Thursday, September 29, 2011

making rope

We held each end, spread
five times the need apart, handles 
smooth and firm, twine doubly doubled
rat-tails, porcine bristled, porcupine fine.

Twisting, taught, tonal, tight,
you held firm, leaned against its pull,
I spun the handle, and wound it round,
tough, alive, coiled and stretched the spring.

Preconceived, at the cusp of curling,
a third hand becomes anchor, midway holding 
half of each snaking together, weaving one wound braid.
Capable of unraveling, we hold onto the knot.

(I have learned to make rope from twine. The process becomes magic in the hands of boys, with a t-shaped dowel and nail tool, spinning the twine tightly until it folds upon itself in a coiled rope. 

I am learning to keep a relationship from unraveling, like a rope maker, we need to tie up loose ends)

Friday, September 16, 2011

divining pool

Pool viewing:

smooth surfaced, obscuring depths,

images reflected, mixing into water,

fluid yielded, encompassing forms,

surface roiled, dispersing views,

for a cool drought,  quenching relief.

Saturday, September 10, 2011

Three-quarter moon

The three-quarter moon turned away from me tonight,
her full lips set, jaw edged tight,
war-paint eyes turned to the right,
the three-quarter moon cut shadows with light.

The three-quarter moon
took away the stars,
took away the sea,
took away the clouds,
for a two-toned realm of fog
and isles,
above the horizon line,
hills underfoot,
one step
from the sky,
alabaster lit.

Sunday, September 4, 2011

Indian Summer

Apple jelly, wood cutting,
pear pie, windows shutting.
Arms of grapevines growing mounds
arching greens upon the ground.
Buckeyes fruit, late and sallow,
leaves dropping first to fall.
Thick and prickly flesh rises
to night’s sightless icy breezes.
Sun hides, static, pallid
within a seamless, cloudless pall.
The Mother’s hills are
thinned and brown
where soles of summer
have worn her down.

Don’t, yet, give in to the cold.
Don’t, yet, let it take hold.
Put the woolen sweater back.
Rest sandaled feet in the Mother’s talc.
Open the window,
wrap in Her afgan,
draw heated breath
with every the pass of the fan.
Crickets still summon
honeysuckle's song

for Indian Summer

around the corner. 


Thursday, September 1, 2011

Serendipity in a Paradox, cont.

Broken Glass

The pan shattered,
from oven to stovetop
who knew the burner was hot?
Rich chocolate creamy brownies
smelling acrid,
suddenly exploded
all over her
all over her feet
all over the kitchen
all into tears.
Shards of glinting needles
and burned cake
picked, wiped,
swept, hunted.

What a relief
for once,
to fix.