call and response

my own father
not unlike yours
once pronounced
but not quite unctuously,
a dire verdict on the
same sort of
choice my heart had made
perhaps not too unlike your sister's.

it worried me for years
even as you still stew over
his grime prediction
comparing my choice to his sister's and
of the estrangement
made by the demands of a jealous lover
and isolation
the kept her from her mother and brother.


were my father's perceptions 
of melancholy and desparation
even close to reality
the truth from all aspects of
the reality of my life and my aunt's
fiercely independence
and the men we still love deeply

Day XVIII

moaning, roaring,
flags out straight
tin rooves in the next county

head and tail
pushing, pulling, ripping, tearing
flattening

turbining

Day XVII

on the horizon, full sail ahead,
prayers for steady winds,
calm seas,
open skies.

setting sights for the Old World
the soil from whence our fathers sprang,
the stems from which our mothers bloomed,
vines wending over walls and wells.

stones, weathered, moss covered,
broken, standing vigil
over dust to dust
ashes to ashes

sand, soil through my fingers,
inhale, taste, feel, listen -- listen
for echoes from the canyons of yestercentury
along the streets of Saints Stephen and Maria

shhhhh . . . listen.

Day XVI

fluer-de-lis

compass points
emblem of cities, states,
whole countries,
families,
the Virgin Mother,
the Trinity

boy scouts

Day XV

Damn it! Damn it! Damn
It!  I thought we were long past
This kind of fighting.


Haiku!

Day XIV

forever changed in an instant
the instant between happy baby
rolling on the floor

to dog bitten baby
blood gushing
down her face

panic, screaming,
baby to the hospital
dog to the kennel

needing stitches
but she won't hold still
until drug induced

oh, baby, baby
black-eyed baby
darling baby

oh, doggie, doggie,
precious doggie,
banned until the baby leaves.

but never trusted again.

Day XIII

why the heck do I wait
until the eleventh hour
day after day
after day

if it weren't for the last
minute, well, yeah,
that's me.

tomorrow may be better
but don't count
on it!

Day XII

wings of midnight
beating at the windows
pawing at the doors
ebony hooves

breath steaming
fogging the shadows
flailing anxiously
mane of tangled fury

fever rising

Day XI

she shuddered at the thought of the chicken coop
the long climb half way up the hill
only to have to crawl over the door jam
why is a door jam a foot off the ground anyway

gamely she gathered the coffee can into the crook of her arm
rusted, dented, bits of straw sticking to its insides
from other eggs gathered on other days
why do grandkids always have to do the yucky jobs

squaring her shoulders she ignored the grandmother
who called to her to be careful with the eggs
careful with the hens, but never a word about the girl
did the grandmother only care about the eggs and the horrid chickens

up and over the door jam, the coop was suffocatingly humid, hot,
dank, fetid, dust motes stalked one another
never gaining, but floating, swirling, pas de deux,
did the dancer-stalkers ever tire and long for rest

hope was dashed as the girl found hens on their nests
dismayed, trepidatious, anxious, nervous,
she must reach under the hens, braving their nasty beaks,
was she more afraid of the grandmother than the beady-eyed hens

start with the empty nests, she told herself, easiest first,
self-talking confidence as she placed the eggs, but carefully, of course,
into the coffee can, watching the level rise, until at last
she must carefully slide her hand under the hens on their nests

relief, she approached the the last nest with only a smattering
of red swollen blotches dotting her right forearm,
egg after egg until there was no more room in the coffee can
should she just push the eggs down to make more room

pushing always worked when hiding dirty clothes under her bed,
toys into her toy trunk, crayons into the crayon box
pushing peas around her plate until dinner was over
yes, a little push was just the answer now

Day X

Here, he said handing me a fox pelt,
Everything must go.
Start with the books -
Take down the books
And go through them.

Startled I awoke.

Why the fox pelt?
But moreover, why the books?

Which books?  Where?
What could be hidden?
Tomorrow I will start
Volume by volume
Dust jacket by dust jacket
Endsheet by endsheet
page by page,

Searching for traces, any trace,
of him who gave me the books.

Or must I read them?

Day 9

once
long ago
when I missed you
I wrote lonely sad poems

not
knowing
what short a time
it would be till missing is

forever.

Day 8

heaven sent
feathers on the wind
slowly shrinking to
just snow

heaven sent
children of the storm
slowly growing to
just because

heaven sent
floating like a butterfly
stinging like a bee
some bee

Day 7

her mother slipped from this earth
just the other day
lights flashing, sirens screaming
on their fruitless run

she sorrows, dreads tomorrow,
new grave marked among its silent neighbors
marked by stone, under wind socks,
serenaded by wind chimes

she clings to her mother's hand
stroking the flesh from whence her flesh
and tracing the bones from whence her bone
were born.

mother, brother, husband,
now keep vigil on their daughter, sister, wife.

Day Six

called by numbers,
never names,
brings sorrow to a soul.

nameless, nontitled,
undefined, disinherited,
dissipated in death.

numbers seldom names,
count off succulence
from the staves

of eternal poetic refrains
inked by masters of the middle-aged.

Day Five

running, tripping,
gasping, pounding
never fast enough

lost, searching,
fear, crying,
trying to catch up.

waking, startled,
listening, fearful,
another day has dawned.

Corn Mother

she, knowledge personified -
wisdom was terrified -
logic scarified -
she.

pwoerdm blues

Ain't no one word strong enough to testify,

No, I say, ain't no one word strong enough to testify, 

Never been one word strong enough to testify

Of desires, hopes and sorrows of my bruised but healing heart.

Day Two

I reach
  for their hands
Blindly seeking
  reaching, reaching
Fingers empty still

I listen
  for their voices
Hearing echoes only
  fading, fading
Dissipating - gone

Yet I reach
  I listen

hiaku for day one

wind through the cottonwoods
wind chimes singing frantically
spring in idaho