By All That’s Holy

By all that’s holy–
which is everything, of course,
just because we, struggling
irregular fractals fail
to see the way we all
fit together, life glimpsed
in profile while the macro-
cosm gyrates in a syncopated
song we’ll never comprehend
or always (those two words
signify the black and white
world where praise lurks
and longs to sing)–
we rock together.
Your tummy hurts.
We snuggle in fleece
since preschool insists
you cannot return until
the germs they sold you
have been digested.
At grandma’s house, well-rested,
we try out anger words.
Gobbledegook, fraggle.
When you’re three and angry,
how to convey your intense
emotions and be felt,
instead of invoking ire
that your bad word ignites.
I’m with you here. I understand
more than I did at three,
and even so, you teach me
with every look and hug
by all that’s holy.

Inspired by: Profile, Macro and Holy.

Soundcloud recording here.

Today I’ll Buy No Sorrows

Imagination sets in. Pretty soon I’m singin’ doo, doo, doo, lookin’ out my back door.~John Fogerty

An hour before dawn, a helicopter’s
clear symbol of inquiry–this is News,
not an austere government’s spy
machination, yet the chuntering counter-
beat creates unease, even
in my embraced-silence. Deep
indigo shrugs off thin appeals
searching spotlight can’t penetrate
the dark composing receptive pulsing.
Beyond the houselights, the lake
surely gleams whitely, all the snow
caught and held glistening–
I swear, I saw this yesterday–
now a mysterious difference in the way
light falls, received, reflected.
The noisy rotors recede.
My heart’s relieved.
I know nothing at all.
And still I watch all the windows,
tracking the way night clings
to the start of winter’s day,
alert for headlights carving
the space, bringing
my grandson at last.

Inspired by: Austere, Clear and Looking Out Of My Back Door.

Soundcloud recording here.

Girl Power!

We cease our labor, dive
into that fling your arms
around joy when you get
gotten. Fire uncovered
under pastel pretties,
our blaze begotten,
we discover girl power!
The musical beings we are
empower each other beyond
the scoffing provable hypotheses.
Doffing those scientific hats
we’re up to bat.
They doubt what we know
bound to their blinders
saying what’s so with
constant reminders of
facts they’ve learned in books.
We take a look and see
they’ve forgotten their experiments
need them, spirit-
less evidence decreed
crystals are just rocks,
for the lack of a voice box.
Soured by their lack of magic,
and even though that’s tragic,
we slide around their tricky
doubts, weaving our knowing
through their stance
without a single glance
to see if they’ll follow.
Listen: I’m a warrior for
sentience, it’s all stardust
wherever you are. Sitting criss-
cross applesauce with younglings
we discover how to run
rings around the stagnant
places. We do fun things:
offer handmade impossible
treats, our pizza flavors:
blueberry love
is our favorite. Singing
the new grove as we co-
create reality with no limits.
In harmony we offer
our hearts: just try one bite,
you’ll see just how we be.

Inspired by: Discover, Labor, Musical, Pastel and a visit with lovely grandnieces.

Recording on soundcloud here.

Aftermath

My hope: a jolt of caffeine
will expand all this constraint

in temples, neck, clenched hand,
tight jaw, and all the inner spaces

filtered in gloom like creeping
through a musty tomb.

I’ve learned–when my cells cry
for water, lacking sustenance

of the only daughter–to listen
to the signals, subtle

that all this clanging tends
to muffle. Even so, I stretch

out flat, sleep the only cure
I can endure. In my deep

healing now, these pains
are rare. My new eccentric

lifestyle yields to care
for body heart and mind

and how the we affects
the complex connectionality.

But yesterday, a child of three
ecstatic after weeks to be with me—

the towers we built, the muffins
baked, the songs we sang

to geese beside the frozen lake–
he couldn’t nap, his inner joy

and power as I treasured this
young boy tuning in

to his questing heart, his demands
to know simply how electricity

moves through the house,
ignites the soul of you and me.

This last concept a bit too much.
He argued that it couldn’t be

that he was sourced by energy.
The climax reached, his powers ignited

and how to integrate all this excitement?
He leaned against my chest to hear

The Way We Work, so tired,
pointing at each illustration even so

determined to acquire
new balance as he ventures out

and then, climbs back into the
comfort of my lap again.

Inspired by: Rare, Sleep, Eccentric and Climax.

Listen to this poem on soundcloud here.

Running Dishes

He let me know this spooky
dress-up costume Mommy sent
is not for me and so we leave
it in his bag. After all,
I’m going as a poem
in spite of his advice:
poems are not scary!
I grin and scribble more.
Shine a light on family
secrets, spark irate debate
from friends and huffy sighs
from lovers. In between
we sing a little star that
twinkles. He ad libs
verses of the shiny moon-
friend, cows jumping and
a rebel spoon. Sparks
winking in innocuous
rhymes all the time.

Inspired by: Irate, Light, Innocuous, Spooky and the Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt dress.

Being Schooled

Lately these mornings as he runs
by, a flower cries.

They won’t let him
stop, he’s buckled into blacktop

rules. On the way to school
he mourns what is uncrushed

the perfect blossom lonely
in the morning rush.

Tomorrow he can come and
linger here, gather dew copious

like tears on his finger
near these blooms he knows

so well. I’ll give him room
a spell, re-membering, hearing

petals fall in ecstasy
being squeezed by one

so small. The exquisite pain
of love so grand

staining skin
absorbed in this tiny hand.

Inspired by: School, Copious, Crush and the phrase “A flower cried.”

Pulled By The Past

He’s bursting to play in this brisk
autumn, so soon after we both succumbed

to the nasty bug from preschool.
Something inside cries, no! Seemingly stray,

a thought, how did they manage in olden
times? And just like that, I catch

the epigenetic trauma alert interlaced
and concealed. Keeping us alive.

The whole damn town reeling two
hundred years ago, this child’s

fifth great grandmother losing four
loved ones in the fall, weather

so similar it stirs our guts and
makes us jittery. We’ll bundle up,

declare this trauma broken up,
a new ruler of integration and

consciousness, choosing fresh air
and being present for ancestral warnings.
Inspired by: Jittery, Brisk, Broken and Ruler and the tragic life of Mary Glaze, my third great grandmother and the traumatic fall of 1838. First Solomon, her 43-year-old husband, died on September 26, followed four days later by her five-year-old daughter Sarah, and three days later her three-year-old daughter Elizabeth.  Did I mention Mary was in her last trimester of pregnancy?  On 28 October she gave birth to a son, Joseph, who died several weeks later.