A Poem for a Poet

departure

 

Woods
walker,
wanderer,
wisdom seeker:
she willed us along
beneath willows and oaks
toward the life-giving water
of words. See, she says, how they rise
and flow ~ quenching imagination’s
thirst, flooding away darkness from our eyes.

 

Comments always are welcome.
My etheree was written in response to Mary Oliver’s death. For more information on the form, a syllabic poem that, at its most basic, contains ten lines and a total of fifty-five syllables, please click here.

Who’s To Say?

 

Fading but still recognizable, the coneflower drowsing in late afternoon sunlight seemed oblivious to the laughter surrounding it.

“Look!” said the friend who knows me well enough to know the reason for my laughter. “What do you suppose it wants to say?” “I don’t know,” I said, “but it certainly knows how to ask for attention.”

We laughed because the arrangement of the coneflower petals — so much like crossed fingers — reminded us both of my own finger-crossing habit. As a child, caught between my eagerness to take part in adult discussions and parental admonitions not to interrupt others, I often found it hard to plunge into the ebb and flow of conversation. By the time an opportunity presented itself, I’d forgotten what I’d meant to say.

As a memory aid, I began crossing my fingers while waiting for a chance to speak. After others noticed the gesture and learned its purpose, my crossed fingers became a family joke. Over time, they became a family tradition: a recognizable sign that someone had something to say, and would like a chance to say it.

Of course, crossed fingers have taken on multiple meanings over the centuries. The coneflower might have been as interested in concealment as conversation, or it might have been hoping for the luck of a lingering fall. Whatever its purpose, the ambiguity of its gesture fits nicely into an etheree.

 

Tucked
behind
a stiffened
back, two fingers
cross to temper truth;
to void a hasty vow
or lure the touch of Lady
Luck. Superstition, some declare —
but when traditions linger in a
hand, who’s to say where truth and falsehood cross?

 

Comments always are welcome.
For more information on the Etheree, a syllabic poem that, in its basic form, contains ten lines and a total of fifty-five syllables, please click here.

Breeze

 

Had
this breeze
refused an
evening rising,
we might have missed such
clouds; such silent, feathered
gliding down hidden, sharp-edged
currents; such easy slope toward night.
Had this breeze not risen, there might have
been no falling, nor memories at all.

 

Comments always are welcome.
Newer readers might not be familiar with one of my favorite poetic forms: the Etheree, a syllabic poem containing, in its basic form, ten lines and a total of fifty-five syllables. For more information about the form, please click here.

Rainbows, Reconsidered

(Click to enlarge)
The
rainbow
is itself
the gold, its arc
a wealth of color;
 no pot suffices to
 contain its shimmer of pure
promise. Slanted light, glinting drops
dare to stand as witness; life still shines
beyond the storm, to light this world’s darkness.
Comments always are welcome.
For more information on the Etheree, a syllabic poem that, in its basic form, contains ten lines and a total of fifty-five syllables, please click HERE.

A Gift of Ordinary Time

Lilacs and Memories
Some
days seem
 meant to pass
unnoticed,  filled
with fading ferns or
phlox, laundry blown both south
and north by swirling, lifting
winds. Tabled lilacs, fragrant, sweet,
reclaim those passing hours, renew their
 grace-filled beauty in aging, time-worn hearts.
Comments are welcome. To leave a comment, please click below.
For more information on the Etheree, a syllabic poem that, in its basic form, contains ten lines and a total of fifty-five syllables, please click HERE.