seamus Heaney and Eavan Boland. The photo is mine taken after my Honey's cousin, Aiden, cut turf and set it to dry on one of our many visits to Ireland.

Colors on Charred Walls

Sunset colors caught on charred walls
counter destruction caused by fire
which licked roof until gone, took all contents
to ash, obliterated collections that marked
history hard fought, savage in its greed,
even consumed tree leaves, this
consumate devourer. Family stood and
stared, imagined causes, calculated
incalculable losses. Then came the colors
reflected in water soaked walls, rainbow colors
marked the promise of covenant but cruel in its contrast
to now; vivid, mesmerizing, surreal catch of color.


This is in response to a prompt from prolific commenter, Brian Miller, over at dVerse Poets who wrote about Poetics: Through the Artist's Lens. The artist is SueAnn of SueAnn's Journey and it's her art above. Check out her other provocative pieces.nAlso posed for Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads on Open Link Monday. Join in.

Where Sunlight Tiptoes

There's a time
just after breakfast
when the dogs are walked
and clean up done.
I make a cup of Irish tea
carry it to the living room
sit on the couch to sip it.
Sun spills through sliding glass doors
warms the room
as the tea warms me.
This everyday blessing
magnified one day last fall:
John came into the room
to read his book. Kelly
slipped in, laid down
next to the dogs.
The scene etched in my heart
flowed over me
like oil.


This is in response to a prompt from Claudia over at dVerse Poets Pub to write about an incident of beautiful solitude. This scene happened some years ago but stays with me. Head on over and check out the poets who write there.

What Role We Have

What role we grands should take fills mind and heart
these days, 'sides love them well, the roots of roots n' wings,
love fierce, connect to all who ancest'red them, bring
complete the circle with them the purpose, the art,
entire, achieved, concluded, free drawn, writ large,
us left breathless at the specter except to sing
our songs for them and attend to theirs gathering
pieces to swell the family trove with their charms.
It's not about them at all, of course, but us,
death's incursion that lies beneath all else
and stands in contrast to their upward slant,
throws us back to what we do with such
lives as we've been given in gen'rous grace, not false
striving to garner praise but pouring hearts 'till spent.



This poem actually was inspired by the dVerse Poets post of September 13 about sonnets. It was a generous and meaty article by Gay Reiser Cannon with lots of information about various kinds and structure of sonnets and splendid examples. I've been working on this since and finished it yesterday. I'm amazed that others wrote theirs so quickly. I post it tonight for Open Link Night at dVerse Poets Pub hosted by Claudia, an inspirational poet in her own right.
(photo taken on my recent trip to Ireland)

This Abruzzo Sky

It canopies vineyards and olive groves, this breadth of sky
stretched from the Adriatic to Apennine Mountains
tainted with faintest evening pink, sunset colors.

Everything about this Italian landscape colors
my writing these days, instructs me: specific sky,
named sea, these particular mountains

that I see from my small balcony, Majella Mountains,
part of the Apennine's, darkening as twilight colors
of blue washed with pink change minute by minute this Abruzzo sky.

This strict instruction colors how I apprehend the sky over us all, the mountains we all climb.



This Tritina, a form described last week over at dVerse Poets Pub and offered tonight on Open Link night, came from a conversation with Erin from in search of white space about the importance of naming, and from today's view from my balcony (photo above) in my little corner of the world.

Advice to My Father

What advice could I give you after all? You
who called my mother 'bride'. 'My bride'. Always.
And swirled her around the dance floor of whatever
ballroom you two found. God, how you loved to dance.

You told me after she died (I never told you I thought you
would die first) that you didn't want to live alone and would look
for another although there could be no other, no other bride of 52 years.
I didn't know if you would survive her loss, you who never even made a

sandwich. My mother devoted her life to you, to care of you. Always. And she
told me that was the way of marriage, but had that certain look in her eye that told
me the deeper truth, the one I really held to (I never told you I think she wanted me to
hold onto that deeper truth). So you survived, thrived really, and went off into your next

life. You found another just as devoted to you. How did you do that at 85? Who tells me she
takes care of you. Proud. Tells me this is the way of marriage, but lacks that look in her eye, believes that and holds no deeper truth. God, how you love to dance. Another who
loves to dance and care for you, and devote her life to you (I never told you

I wanted my mother to live, grieved when she died and longed to have
her here longer,to see me know her deeper truth, and her grand-
daughter know her deeper truth, and see her great grands,
and ask about them, about everything they do, know,

learn and want and, well, never mind). You can really
pick them, at any age. I mean that. What advice can
I give such a man? It's just that I miss my mother,
your bride, with a longing that takes my breath

away still. Even as I write this I can't breathe,
I cry for her, and I don't know how to
tell you that, much less give you advice.
I'm not the one to give you advice.
I'm still back there missing her.



This was in response to a post by Chris Galford over at dVerse Poets Pub entitled: Pretzels and Bullfights: Advice to an Old Man and is offered  for Open Link Night hosted by Hedgewitch (Joy Ann Jones) one of my favorite poets in our blogosphere.

Transport Out

He followed me that day rather
Than our older brother whom he
Adored. I headed for the truck yard
With shipping truck bodies silvered,
Lettered and striped in colors like
Slashes of unknown places. I'd been
Nowhere at that time of my life but
Felt transported by those huge trucks.

I swung open back doors but can't remember
How I managed that at eight years old, small
For my age. Should we be here he trembled, what
If the door closes? What if someone sees us and knows
We shimmied through where fence met cement wall past
Keep out signs? But smell this truck I sighed. Doesn't it smell like far away?
And don't you want to go far away? Don't you? Like me? Really
Far away? It never occurred to me that he wouldn't. Then
I turned and looked in his eyes and saw the fear and the rootedness
To here. I knew two things at that moment: I was already dreaming of away
And it never even occurred to me to be afraid.


I'm traveling (ironically) and missed the deadline for dVerse Poets prompt about Building Characters by Victoria Slotto. I thought of this incident though and wanted to share it.

Summer Heat

Plants line my balcony parched
in the unrelenting summer heat.
Even with daily sacks of water, leaves
tip brown, flowers fall, unable
to hold. My neighbors say their herbs die.
Against all this my basil thickens, greens
and lushes, reaches to that scorching sun
and grows heedless of what withers others.

My neighbors come to beg basil. They want
what that plant offers, want to eat it, add it
to their food, feed it to their children,
watch it lurch up as most succumb. They tell
friends and friends seek some. The more its shared
the more it grows. Basil takes that blazing
sun, paints yellow on its green leaves, sports it
like a scout's survival badge and just keeps growing.


This is posted as part of Open Link Night over at dVerse Poets Pub hosted today by Natasha Head. It's a talented group, decidedly diverse, who love poetry so check it out.

Earth's Talisman

Earth can make of us broken ones

flowers and wear us as a charm,

choose to adorn herself with some,

to be admired, to enchant,

give delight, ward evil, bring calm.

Good luck flows or magic powers.

This turns our mind around, spreads balm:

earth's talisman, us her flowers.

My friend, Ruth, has re-surfaced quietly and started another blog, Washed Stones, inspired by one of Rilke's poems, Not Poor. Today she gave the translation by her friend, Inge, who speaks German, of one of his lines to the effect that earth adorns herself with us like a talisman or charm. I love this thought, actually got flipped inside- out by it, and explored it for the prompt by Gemma Wiseman, offered by Gay Reiser over at dVerse Poets to write a Huitain. She tells how so check it out.

Shooting Stars and Other Love Stories

Venus, Jupiter and the crescent moon,
a bright, three point line strung between
Perseids meteor shower winging stars across the sky
to mark our anniversary. We count them as if counting
our years or all that shot into being through us.

Is that how stars fling themselves to the
far ends of the universe, scatter star dust on every
surface to be taken up and formed into all that is?
Is this why we love to stretch out under the sky as
streaks mark their way across our vision and feel
our oneness with the universe?

Or is it the yearly reminder of mystery and
miracle that thrills us because we know it's about us, too.
We scooped up star stuff and made our life, made
our daughters, aligned ourselves with universal
coordinates, took our place in the scheme of things together,
streaked love across our lives, hurtled it here and there
at random and on purpose for thirty nine years, scorched by its scions.




Our anniversary is August 11 and is often marked by visible meteor showers. This year, the richest of them, Perseid Meteor Shower , was active and showed its ancient self in the pre-dawn sky. My Honey and I went out at 4AM and saw 10-12 shooting stars. What a great anniversary gift. Venus, Jupiter and the moon lined up particularly bright as well (my attempt at capturing this is the photo above).
Happy 39th, Honey! My God, aren't we brave?

 "…The brave things in the old tales and songs, Mr. Frodo; adventures as I used to call them. I used to think they were things the …folk of the stories went out and looked for, because they wanted them, because they were exciting and life was a bit dull…But that’s not the way of it with the tales that really mattered, or stay in the mind. Folks seem to have just landed in them, usually–their paths were laid that way…But I expect they had lots of chances, like us, of turning back, only they didn’t. And if they had, we shouldn’t know, because they’d have been forgotten.." ~from The Two Towers, © J.R.R. Tolkien.

This is posted for dVerse Poets Open Link Night hosted by Claudia who encourages us to share the "stuff you discover as you go". What more treasured discovery than love and shooting stars?

Naming Free

I wish I could say I knew

what was happening in my body.

It is my body. I am a nurse.

Surely that's not too much to ask.

The pain was intermittent, insistent,

signaled something wrong with my pregnancy,

sent me to the hospital. But
I'd never felt it before

so I turned on my stomach to ease 

the pain as I waked off and on

through the night.

I wish I could say I knew

what was happening in my body as I woke that night

to urgently go to the bathroom.

A nurse had put a container covering the toilet.

Why, I wondered.

I wish I could say

I picked up that tiny girl

in the white plastic container,

held her and whispered what I thought: 'I'm sorry 

I failed to carry you long enough for you to live.'

She looked so perfect as I stared at her

but she didn't breathe or move

and all I did was stare, never 

touched her. And for every day thereafter,

I wondered how I didn't do this simple thing-

touch my daughter and

name her.

I wish I could say that I told that secret,

sought help for that remorse

magnifying my grief,

forgave myself, didn't have guilt

that sleeping on my stomach caused the miscarriage,

didn't have nightmares for years 

about forgetting crucial things.

What I can say

is that it took until I was 50, in therapy
over another loss, for all that to come flooding back.

I grabbed the chance to do it again, do it
as I wished I had done it then-

hold that baby in my arms,

greet her, tell her of her family and name her-

name her love, name her wish,

name her Free.

This is posted in response to the prompt of Stuart McPherson at dVerse Poets for Poetics: The Beautiful Sadness. I posted this poem two years ago under a different title but have reworked it for this topic because beautiful sadness perfectly describes what this experience ended up being for me.

Moon Phase

heat shimmers wavered
full moon shone bright

earth that's summer baked
from the balcony last night

full moon shone bright

lights of a far off city flickered

from the balcony last night

between bright and faint glimmer

lights of a far off city flickered

the air felt rooted

between bright and faint glimmer

somehow expectant

The air felt rooted

I've lost concord

somehow expectant

with moon force

I've lost concord

when body alliance moved

with moon force

in sun's heat from moon's cool

when body alliance moved

I'm kept marooned, bereft

in sun's heat from moon's cool

this forty year connection left

I'm kept marooned, bereft

to find fresh ways to ferret

this forty year connection left

earth wisdom I search, detect

to find fresh ways to ferret

accords unknown, now emerged

earth wisdom I search, detect

with deeper light, shifted yet effulgent

accords unknown, now emerged

earth that's summer baked

with deeper light, shifted yet effulgent

heat shimmers wavered


This post is in response to dVerse Poets prompt from Samuel Peralta in Form For All: Pantoum. He has great examples and directions on how to do this difficult but challenging type of poetry.
(photo from Google Images)

Balance

"It's all a matter of balance", he said as he looked around.
Easy for him to say as he sashays through his days,
no toddlers tugging him off balance, no
array of tasks to keep home and hearth running
and babies thriving, endless chores for ones too small
for independence. Even the way he said it was a
rebuke, censure embedded in his words.

"Balance", I muttered. "I'll show you balance."
Babies awakened with song, danced around, kissed on both cheeks, (Always
kiss on both cheeks for balance. It shapes them right.),
dressed in colorful clothes, fed farm food cut small for them,
caught doing things right and fed delight in large doses,
freed to spend their days in what catches their fancy and
those who might criticize or castigate kept at bay, far away.
I don't tell them to have balance, I let them
find their balance and stand enthralled when they do.
That's balance.


This is in response to Victoria Slotto's excellent info and prompt on Balance over at dVerse Poets in Meeting the Bar: Critique and Craft. Check it out and join in.

Love Poem

soundclouds

make your voice 

visible

created wavecrests

track your inner geography

in spikes and troughs

channel

convey you

a  long hollow 

in my earth

your elongated regions

 shaped curves

of variation re-encode

your harmonic

and tumble

over me seized

linked

if this is sound

you're releasing

yourself

I visited the soundcloud.com website yesterday for the first time after hearing the collaborative poem on dVerse Poets read on their device. The prompt today is to describe something common from my everyday experience in a new way. What could be more familiar than the sound of my Honey's voice? Our 39th anniversary is in a couple of weeks and their words well describe my experience as an auditory lover. I used some of the very words from soundcloud since I found their process compelling, even fantastic, and immediately poetic. Happy Anniversary, my love.