This week's poems stretch from a wondering about the birth of snowflakes to tongue-in-cheek looks at war, gun legislation, and a quirky musing about St Patrick. Also included a poem about my recent scary adventure in the hospital.
Enjoy.
Day 15
Malevolent Queen
The earth’s the right place for love...
— Robert Frost
What did Bentley see
in his lens? Before the lacy flakes
sublimed, he froze them for us in time,
gave us a pattern for winter, a pretty way
beyond the grumbling over shoveling
and plowing. No two alike he said,
a miracle of Nature. Conceived
at 30,000 ft, Nature’s killer queen
colorless brutal beauty, falls
so softly we don’t suspect
her malevolence. 39 million tons
of snow can fall in a single snowstorm,
energy of 120 atomic bombs.
She’s a clever chameleon, reflecting
like a prism what we want to see.
But Earth’s the place for love,
so we revel in white and soft,
turn our freezing faces into the wind, skate
the problem. Light a fire, snuggle
together with a glass of merlot,
watch destruction fall one flake at a time.
Day 16
Seaside Flâneur
She is not anchored,
not at home
except on the beach,
in the roil of surf and wind.
She is all sand, sky, spume
that rises beyond the jetty.
No longer young enough
for even a sidelong glance
by young men sailing
frisbees along the strand, she
is a seaside flâneur, sees how
they pose, turn each move into bait
for the gene pool, sees the preen
of every tanned girl’s stretch
and turn in answer to their call.
She remembers the scent of summer
on her own legs. What was once
hers: a hand smoothing oil
on her thighs, the space between
her breasts, and warm lips
against her hair —
she hears the ghost:
Acker Bilk’s swooning clarinet,
Stranger on the Shore.
Day 17
St Patrick
Ah, Pádraig, ye were, in truth, a Scot!
Dragged off to the emerald isle
at tender age, made slave in Antrim,
tending flocks and roused to prayer —
you felt neither snow’s sting nor rain’s
malevolence. More than a hundred
prayers you made, the spirit alive in you.
Were there not petitions sent up
for you to fix The Troubles
between Orangemen and Green?
Who alive now remembers
your passioned quest in Ulster,
in Meath, in Munster? Yea, all forget,
bombs going to shrapnel in trash bins, gunfire
reporting all night; yet no help from you.
Are you then a lost Saint, fit only for drinking
and a merry break from Lenten burdens?
Where now is your holy power? When did you lose
your way to save history? Would you have kept
your popularity if you had charmed the snakes
from Medusa’s head, averted the asp
from Cleo’s breast or Exupery’s royal tot?
Ah, Paddy, the Irish still want you as their slave,
forgetting you are, after all, a Scot.
Day 18
Common Pastime
It’s normal to bombast,
to heckle and jeer,
tomatoes and rotten lettuce
ready to be flung
at the heads of state, our neighbors,
colorful expletives and slurs
flying from the tongues
of pastors and plumbers,
fishermen and flower vendors.
It’s our constitutional right,
our common pastime. Guns
too our right. Don’t we all live
for the day when six year olds pack
not just lunches but semi-autos?
Heckles will pierce, not just feelings,
but lungs and hearts. Peace
is so damned unjust after all,
something for sissies.
Day 19
Break, Break, Break
Valentine’s Day 1965,
a break in his voice, a zip
of energy I feel through the phone:
I love you. I miss you.
We should date other people.
45 years now, married to those other people,
we break up over and over, just for fun.
Day 20
Propophol Rhapsody
At the edge of my mind, a rhapsody:
cellos, oboes, violas, a trio of flutes.
Michael Jackson took too much,
left in a wrong-headed thriller.
It runs through my IV now, puts me down
for just a moment; I’m off then
in two jolts, trying to stop my heart
running in crazy circles.
The prince waits
just beyond the curtain, praying
we will tick on together
as we planned. I don’t feel myself go
or come back. I wonder where I wandered.
Snow falls as it has been doing all night.
Day 21
Panda & Ernie
Nothing left from baby days
no stuffed animals, dolls; books
gone too, yard sale finds gone
to mere memories.
Her mother, always tidy, never one
to wax emotional over things,
emptied her room
of what might need dusting:
ice skates, ballerina jewelry box,
photo albums, Panda.
It took her years to find a set
of Judy Bolton mystery books,
and years of resentment over losing
Panda built a permanent wall
between them, late apology
half-hearted and hollow.
In 1981 came Ernie, black and white
and growing old with her, his fur
loved to a fine patina.
Mothers, keep everything,
let your children choose.
Mostly, don’t have yard sales
when your daughter is away at college.
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