Little lights ...

Little lights 

sleep over – at my grand-

mother’s as a tiny child –

She had a green wooden

back porch and rickety

stairs that creaked down

to a yard that to my four-

year-old self was football

sized – hydrangeas – those

snow-ball bushes bursted

blooms big as basketballs –

and that hot summer night

given a mason jar – she

told me about fire-flies.

They sounded magical.

I could not wait – even

before sunset and after

my bath – dressed only

in one of her satin slips

straps sliding – skirt

slippery swirling round

my ankles – I tiptoed

bare-foot down the

stairs and waited –

the jar grew heavy

and heavier – as the

sun still held in the

sky – Not sure when

my eyes closed but

when they opened

it was dark and I

was on my grand-

mother’s lap –

“Look” said she – and

in the navy night the

air flickered -flashed

as though fairies dipped

and danced peeking in

and out of the darkness

I was enchanted. 

Slid from her lap –

mason jar bumped

to the grass – I did

not wish to catch,

only to whirl with,

and I turned in

circles in the dark,

fireflies on fingers

in my hair, I was in-

vincible – blessed –

immortal – mystic

metapmorphasized –

a princess in the

living diamonds –

scattered shimmers

through that night –

I never knew

that one needed

dark to see light

until then ..

on that

firefly

night.

And now

tonight

another

night

dark

and

we

are

the

fire

flies…

now…

Dedication to origins

Dedication to origins   

I come from the loins of teenage 

passion - think  Here From Eternity 

at a lake in the. Catskills - I come from 

the watchful whirling spectator of two

youngsters in love - singing from song 

sheets - playing handball on bare apartment 

walls - rocking their mattress in what I thought 

was their private wrestling game that they so 

enjoyed - I come from a movie idol dad lighting 

two cigarettes and giving one to my mom with 

the perfect tawny skin and tangerine lips - 

and from beyond this literal love - beneath - to 

the seductive scent of turpentine, the story beneath 

music-trembling-walls,  sinking into my soul as my 

tiny chest trembled - I come from the coalescence of 

survival in the face of oppression of having my small 

face turned to ingest the taste of ash - to feel the closing 

chambers - feel the forest and swamps beneath the ripped

feet of the fortunate -to fall into a hand hewn grave and to

burn bright in the crematorium of forever - I come from endless 

wondering at the ponderous spectrum between the poles of 

love and hate and a continuing incomprehension of indifference. 

I come from the far beyond then, the life bound then, the evolving 

this, and the thrusting forward into the then as yet unwrit ...

In dedication to these flickered images of origin and the 

layered miasmic, the mummurated mass of all omitted ...

each moment touched and razor scored another layer on my soul ...

earthbound still and yet dedicated to the sensed oneness that 

connects this filamented me to it

all. 

  

If … only

If … only

If only I could catch 

the whisper in the wind –

a single floated chestnut

blossom, the tincture-tang

of turpentine, shimmer of

ebon raven’s wing –

If only -

after all, 

I could coalesce 

all contained, re-

tained, imprinted

held to converge

from this anchored 

soul’s simple loving will

you manifested from the All 

where filamented you persist

to a-light 

on earth 

for yet

another

sacred 

touch 

4 poems inspired by the prompt "Stolen" Day 5. PAD (Poetic Asides)

Four and a half months 

On an April afternoon filled with sunlight

I painted my kitchen with bright yellow enamel

thought I felt The Universe smiling upon me –

Until she crept into the day, stealing buried treasure

Stolen: at four and a half months into an unaware 

childbearing - My tiny daughter, snatched, though 

I never knew for certain she was a girl, I felt her –

Felt her trapped in a Fallopian Faustian horror – 

could see her, caught, captured and squeezed, 

beating her miniature fists and feet on closing walls – 

A well intentioned and sweetly Catholic friend-of-the-

family surgeon – assured me when I awoke with –

one tube and no child to be – assured me smiling 

gently that the child had been perfect – compounding 

the theft – demolishing any this-is-for-the-best peace 

of mind – successfully twinning grief and guilt 

grief and guilt – at my inability to keep her safe. 

I stayed on the maternity floor listening to the 

unstolen infants –my daughter’s future colleagues. 

That Autumn – the Universe called again – yet again just

at four and one half months – of a newly anointed child-

to-be - One I felt fluttering breasts strokes and somersaults

within my womb – In a gush of blood more blindingly bright

than any seen before or since …the theft began - again – 

A short time later – gowned and bedded – a student nurse 

at my side – I felt the slip slide of my child whoosh from me 

as its soul danced somewhere 

beyond my puny understanding. 

I believe the Universe is kind and often smiles upon me as on

all others and yet, and yet. 

I know Her other face and name from long, long ago –

Thief.   

Freely given 

I never had a kiss stolen

or a watch or wallet - 

nothing of that sort

 all that flew away 

from me - 

was given - 

either directly 

before or after

the fact - but..

time ... time..

lately there has

been Time which

I have allowed to

slip -  stolen only

by my magnificent

arrogant negligence

of its importance and

so I return - calming 

this pounding heart

for moments, months,

years that have no re-

clamation and avow to

be more mind-full

now and ever 

more

as the

clock 

ticks

stolen? 

his first laugh and the gales that followed

the way he pulled himself up and stood on

two feet, ten toes unrecognizable to me, 

the flash of new teeth pushing through 

the color his eyes became after newborn days

his third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth,

ninth, tenth, eleventh, twelfth, thirteenth, 

fourteenth, fifteenth, sixteenth, seventeenth,

eighteenth, nineteenth, twentieth, twenty-first, 

twenty-second, months. 

the delight of recognition in his eyes 

when he sees me

and reaches up

for a hug

this first-born

grandson -

six minutes

in geography

and an infinite

abyss of un-

explained

unrelenting

banishment

away. 

Stolen?

I'd say.

Grown and Flown Away – Matricide in modernity 

(a clumsy stab at a vilanelle) 

My son has grown and flown away

His ringtone silent, long now still

There is he says nothing more to say

He lives behind an enmity of gray

Beyond all pleadings, talk and why and will

My son has grown and flown away 

Cast me as though dead each day

I cannot revoke love nor maternity

There is nothing more to say 

Why is it that the words still play

In ever thronging bonging possibility 

My son has grown and flown away 

Posits and poetry flutter and lay 

He cannot read what he will not see

There is I suppose nothing more to say 

What would the Oracle say of this modern matricidal display

Irrevocable, inviolable love blood borne by him - incredibly

My son. My son has grown and somehow flown away 

It simply cannot be that there is nothing more to say 

This year 

this year as fires wave 

too much silence to find

in the face of implacable 

Mother Earth - garments 
shredding, poets writing, 
as the world searches for 
one or three or any wise 
men or women - a bright 
star to see - as heads 
across this globe are 
bowing under the weight 
of hatred loosed -

this year as fires wave -

sweet rain is gathering 

ready to fall fast and soft

on all fires - freeing 

blossoms 
waiting 
to be born 

Grown and Flown Away – Matricide in modernity

Grown and Flown Away – Matricide in modernity 

( Note: a bit of “House on the Hill” by Edward Arlington Robinson – a nod to Oedipus in this stab at playing around with my take on a villanelle – I played around a bit - added words to the final lines and changed the first two second line rhymes to mimic House on the Hill.) 

Grown and Flown Away – Matricide in modernity 

My son has grown and flown away
His ringtone silent, long now still
There is he says nothing more to say

He lives behind an enmity of gray
Beyond all pleadings, talk and why and will
My son has grown and flown away 

Cast me as though dead each day
I cannot revoke love nor maternity
There is nothing more to say 

Why is it that the words still play
In ever thronging bonging possibility
My son has grown and flown away 

Posits and poetry flutter and lay
He cannot read what he will not see
There is I suppose nothing more to say 

What would the Oracle say of this modern matricidal display
Irrevocable, inviolable love blood borne by him – incredibly
My son. My son has grown and somehow flown away
It simply cannot be that there is nothing more to say