Day 8
Free
See how far you can go
free from birdsong, from
the kinds of tunes they sing,
melodies that stay all day.
Bee buzz too gets in and stays.
Tree whooshes swing and sway,
harmonies to the birds’
glee at being alive, awake —
free yourself to hear it all,
free yourself to let it rain down.
Day 9
Rig Ride
From the bed
of the ambulance, flickers
of lights, shreds of siren, trees
whizzing by in the wrong direction,
medic with a frowning try
at the IV, and snow blowing
around. Unseasonable incident
of a-fib, nothing poetic
going on, heart cannot recall
its own meter. Left turn
seems like right, right is more
left than when I’m driving;
breath running along side the rig
trying to catch up, BP off the charts.
In my head pictures of my babies
held up wet and squalling, Christmas lights,
Halloween masks, wedding music.
Is it the same in this ambulance
as the moment when my hearing
went in the left ear, never to return?
Snow keeps tumbling, heart racing hard
to figure out how many stanzas are left.
Day 10
Algebra
Formulas and factoring,
a letter done unto by other letters
equals a number. Values and sines
and other gobbledy-gook
no one could make me feel
with passion. Mr Davenport,
you said algebra was like poetry,
that it was pure and beautiful.
2 feet = stressed, unstressed x 2.
I doubt Wordsworth factored algebraic
lines by candle lamp or on a bridge.
Algebra is the stuff of boredom,
not a recipe for love or madness.
Day 11
Visiting My High School English Teacher,
Durgin Pines Nursing Home, Kittery Maine
She taught me everything I know
about language and how it works,
but now her tongue keeps stopping her
from sharing what she’d like to say.
Electric sheep are in her brain
short-circuiting her thoughts.
She remembers me,
then I’m gone a bit, then back,
then could be anyone who’s come
for tea. I dare not stay too long
or I will break in half over this
mannered, brilliant teacher,
dying here memory by memory.
Mrs P, I’ll speak for you now,
let others know to do their best
to keep their prepositions tucked
in properly, and not to split
infinitives at all. I’ll show
them how to diagram a line
and find the verb, dependent clause,
or make an essay lyrical.
I dreamed all night her speech returned;
we walked the halls where we had been
teacher and pupil long ago. I woke before
the light, knew it wasn’t true at all.
Your work is done
now, you should get a little rest.
Day 12
Snow Shoes
I wanted to make a sonnet,
something springly fresh, bright poem
replete with blowing buds and bees.
I wanted to make a poem
to celebrate that winter’s done,
write no more despisèd weather
fronts coming in to dump the cold
even Canada doesn’t want.
But today, wearing pretty shoes
and a thin sweater, I duck hail,
brace against a wind that wounds me
like a gutted fish. I shiver
against it, rage the icy sky
with a raised fist, and curse Nature
her venomous proclivities.
Four short hours ago I stood
barefoot, wading up to my knees
in the Atlantic, sun steaming
the surf that rolled against my legs.
Not for me I ask for ceasing
snow, drier ground; it’s for my shoes,
pretty ballerina slippers
unfit for hail or slushy ground
or the snow that just keeps falling,
piling up. Wind circles its dark
intention upon my sweet shoes
without a sign of its retreat.
Will these poor feet soon be dry?
Or will winter wreak its horrid
temper, ever long and brutal
against these innocent shoes worn
today to celebrate a spring
that’s not yet strong enough to come?
Day 13
Chicken Picnic
When weather in the barnyard turns
away from sleet and snow and hail
our early rise is filled with sun
and eggs are dyed and basketed
for eager children’s frivolous
Sunday play, thoughts turn to picnic
time. Mother works the night before,
packs the hamper chuck-a-block
with sandwiches and chicken
freshly fried. The smells of kitchen
preparation wake us from sleep,
call us into play clothes, sandals
on our feet, every face happy
for a day off with our neighbors.
I think however bright the mood,
the chickens cannot be happy
to become our Easter picnic fare.
Indeed I think their day is grim.
I wonder what might have become
of Penny Sue, my favorite hen.
I could not eat my little pet
grown fat in winter from my care.
Maybe I’ll just eat potato
salad and skip the fried chicken.
Day 14
Liaison (a villanelle)
I notice his stare;
his eyes are like flame.
Something dark forms in the air
over us, a dangerous thing and rare.
It’s something I can’t name.
I notice his stare,
a warning like a rocket’s blare,
a spark, a sizzle. It’s that I blame.
Something dark forms in the air.
His eyes burn through me, pare
me to the bone. It’s nothing tame.
I notice his stare.
The game is on then, dear,
a quietly dangerous game.
Something dark is in the air.
His glance meets mine: come here.
We go deep into the game.
I return his stare.
Sorry darling, it’s just that his stare
makes me forget your name.
I’m lost entirely in his stare.
Something dark is in the air.
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