Warm colors not from outside
Outside, the garden’s disarray reflects his own spirit.
He gazes beyond today’s errie political mendacity,
attempting to follow the message of Thanksgiving.
The season’s story asks with answers and gives questions.
For now, nature’s bounty has shriveled to dry, itchy skins.
The joyous noise has ended, the guests all departed.
Remnants linger.
A hickory smoked ham carcass bears the scarred record
of hungry hands which sliced morsels into salivating mouths,
a thankful sharing of sustenance. Pillows and wool blankets,
suddenly cold, lie folded neatly near the futon bed,
which is now restored to its day job as a couch. No evidence remains
of the two cuddle snuggets which giggled there the night before.
Nor any more tinkling sounds of little doggy tags prancing
round Mom’s legs, skirting all arms but hers, bonded in devotion
to her care alone, with angelic innocence, golden halo. Glittering,
smiling eyes have gone. Squeaky floors are mute. Missing Espresso,
sounds and smells are silent. The cacophony of stuffed hours
has floated away. Surrendering to the moment was easy
with three conversations bubbling for attention all at once.
Happy consociates huddled around mini-decisions,
who wants to go on a walk, when it’s nap time. Ah, nap time.
Torpor weighed in after all. Events happened, with no one bearing
singular responsibility. A snack or a nap or a laugh was shared.
Familiarity insulated us from the cold, strange world
beyond the glass windows. The den bustled with clusters
of happy commotion.
Alone now in his newly painted great
room, his mood is comforted by the warm colors, gold, orange,
deep burgundy purple. That was the idea. The gray day surrounds
us all in our pools of warm light. The garden beckons
with the answer to this sweet emptiness.
Pick up where you are and tuck away these memories
for a long winter’s night.
technorati tags- Thanksgiving, Thanksgiving poems, gratitude, garden
power of words
After reading this poem by Antonia at Reluctant Painter, I wrote this:
the throat has no subtle strangulation
when met by rhythms such as those
beating hearts that slip off
the page into my porcelain soul
i take my leave
midst the course palpitations,
check my vigil at the door
and wisp myself away
on the words you leave me with
while going about your day
unconcerned with my fate,
my formidable challenge
Springing Clean
Chuck the cluttered
basement of it’s crusty junk.
Give clothes to charity,
so new memories may flutter
along wrinkled threads
which languished in trunks.
Spritz your spirit
with eau de new leaf.
Shine your shoes
with gratitude.
Don’t forget
each breath is a thief
with a gift of another,
and a chance
for a fresh attitude.
Shed your grudges.
Dust off your virtues.
Ring a clear bell
in a zingy new key.
Spring clean and clear
of your long gray shadow,
sallow and pasty
in Winter sheaf.
Hope Springs Eternal.
‘Tis the Season to Renew.
Happy Spring Equinox!
Incandescent Nectar
Anybody read German? When Ralf and I lived together, he transtlated this poem of mine so we could print out cards for both our American and German friends. The photo is one i took of roses he gave me, which I thought looked stunning against the snow.
This poem was inspired by Rainer Maria Rilke’s Sonnets to Orpheus. His mystical style touched me deeply. I read a version which had the German and English side by side. So I picked up a little German, too.