It occurred to me while shoveling the first snow of this winter:

I am child of toboggan and of a family that played in snow

a family whose Dad chose the Connecticut house

just because the yard was a perfect slope for tobogganing.

I am child of a mother whose snowsuit creations

were cut from my father’s Marine uniform,

magic happened when her singer sewing machine fingers,

buttoned me up and wrapped a knitted red scarf

round and round my little bundled body,

and kissing each of my dinner-roll cheeks,

she looked into my eyes and smiled…

and I knew I was loved.

I am child of a family whose interlocked legs

made space for me under the curling wood

the front place, deep inside

my sister’s lap and brothers’ reach

guided by parents’ calls to lean this way or that;

and the toboggan flew like a snow-Ferrari

and tumbled at the bottom of the hill,

dumping all of us, boots and mittens flailing,

tears of laughter frozen on our faces

and the memory of my mother’s shining eyes

burning like a winter-hearth fire,

reminding me Who I Am.

Decades of snows later, I stand by the shovel,

satisfied at my hard-work cleared drive,

feeling the warmth in my cheeks

glowing against the cold.

This is Who I Am.

Finally, I remember.

#1

Dead drifted wood

Harboring frost

Dreaming ghost branches

#2

Rising sun warms

Crystal meditation

Awakened water flows

#3

Earth thirst quenched

Knowledge released

 Memories take root

~

submitted to:

Jingle’s Poetry Picnic prompt: Spring

Thursday Poet’s Rally  – Wk 60

dVerse Poets prompt – Imagery

Haiku Heights – Gem

]]> http://brokenpenwriter.wordpress.com/2012/01/19/reincarnation/feed/ 21 brokenpenwriter frosty morning 010 http://brokenpenwriter.wordpress.com/2012/01/14/gordons-on-blueberry-hill/ http://brokenpenwriter.wordpress.com/2012/01/14/gordons-on-blueberry-hill/#comments Sat, 14 Jan 2012 20:56:39 +0000 brokenpenwriter http://brokenpenwriter.wordpress.com/?p=1111 Continue reading →]]>  

To be a writer

is like being two atoms that dance with one

Hydrogen plays with Oxygen

moving with scintillating, procreating fluidity

a disciplined yet unchained pattern

until the quadrille

slows down

and stands

with hardly a breath

transforming into crystals,

each one a unique expression

of water being frost

like rock being mountain

or wind being ripples on river’s skin

like human being body, emotion and thought

like me, turning molecules of mind into words

dancing the rounds and rhythms,

pulling sounds and meanings like taffy;

stretching, tempting, and loving the sweetness

like post-rain petrichor, poetry and story-being-born.

Discipline is all it takes;

it’s only a matter of focused attention.

All the while my faucet drips

like a metronome playing Chopin’s Funeral March.

It echoes against the cold hard tub: Dum Dum da Dum,

Dum da Dum da Dum da Dum…

A suitable march for certain somber scenes

or penned phrases that smirk.

Do you remember Mommy’s funeral?

When we weren’t supposed to laugh?

Suddenly, such simple things as a lady’s hat

black and wide a saucer-shaped ride for snow,

turned resignation into nonsense,

amplified our sighs into unstoppable giggles,

and hoots escaped from our throats

bouncing off gravestones

and falling like stars of grief-relief.

We stood there, hugging our young bellies

trying to produce the appearance

of socially-acceptable sadness

behavior more suited to the tragic event.

We failed.

Laughter, glorious laughter

like a toad released in a classroom of nuns

shocked the mourners and freed us.

One whole community shifted in confusion

at our emancipation.

Were we glad that Mommy died?

No more bed pans

No more sheets and laundry

Not one more morning of waking up wondering

if she’s dead

or still dying…

Is that faucet still dripping?

It is.

Handel’s Water Suite No 2 is skipping

like tigger in my tub

bouncy, boisterous and… happy.

In the yellow pages under Plumbers, I find Scotty.

I call and ask him for a quote.

I’m surprised that he knows my rented cottage,

forgetting that this is an island,

a community of small and intimate

where no sparrow falls without everyone knowing

just as no bath leaks

nor pipes crack

nor drain becomes clogged

without Scottie fixing it.

I need more than a washer, he says,

to stop this rhythmic dripping that disturbs my work.

Receiving his quote, I discover that words come cheap

but plumbing doesn’t.

His repair will cost me a whole chapter

including the edits.

Handel’s happy notes begin to grow on me.

Staying in the moment, I hear another pattern

an attitude – a practice of choice – an epiphany.

A drip or a sound need not be my nemesis

but setting, fire and fuel for my work.

I listen to the rhythms, inhale them, accept them into my being

Words commune and bond with water

dancing the dance of intention

while I, in glorious birth,

exist again and again and again

bonder of sights, sounds, heart and soul

in crystal-forming discipline

becoming what I already am

and so

I write

~

Submitted to Poetry Palace’s Thursday Rally:

http://promisingpoetsparkinglot.blogspot.com/2012/01/agreement-for-poets-rally-week-60.html

Thank you for:

Pink-tinged sunrises, transforming trees and silhouettes

Eagle’s mating cries between wings that steal the sky

Heron – still as stone – takes flight,  a squawking winged dinosaur

Red-shafted Flickers dropping madrona berries on my roof,

and each happy Plunk, landing like a new idea

My golden retriever’s Sigh, soft as her silken Fur

Fresh-ground, steaming-hot Island Coffee with milk and two sugars

Words, and finding just the right one

Windows – my eyes into this island’s Soul

and Doors – God’s open arms into His

~

Submitted to: Poetry Pantry

In the trembling ether

of three candles’ breath

We sat through the moment

of Geoffrey’s death

humbled by his generous heart

He who guarded both person and cat

as if his life were only for that

and all he asked in return

was closeness to us

He’d nudge a hand or press

the weight of his chin against skin

His eyes spoke more than language can

His tail, always applauding

never failed to cheer those watching

The candle flames dip and glow

almost as if they know

that today a great soul is passing

Geoffrey – the Lab x Rottweiler dog who lived and loved for 18 faithful years

Dawn filled the space of where

you had just been sleeping

talons of sunlight gripping my heart

and our lantern child’s sweet orange smile,

carved from Hallowed October night

our two-toothed ghost of orange love

formed by gentle hands

grins through the window

and remembers your touch,

while learning the lesson

that it’s harder to be

the one left behind

than the one who does the leaving

Alone with the ocean and tree-boned beach

Eagle claims her driftwood beam

gazing across sparkling waters

she waits for spring and her mate’s return

while my heart beats behind her

~

written for Thursday Poets Rally Week 55: http://promisingpoetsparkinglot.blogspot.com/2011/11/agreement-for-thursday-poets-rally-week.html

and Poetry Pantry of Poets United

Medicine woman gathering sap

Amber balm of tree

Trapping Loon’s sad laughter

~ ~ ~

Holy man drumming

Surf pounds island shore

Beating stone prayers

~ ~ ~

Salish hunter singing

Heron watches Eagle’s reflection

Listening to all the drums

.

Thursday Poets Rally Week 52,

Through the insanity of “flow” fixed stones of words grow, grounded in clay, slate and molten glass, grass, roots of earth, hearth of sun, mantle of river where water tumbles, crashes over edges like minds of poets and women who sit beside windows and touch across miles and oceans…

and smile because they know they come from the same strain of imagination, rained upon by years of struggle, laughter, tears, fears, and playing with saying words, caring not about madness but only seeking those moments of divinity where life begins and ends in a flash of recognition…

realizing death is just a breath inspired, a change of the woven pattern from knit to purl from water to gas, moving here from air to there where a thought or a prayer pulls Form out of nothing and starts all over again…

I no longer have to share my peach

not even this, large and ripe as a Red Sox baseball

ready to play

leather smooth and fine in my hand

Glowing yellow slips and drips

its plum red core

creamy across my tongue

but the pleasure is somewhat wanting

I should be happy

to have this fruit

all to myself

sitting on my shelf, no longer at risk

of succumbing to other hands

hands that would take it to mouth and bite into flesh

without even thinking of sharing

Those hands would quickly be empty of peach

and full of its satisfaction

while I, complaining, though only in fun

would go and buy another

I never really minded

His pleasure pleased me

as much as the peach

pleased him

Now I have my own peach

carefully pitted and sliced

placed on earthenware inside up

blushing towards the sun

waiting for me to enjoy all by myself, all to myself

with no one to claim the bigger half

~ * ~

Last week’s bowl of ripe Skagit cherries

departed, silent with the season

that I never noticed leaving

The bowl sits on my counter, a barren vessel

If only I’d tasted one more rich orb

before having to wait for next year’s crop

knowing this was the best we’ve ever had

realizing the miracle of ripened fruit

If only I’d enjoyed a little longer

spitting the pits across the garden

one more time

The only thought that hovers now

like an uninvited guest

is that no one is here to share the bowl

or to challenge me, seeing if I could spit the pit

further than him

~ * ~ * ~ *

Submitted with many thanks for their service to writers to the following:

Poetry Pantry at: http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/2011/09/poetry-pantry-is-now-open-67.html#comment-form  AND

Poetry Picnic Week 5 – Jingle’s New Poetry Place!

http://gooseberrygoespoetic.blogspot.com/2011/09/poetry-picnic-wk-5-object-thing-form.html