Tall Pines State Preserve, May 2020
sky and water meld
in evanescent embrace,
and birds swim with the fish
through green branches,
gilded by light above and below
A gogyohka Frank’s 5-Line Japanese Poetic Forms dVerse Prompt.
My poem was inspired by the photo above that I took this morning during a walk my husband and I took at a state nature preserve that was formerly a gold course.
Through thousands of timeless changes
she’s slept, awakened, and wondered when, why–
and if—whispering wisdom in the pink petals of dawn—
in the shining silver strands of moonlight–
as the tides rise and fall
and waves tumble, wearing down rocks
and towns crumble,
she sighs at the shadows,
sings a song of healing, knowing
it may not be enough.
***
These are things that fall—
snowflakes
raindrops,
cherry blossoms,
my mother, over and over
again, the text or call,
she’s bruised, confused
about what happened
yet nearly blind,
she sometimes sees
these things that rise—
the volume of a laugh,
the sun and moon
spring flowers
spirits
at the sound of bird songs
drifting from dawn-lit trees
in the lengthening days
that sing of hope
and the renewal of life–
there the crocuses bloom
glowing in radiant amethyst
now jonquils tinkle their tiny bells
and soon sunny daffodils smile
and say hello, always friendly
robins frolic
as the worm moon lingers,
and the mockingbird sings
an aria of love and longing
from a budding tree branch.
From the buds
come leaves or flowers
and fruit–
and so, an impromptu late lunch
we drink the fermented fruit
when other plans fell through
but the sun is shining
and so, we sip and reflect
and take this time
to laugh and talk
and then another evening, we walk
in the city awake in the almost-spring
despite the looming threats
it’s a Saturday night
we listen to the comedian
and we laugh,
even while she talks of hand-washing
she is funny,
and we needed this
we all need this–
my mother sees my dead father,
sometimes they talk
she asks me to see if he’s in the lounge
I don’t see him, I say
maybe he will be here later.
The comedian says there is no rainbow bridge,
her dead pets are buried in the ground, gone
but remembered,
perhaps we carry these ghosts within us
do we hear them whisper? I don’t know.
These are things that rise and fall and rise again
a baby,
eyelids,
civilizations,
hope–
blooming
again and again.
The only tree on the block in bloom, Walnut Street, Philadelphia.
No movies this week, but Paula Poundstone was very funny, and it was a fun night out, and our little date lunch was a wonderful little mid-week break.
“How clear, how lovely bright,
How beautiful to sight
Those beams of morning play. . .
Ensanquining the skies
How heavily it dies. . .
How hopeless under ground
Falls the remorseful day.”
–from A.E. Houseman, “How Clear, How Lovely Bright”
The line, the flow
the glow
of life, scattering
leaves, the gathering of nuts and seeds
(the sky bleeds)
reflecting the spattering
of wounds, the broken glass
before the gas
and rustlings
of war and wind
the leaves are thinned,
but hear them crunch and crackle
as squirrels scamper and play
in the fading light of autumn day
and the birds fly—geese and grackle—
and hawks and vultures soar
before the train comes, roars
down the tracks
taking me somewhere—
up and down, stairs
we go, into the wind,
the boat sails
and what tales
might it have, of rivers or sea?
Delaware River from Patco train heading to Philadelphia
And is there a lighthouse, with ghostly
glowing and horn blowing, or mostly
sunny skies?
Time must sail, too
and we a sometime crew
walk through history
18th Century garden on site of Benjamin Rush’s House, Philadelphia
how can it be otherwise,
the lows and highs
of our own lives, the mystery
of others–we see a groom and bride
and I hope they lovingly glide
into a life of love and joy
A wedding party taking photos at “my willow” at Dock Creek, Old City, Philadelphia
(Pause, we drink coffee and wine
stop for a time—
but time is coy)
and autumn comes cold and dark
but there is beauty, even if it’s stark—
see the moon rise over fields stripped of grain
Moonrise over a South Jersey field, November.
glowing, humming—this autumn sky
and the clouds and time
the time before the rain, snow, the train
of time. The movie train that circles
through the frozen world, almost eternal
but the cost
a cautionary tale
of where we might sail
and is our world already lost?
Crow calls
the remorseful day falls
setting underground
in fiery ball, unheeding
the world goes on, speeding
and we spellbound.
But I don’t celebrate bleeding—
or ferocious gods, the leaders leading
into destruction–
let poetry fly
through vast haunted eternity, die
the war-fever. Find a new function
for our minds and hearts
in words of love, kindness, and arts
that soar with feathered wings–
how clear, how lovely bright
the sight
of what could be, of hope that sings
as the walls tumble down.
This was a week of elections, cat dental surgery, the anniversary of Kristallnaught (November 9, 1938), and the tearing down of the Berlin Wall. In the U.S. today is Veteran’s Day. It was formerly Armistice Day, but of course, war has not ended. I respect all who have served and honor all those who have given their lives in serving their country. While someone like Hitler had to be stopped, it would be better if people did not let such people gain power.
For Merril’s Movie Club: We watched Snowpiercer, a 2014 movie we had never seen, but since we recently saw Parasite, and it is an earlier movie by the same director, Bong Joon-ho, we decided to watch it. It’s on Netflix. This one’s in English, and it’s much more of an action movie than I would normally see. Like Parasite, the movie covers the issues of class and climate,and there was definitely much to think about. Overall, we both liked it. There is also fighting and bloody scenes though, so be forewarned. We saw Lighthouse in the theater. It’s also in English. I know, strange, right? (Don’t worry, we’re still watching Black Spot, so reading subtitles there.). Great acting, beautiful black and white cinematography. Very strange, surrealistic movie of two lighthouse keepers on an isolated island. Some of the dialogue is taken from Melville and lighthouse keepers’ diaries. It’s somewhat similar in style to his previous movie, The Witch.
“All I know
Is you are there
You are there
And I am here.
–Irene Sankoff and David Heine, “I am Here,” from Come From Away
“Suddenly there’s nothing in between me and the sky”
Irene Sankoff and David Heine, “Me and the Sky,” from Come From Away
“Think of it as a ghost play; the actor’s older bodies are haunting these thirteen-year-old characters.”
Clare Barron on her play, Dance Nation
“Are you here?” my mother asks
as I, involved in some ordinary task
stand just beyond her sight.
The boundaries between mist and light
time and dreams, seems porous, slight
and she drifts, and we drift again and again
Reflections in a rain puddle, Philadelphia
sunshine, then rain
“Here,” says the woman in the book
“Here,” I say, “Look.”
The twilight and dawn
the days that falter, end with a song
look at them fly
nothing between them and the sky
and we drink wine, talk of movies and why
they did this or that—it’s a metaphor
I say, and we laugh, remember more
to discuss, remember the time when it was just us
or when we were thirteen–
remember how life seemed?
All emotions, and the dreams?
Emotions now more settled, but more stress—
I digress.
Time right now to sit in gardens bright
to catch autumn’s glowing light
rain and sunshine, tears, delight
I was there once, now I’m here in sight–
of what? I’m not certain, but you are here
together we’re here,
and there’s magic in theater–and deer
and nature, magic in each day’s dawning
watching the sun rise, yawning
as it sets, and the cats that sleep, never fawning
honest with their desire
for food and love, we’re the suppliers
but we get it back, their love doesn’t expire
no ghosts in their bodies, at least that I see
they can just be–
and sometimes so can we—
here together,
I am here,
you are here,
nothing between us and sky–
in my dreams, we fly.
We actually saw two shows this week: Come From Away and Dance Nation. Come from Away is heartwarming without being cloying. It’s about people doing good. It’s about the town in Newfoundland that takes in flights following the terrorist attacks on 9/11. It’s poignant, but also very funny at times. The staging is wonderful, and we saw it in the beautiful Academy of Music in Philadelphia. Dance Nation is about a competitive dance team of middle school kids, but it’s also a memory play, as we see glimpses of the girls (and one boy’s) older selves. All the actors are adults. It’s laugh out loud funny at times, but it also makes you want to cheer. There’s a wonderful speech on female empowerment.
And for Merril’s Movie Club members—we finally got to the movies and saw Parasite. Yes, of course it has subtitles. It’s Korean. It’s about class and metaphors, and it’s excellent, but you know, it’s a Merril movie. 😉 Here’s the trailer.
“Autumn poses the question we all have to live with: How to hold on to the things we love even though we know that we and they are dying. How to see the world as it is, yet find light within that truth.”
–Pico Iyler, Autumn Light: Season of Fire and Farewells, quoted in Brainpickings
In the transitional spaces
of this liminal season,
sun and moon both hold their places
easing in
Morning moon over the river.
the days of swoops and shifts
where sunshine fires gold and red
and nature bewitches with magic gifts–
deer and birds, the leaves unshed
to glow in sunshine, that perfect light
too soon hidden behind the grey
of clouds, and we trudge but fight
the winter’s-coming-wind. “Stay!”
we say to sunshine and golden glow
as we struggle through “the wind tunnel of death”
in rush hour city streets, go with the flow,
see, not so bad, we catch our breath
and onward go, sunshine, then rain
and I work, cook, bake, turn on the heat
to be certain it works, for frigid air comes again
and soon winter winds will roar, and we’ll retreat
not wanting to venture out so long or often
but yet we’ll have to carry on, do what we must
and with blankets, soup, and candles, soften
the cold (and in the dimness hide the dust).
But for now, we walk and celebrate
the accomplishments, good weather, and walk
through parks, a restaurant, a concert—a date
I suppose, we listen to the other couples talk
at other tables and speculate
about their lives. Then we move on—
the concert late into the night, but great
and soon comes another dawn
and more rain. A grey afternoon
my mom nods off to the TV
I make her laugh as I dance to a tune–
Que sera, what will be, will be,
not what we hear, but inevitably
transition lead to something new
leaves fall, rivers flow to the sea,
winter grey and white follows from autumn blue,
but now we watch a French demon on our screen
drink wine and gasp at horror in a world not real
enjoy the make-believe land of the unseen
even as we long for something ideal, feel
unmoored in this world, waiting for disaster
but finding moments of joy to savor
wanting some to slow, some to move faster—
what is the flavor
the scent, of time passing and flowing?
Cinnamon, nutmeg, lilacs, and rain
petrichor rising, snow falling, and fires blowing
smoke into the air—all these over and over again–
as cats play hide and seek,
and children now grown send love in photos,
and each week brings something good or bleak—
and so it goes.
In the liminal spaces
of this liminal season,
the moon hums, traces
her course, she has a reason
even if we don’t know why,
(what questions to ask, the answers unknown)
but hush, hear that sigh?
Listen closely, the moon’s lullaby.
It’s been a crazy week with emotions blowing like the crazy winds. One deadline met, another still to go. We went to a concert at the Scottish Rite Auditorium, David Bromberg and Los Lobos. My husband joked that you had to be over 50 to get in–but wow–those musicians can play! We walked from the theater to Indiya restaurant and then back. We’re watching a horror show on Netflix called Marianne. One episode to go. It definitely made me jump a few times. It’s in French. Sorry, movie club fans, that’s the best I can do right now. I hope to get to the movies soon.
I’ve been feeling stressed for months—deadlines, caring for my mom, trying to fit everything in, waiting for the next disaster. I take a morning walk in the riverside park before the predicted downpour arrives. There I find a bit of magic, a bit of healing. Life goes on.
russet-gold shower
leaves fall on a silent world—
time pauses, deer leaps
I’m linking this Haibun to dVerse’s Open Link Night. Lillian asked for some treats. Seeing deer is a treat for me (as long as they’re not in the road).
“It is summer-gone that I see, it is summer-gone.
The sweet flowers indrying and dying down,
The grasses forgetting their blaze and consenting to brown.”
From Gwendolyn Brooks, “A Sunset in the City”
“Therefore—we do life’s labor—
Though life’s Reward—be done—
With scrupulous exactness—
To hold our Senses—on—”
Dawn comes with a song colored in a blush of dusty pink
whispering secrets
I am light
glowing honey gold
through rose-tinged clouds.
I am sound,
the buzzing drone
of a cicada,
the eager chirping of a sparrow
looking for love.
Look–
Listen–
soon come the shadows
black in the moonlight–
soon comes the silence,
save the skittering of night creatures
over dry brown leaves.
***
It is a week of reflection
abjection and affection
glowering grey
and love that stays
true in hue
though the world’s askew.
Hurricanes and guns,
the loss daughters and sons
to senseless violence
and no defenses
do we have for either wind
or fury underpinned
by those in power—
but here in a bower
a garden of flowers
we sit for hours.
My mother naps
as the sparrow flaps
his wings to no avail–
though he chirps and flails
the lady sparrow ignores him
as he follows from limb to limb
and along the concrete wall
calling, calling to all
“I am here,
my beauty, appear!”
On this Labor Day weekend
we labor and bend
to the inevitable end
of summer and life, we send
thoughts outward with the breeze
we tease
joy for moments when we can
flowers, family, pets, wine—and
I remember how my mother worked
and didn’t shirk
her duty to home or even nation
bucking rivets, no vacation
I’m sure, she tells me of a woman there
who stands up for her—the righteous everywhere—
when the haters hate
six million dead does not set them straight.
Still, she worked all her life
in stores, as mother and wife
and after. An aunt worked sewing
and I wonder, not knowing
what the factory was like,
and if they ever went on strike,
but my mother got to borrow her clothes
and so, it goes
she met my father who lives in her dreams–
he lives on in seams
stitched with invisible thread
in memories real and false, but we tread
lightly because what else can we do–
as we sit under a sky of September blue
knowing that autumn is coming,
but the moon will keep humming,
and we will labor, love, and play
life beyond us will go on, each day
green or barren, this earth
laboring, revolving, giving birth
to new possibilities, hopes, and fears
in endless cycles over thousands of years.
Today is Labor Day here in the U.S. The Mormon Temple near where my mom lives has a lovely little garden square that is open to the public. We enjoyed wine and cheese at Tria, where on Sunday’s they offer specials that they call “Sunday School.” My mom recently told me that a woman defended her when a man or men uttered anti-Semitic slurs at her–while she was working as a “bucker” for riveters during WWII.
“August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.”
―Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath
“Of what is past, or passing, or to come.”
–W.B. Yeats, “Sailing to Byzantium”
A breeze drifts from blushing sky,
Robin sings reveille, a new day wakes
carrying time’s perfume,
a scent of days blended over and over
in a soft voice
the woman asks the day
and wonders where time has gone,
but it is still here—
she gazes through a window,
a young woman looks back
***
In these last days of August
as summer goes a-rambling,
and we go scrambling–
in this odd uneven time
of thunderstorms and brilliant sun
we see summer almost done
when temperatures fall,
as do a few leaves,
but it deceives
we’ll have heat rise again,
even as vultures soar
high above the shore
and insects skitter
and crawl–
but that’s not all
Cicada-eating wasp
Great Horned Caterpillar at Red Bank Battlefield, NJ
we see as we walk
in parks and city streets,
hearing the beats
of different drums
people, creatures, machines strum
and hum, but come
see fountains glittering
with diamond droplets flying
and spirits sighing
as they dance to the sky
where sun-stippled,
and wind-rippled
they form clouds
that cross the far expanse
of blue, and dance
into the night
and daughters come with smiles
across the miles
to visit. We drink wine
on a beautiful day
wishing days like this would stay
and winter never come.
When flowers and bugs will die
and Persephone in darkness sigh
for light and mother-love.
But in the now we celebrate–
never too late, to grab a plate
to dine and drink
to talk
to walk
to give heart-felt wishes
to laughs and kisses
to be happy for all of this
And so,
on her 97th birthday I write:
“On this day,
this is what I wish for you–
the love in memories,
the love in now.”
And for us all
the moon hums a lullaby,
a wish for love and gentle goodbyes.
I went a bit overboard with photos, but my mom turned 97 this weekend. Since a few weeks ago, we thought she wouldn’t reach this event, it was extra-special. Older daughter came from Massachusetts, and we went to a wine festival, then visited her sister at her new part-time job at Blue Cork Winery. Then yesterday was my mom’s party. For once, the weather cooperated, too–what a beautiful weekend!
“Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.”–From Sylvia Plath, “Mirror”
“Did you ever wonder if the person in the puddle is real, and you’re just a reflection of him?”
–Bill Watterson, Calvin and Hobbes
In the window
the world is reflected
prismed into colors bright
the blue of sky
and clouds of white
refracted sites
ripple and sway
changing as you walk
then fading away
unlike skyscrapers
that here still stand
monuments to technology
in reflections,
magic,
a slight of hand.
Now in the puddle
the world is upside down
in shades of beige and grey
diffused light
scattered over slate
and rippling away
carried to the river
then onwards
to the sea
but here
are windows closed
as eyes asleep
and minds imprisoned
in worlds of fancy
and dreams
of children
go unheeded
unheard, unseen
in cages
they perish
swept away
by the latest news
of violence
and thoughts and prayers
go out
to remove the games
and images
but not the guns
they remain–
see, they’re not to blame
and cash
wills out
with slaps on the back
for the boys
are boys
who grow to be men
and abuse
again
and again.
And what do they see
in their reflections?
Do they stop to reflect
on the people
they harm?
I read of survivors
who try to forgive
when they
can never forget–
we must never forget
the sights refracted
in sunshine and rain,
and here we sit
holding time still
for a moment,
if we could with will
in vino veritas,
and truth there is
that there is beauty
and light
and days when things
are just right,
moments granted
even when
the world is slanted
cock-eyed, the mother
becomes the child,
but when she laughs
you wonder what’s real
and see your reflection
there she and you
and she will never go
to the river again
but here a bird calls–
Hear it?
Listen and wonder
what does it see?
There its reflection
in the water
it looks at me.
“The fringed curtains of thine eye advance, And say what thou seest yond.”
–William Shakespeare, The Tempest
“We all move on the fringes of eternity and are sometimes granted vistas through fabric of illusion.”
–Ansel Adams, Ansel Adams: An Autobiography
Once a star devoured a universe
long haunted by dark clouds
then breathed to wake a new one
~with laughing kisses~
we awoke
though we hadn’t known we slept
or how close we’d been to the edge
~of time, an illusion~
that we cherished then
but now the blue horses prance
and caramel breezes drift from the sea
~carrying past and future~
through the window of time
and beyond. Remembering
what we forget, carrying our dreams.
***
Twenty-nine dead in thirteen hours
the headlines say, we
offer thoughts and prayers, and flowers
of blood bloom on streets and malls.
How tragic, we say
and go about our day
and the death bell tolls
again, and again
and we wonder when
it all will end.
When will we wake
and find a way to send
away the men who profit from hate–
who stoke the fear—
and say what people want to hear,
the lies that trip from poisoned tongues
and damage life, and old and young–
the fringe chorus becomes the loudest sung.
A macrocosm of death surrounds me,
but sheltered in my smaller world
I want to see, to flee, to be
What? I’m not sure,
though there is some allure
to buried heads when all around
is death and dying.
And we laughing, sighing, and crying
as my mother weakens
speaking clearly, or not–
each day different, caught
adrift, she smiles, sleeps
but keeps
on going. Through shallowing deeps
of ocean-mind
that flows in and out,
sweeping the beach to turn about
and leave treasures on the sand.
But fleeing this land
we visit friends,
who offer helping hands
and open hearts
to listen, as we talk
and we eat, then walk
on a summer night,
there’s music and friendship–
sometimes things are right,
sometimes there is light
in the darkness–
the stars twinkle diamond-bright
against the sapphire sea,
and the sun rises, and I see
promise in a day.
We go on our way
to the fringe
and back, we see a play–
OK, perhaps we see six–
(One even had magic tricks)
in this blueberry town,
we walk up and down
the streets, find food to eat,
and clap from our seats
for actors and singers
and our smiles linger
from some.
We avoid the tempest
from our seats inside,
on stories sail and ride.
But it’s fringe,
some need a tinge
more polish, perhaps.
We’ll see what happens
next year–
if, when, we’re here–
as time laps,
racing to the edge
of eternity, with no pledge
of what will be,
there on the fringe
of eternity.
On Saturday and Sunday we went to the New Jersey Fringe Festival in Hammonton, NJ, “The Blueberry Capital of the World.”
