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(Not Completely) Befogged

September 4, 2015

(Not Completely) Befogged

My face, increasingly tired
of glasses, just lets the world meld
mornings, cabinets open
to doorways, hand touching wall
stairwells, sometimes mispouring
my tea, more than slapdash
when it comes to dishes,

seeking, when outside, mist
over water, cloud cover
impaled by mountain or just nestling
about the land–diffusions whose beauty seems magnified
by my blur,

which makes me wonder if that is not why
I more and more love you,
whose kindness hovers above
that movement you animate,
an aura not so much like cloud cover
as the shine on the bubbles of soap you quietly apply
to the dishes I’ve just done–

more light, in other words,
than fog–
not dissipating
by day, though come to think about it
you too nestle about me
as cold nights fall.

**************************

A sentimental attempt at an atmospheric sort of poem for a prompt by the inimitable Hedgewitch (Joy Ann Jones, blogging at Verse Escape) on Real Toads.  (Hedgewitch’s prompt is much more complex than that, as it deals in tone in poetry, but this is where I landed.)  The photo is mine.  I am having a number of internet issues so may be slow returning comments, but will get there!  

 

Categories: poetry, Uncategorized
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Comments: 6 Comments

To You, Who Likes William Carlos Williams

August 25, 2015

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To you, who likes William Carlos Williams and other Imagists–
One Way (of Undoubtedly Many)
That I Am Different From Them

I can’t write simply
about a red wheel barrow, glazed
with rain, and the plain so-much
that depends upon it.

Too much is appended to
my red wheel barrow.
Though its front tire is uninflatably flat,

it still carts
a chimera, shaped, while you protest
the extra effort required in
my lurching slog, by your endless searches
for the right tool, pot lid that
fits tight, true fix

while I’m fixated on moving
damp leaf mulch right
this minute.

And, in its undelayed but belaying veer
to its rain-glazed side,
may be found my pride
in poor but immediate equipage, my age-old
reliance on a single
serrated knife, pot metal spoon, whatever tilting top
or melt-handled spatula
comes to hand.

All this and more bellies
its red basin–the scratches already
on my new camera, your attention
to socks, and–yes, I know of it–your secret seasoning
of my cast iron–

huff-puff being the thing itself for me,
while you, who urge the purchase soon
of some new barrow, possibly blue,
sigh,
then, as if much depended upon it,
put another shoulder to
the wheels.

********************

Agh! Drafty sort of poem for Kerry O’Connor’s Prompt on William Carlos Williams that was part of Margaret Bednar’s Real Toads “Play it Again, Sam.”  I am linking on Real Toads Open Platform.   (Based on Williams’ poem about “The Red Wheelbarrow.”

I know the pic doesn’t exactly fit, but am not in a situation to put in a better.  And I rather like the poor weeding elephant.  Thanks! k.

Categories: elephants, poetry, Uncategorized
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Comments: 15 Comments

Stitch

August 16, 2015

 

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Stitch

Time–she had a stitch or nine,
because she ran so hard and fast;
it sewed itself along her sweep
until she slowed her pace at last;

and all of us who tie our shoes
and dash our morning faces wake,
slippered into sudden sigh,
though carapace began to shake–

By that, I mean our peanut shells
so welded by centripety,
their brittle case won’t whittle down
even under battery

(though we don’t batter much our shells
for arms are thoraxed tight within
and Time’s bright gait so blurs our view
we miss the spinning at our end.)

But as Time slowed, if for scant breaths,
the dervish dance cast by her draft
unspooled and drooped, and feet adrift,
we swayed, then lurched, as on a raft

that washed up from a sea of notion–
each own’s idea of what this ocean
of floating storm is made up of,
this life we row, this row we motion–

Next landed on a slant shore’s sands
and while Time’s hands massaged her side,
we, creatures of a patterned beat,
assayed a waltz through lapping tide–

Soon enough, Time ran again,
with seams unstitched and hands a’scissored–
in her upswings how we whirred,
and at her strokes, how quivered, quivered.

**********************
A draft poem of sorts–meaning freshly written and little edited for my own prompt on Time on With Real Toads.   The drawing is an old one, not perfect for this poem,  but my laziness makes me a believer in recycling–

 

Categories: elephants, iPad art, poetry, Uncategorized
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Comments: 20 Comments

From a Crawlspace

August 14, 2015

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From a Crawlspace

Dear Mom (she wrote),
I worry when I don’t see you,
and when I see you,
I worry you do not
see me.

Our tragedy.

Trying to please the other,
as if the other
were the mother–

And you, winded and wound
down,
are now pleased
by nearly all–

while I’m still wound
up, beached
in some gone breach–
the caked dust at the roots
of your window, the viscous air
we swam through
room to room, the much-vacuumed
carpet, its green closer
to a uniform at war
than a blade
of grass–

Why can I not get past
the so long past?
grasp what is nearly over–
understand it’s time, in time.

dear mom (she wrote), dear mother–

*************************

A draft poem of sorts for Izy’s Out of Standard on “Pigeon Superstition” on With Real Toads.  Note that all poems are not autobiographical! This is an odd one for the prompt.

The pic is mine, done on a paper tablecloth at a restaurant (bar!)

 

Categories: poetry, Uncategorized
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Comments: 9 Comments

Clouded

August 12, 2015

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Clouded

The sky is grey on white on robin’s egg
this late leg
of the day,
soon to be pale
over moon–
or you could call the clouds a veil,  I suppose,
its net unrolled
in crimped folds
from a pillbox hat,

but what I’m really trying to get at
under this cloud cover
is that some day we all will filter
through grey to robin’s egg
whether as ash
or mist over humefying soil,
our bones toiling to net
a resemblance in the air
to what stars let down
when stars let down
their hair–

Only, there is nothing I can say
except, sincerely, not you
not yet,
which brings me also to the plea,
not me—

*******************

Draft poem for Real Toads Open Platform.  The pic is taken from the Metro North train line, along the Hudson River.  All rights reserved. 

 

 

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Comments: 8 Comments

Rains

August 11, 2015

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Rains

The rains that show
the planes in the air
before they’re fielded by
our windshield.

The rains that exchange the traffic lights
for gems in a dangled stream bed.

The rains that weep in our hearts in French,
the rains that sweep multilingually
through towns, cities, burgs.

The rains that surge, the rains that
soften, the rains that waft
what floats, the rains that sink
what lingers,
the rains that batter roofs,
the rains
that do not behoove
the homeless.

The rains that loam tar,
the rains that just are,
even long after
their downfall.

The rains we cannot name
at first, the blip/drip upon our
wrists-

the rains that propel us
through their pelt,
the silver-fur we shake,
wet through–

The rains that wash,
the rains that wash away,
the rains gulped in gouts,
the rains that seep into
pressed mouths.

The grey rains we’ve heard of, we say
we will never forget,
the grey rains that burden us, whose remembrance
we neglect,
the rains that do not wash
but wash
away.

The rains that do not come
though much prayed for, the rains

that will not stop, the rains that mists-defy–

The rains that are so very different from coins
showering, the rains we catch on our fingertips, but that slip
through our cupped hands, the rains that make flesh shine
if given the chance, dancing.

 

 

*************************************
Very much a draft I-don’t-know-what for Real Toads Open Platform, hosted by Kerry O’Connor.   Both pics are mine; as with the poem, all rights reserved. 

This has been edited since first posting. 

 

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Categories: poetry
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Comments: 12 Comments

Certain Sounds in a Place of Mountains, Stream, Pond–

August 9, 2015

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Certain Sounds in a Place of Mountains, Stream, Pond–

The murmur of a stream too far to be sure
we hear it,
the murmur of frogs exchanging night
in deep-throated gulps that would seem rude
if they were not frogs, all throat
but for eyes/legs–

the murmur of our own legs,
the murmur of the sheet that is
their night,
the murmur of stretch and fold, and the murmur
of knees meeting,
the caps of mine cupped
by the backs of yours,
or your caps cupped
by mine.

The murmur that is purple, truly mauve (neoned)
that is the shade sheets make of night
about our knees,
the murmur of sweat needing
to bead and sweat beading
and the murmur of the weave of those beads, the braiding
of limbs
and intention–

the murmur of your mouth, silent,
the murmur of mine, not,

the murmur we can hardly hear
for the thrummed beading,
the murmur of the heart’s throat beating,
the murmur of the cold night air
unsheeted–

the murmur of eyes that know me, yet each time find me new,
the hush of mine not quite believing what you find,
the murmur of the heart that hushes
even as it does believe,
the murmur of the stream.

 

*******************

A poem of sorts written for Grace’s (everyday amazin‘) prompt on Real Toads to write something inspired by an Australian poet, Judith Wright.  I was thinking of Wright’s poem “Woman to Man,” but honestly, I feel like this could be Woman to Woman or Man to Man, so did not want to use that title.  

The pic is a photograph of a small watercolor piece made by my husband, Jason Martin, of a nearby stream with trout.

Categories: poetry, Uncategorized
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An Authority on These Things

August 8, 2015

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An Authority on These Things

Be petty in
your enjoyments–
no breath too trivial,
to be now’s all–

Ask your death,
perched so unlike
Poe’s raven–always,
in your little-bit-more–
not on a dark mantel
but as a dark mantle,
collaring the shine
in your forehead,
(though you keep yourself careless
of its close fold)–

ask it–that, that contains
the shine in you, where
your light
should be cast–

If you take the trouble,
turn to your death,
you will not long wait
a reply–

********************

Very much a draft poem posted very belatedly for Margaret Bednar’s post on vases on With Real Toads.  The photo was taken by Margaret Bednar at the Brooklyn Museum and all rights belong to Margaret.  

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Comments: 10 Comments

Trespassing Through

August 1, 2015

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Trespassing Through

Was just passing through
trespassing through
bypassing all
that might bind me

like your eyes that shone
but were no horizon
your encircling arms
a close boundary.

So I trespassed through
let go of you
now, there’s no one
cares to find me.

Oh, trespassing me
lost as can be
in a lone far country.

*****************************

55 words for Kerry O’Connor’s prompt on Real Toads to write something carrying on the wonderful tradition of the G-Man, with, in this case, an optional focus on trespass. 

This was a poem that had lots of throw-out verses–sometimes it is easy to get to 55, other times, not so much!  Have a great weekend–the pic which is highly cropped is mine.

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Comments: 16 Comments

Found

July 18, 2015

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Found

We lost the trail in the darkness,
made so much worse by the fog,
so switched children.

You took the little one, cocooned
from stick and branch,
passing the older from shoulders that broached,
as you tried to lead the way,
encroaching trees.  It seemed

forever.  Bracken up
to the knees, crashes half-caught,
I whispered to the child postured sureties,
all the while thinking screw
the contact lenses, maybe we should
just sleep in one of the small ravines where we slid
without meaning, leaning
into wet leaves,

until a long downward stumble
yielded to a field we knew, a field
found new,
and the child I could have carried forever
grew instantly so heavy
I could hardly move,
there, where the uncanopied moon silvered
rain-slivered stalks
and the road shone like a striped ribbon
wrapping a gift
called soon.

I think of this now–the flashlight’s gaze
dazed only mist in the darkness–
when I try to think about
grace–

I think of how humans stretch what they are
to shelter another,
as if they were tents made of
some miracle fiber, as if their strength
were truly tensile-

But what was graceful that night was not the way I carried the child
until carrying could be put down–
because there are plenty of parents, surely crowned
with grace, who have not been able,
to carry children
through their nights and fogs–

but that I so wanted to carry her,
grace more the gift of caring than carrying–
the gift of somehow lifting up
one’s self,
what makes us try, impossibly, to be as true
as the blue about the late moon, mornings,
and, nights, to hug another as closely
as haloed glow encircles
that reflective rock.

I can feel still
the pressure of small arms, legs,
making conscious my own contours,
as we both
held on.
*****************************

A draft poem for my own prompt on Real Toads to write something sparked by the idea of grace.  Honestly, I wanted to write something much shorter than this, but this is what came to mind.  Check out all the wonderful poets at Toads and congratulations to Kerry O’Connor, the founder of the blog and Toads Community, on its 4th anniversary.  Congratulations to dVerse Poets Pub on its blog anniversary. 

The pic above is mine. As with the poem, all rights reserved. 

Categories: poetry, Uncategorized
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Comments: 26 Comments

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