I slide my Converse off and perch in half-lotus on the armless chair. (I used to sit cross-legged but now I practice yoga.) Ribs spiral away from the spine; I inhale. Exhale, ribs roll in. Spiral away, roll in. Away. In. Away.
Through the skylight, no cirriform wisp, no crows; simply cerulean until the leaf. Lop-sided descent, dipping more, swinging high, crisp brown edges, dry veins, frail. Until the little drunken boat lands on the skylight.
Last month Dad shed his body for flight. Away.
I shake loose the ravel of branches,
easy, making space for the clear white lights
and glittery colors that will adorn her,
the same way a few tears spill over,
easy, making space for dark winter mornings
and the glow of this new evergreen.
The sun is buried deep
in clouds and fog
but light as soft as my pillow
spills green over the room.
tap-tap-tap the skylight
as drizzle shimmers
on the leaves outside
my open windows.
When the tinny alarm shrieks
I hit snooze without debate.
Five more minutes, then five minutes more
delaying the rush of Monday morn.
One must have the mind of an oyster
who builds a home from her own substance,
to possess the grain of sand that slips in
while she opens her body to the sea.
Not one to expel a challenge
her voluptuous mantle
embraces the grain,
gifting nacre layer upon layer,
until a smooth white gem,
cool to the touch,
radiating an iridescent fire,
The oyster knows the sand
is the heart of the gemstone.
This poem was written in response to an invitation from Tweetspeak Poetry.
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Interrupting chemo’s cruelty
I wield the silver blades which
until now, had simply trimmed bangs,
snipped itchy tags out of shirt collars.
A fine paintbrush of mom’s black hair
in one hand; the other shaken
by tiny vibrations,
each strand liberated
as the scissors close over them
by my will.
Finished, our gazes lock
in the bathroom mirror.
This poem was inspired by the Tweetspeak Book Club featuring Megan Willome’s new title,”The Joy of Poetry.” Writing for life is so much better in community~Will you be our poetry buddy?
The bread and herbed oil arrive
on the table just after the water and wine.
With bare hands we tear the bread
and dip it into a golden sea,
savoring the taste,
anointing the words we give
to each other and receive.
The morning we laid Nanny to rest,
snowflakes settled around us
like the ashen fallout
of Feast day fireworks.
Their only purpose, our need
of a white covering,
a shroud over the casket,
footsteps on blanketed ground
This day, a cross of ashes on my forehead.
In memory of our grandmother Carma Rinaldi, 6/18/1910-2/11/2010
i take my place
among the trees
toes deep, gathering
arms wide, sheltering
when the west wind
rustling leaves, draws
nymphs from their sleep
i am caught in between
swaying limbs, dancing
to a sacred song of
then slowly, silencing
like the trees
my body holds secrets
connecting me from history