The music of what happens

Today is my mother’s birthday. She would be 106. She died when she was 95. Here is a poem from my book Vexed Questions: The Music of What Happens Vinegar and rust, from whose body did you come? Something friable, metastatic meets fantastic meets a static victim standing there, waiting for the bullet to hit

Shabby Truths

Here’s a poem from my book Vexed Questions: Shabby The shabby furniture belies its joy,the wrinkled steel of shabby venetian blinds, shabby toy left in the corner’s dust, shabby try at reconciliation, shabby attempt at concealment, shabby sweater vulnerable to drafts,life in the shabby lane, where all is frayedand everyone’s afraid, a frayed remains,a shabby, ratty scarf. Shabby first

Each time you wear it

Here’s a poem, a sort of sonnet, from my second book, Scattered Showers in a Clear Sky. It’s directed to an old friend. Fabricating The clothing did not fall from you in tatters, nor did your feet swell these 40 years. The Goodwill store sells everything that matters. Forget the Lord and Taylor, all your

The Presence of Crows

Here’s another poem from my book Digging for God; The presence of Crows, Halifax I’ve been longing to see the flash of black, gold, white, the evening, the evening grosbeak, but all I see, all that greets me from the lawn are crows – murders of them. One befriended by the lure of peanuts, less

The House of Change

Here’s another poem from my book Digging for God: The Snake Plant Roots so strong that they break the clay pot they live in. Are sins my skin which stretches as I grow, and splits and falls away, so that the roots are free? Are my sins the bonds which keep me small, or hold

Towards March

Here’s a poem from my book Digging for God: Towards March Trees shake their shoulders restlessly. What to do with those wandering songs we used to sing? Singing about Autumn in a Summer Song… What is the season for leaving when is there no more leaving? Wines age gracefully, though some sour when opened. You

Garden Cloves Huddled

I am aiming to post a poem of mine each day this month. Hope to sustain it! Here is one from my book Digging for God: Garden gloves huddled in a paper bag hanging on a hook by the window where the ice clotted bare branches quiver and the sun sends their gnarled shadows on

February Dawn

More snow this morning. I am reminded of this poem from my first book, At the Year’s Elbow: February Dawn Orange wakes. I stir and stretch my orange arms. My toes touch the edge of the sun. Copper faucet pours orange, Orange streams through sun-bright glass, Heats the cool green walls. Bedspread patterns tropic, swirling

Snowstorm

Here’s a poem from my book At the Year’s Elbow: Blizzard The deaf snow speaks in sign like a prophet. His fingers remark the landscape swiftly, stolidly. They say This time I am serious. He cups his thick hand on the birdsnest, he levels the driveways, leans on the trees, pulls the sky down to

Sister Ann Robb Writes a Letter

Here’s another poem from How the Hand Behaves. The speaker is not me, but one of my sisters, when she was dying of cancer: Sister Anne Robb Writes a Letter Having turned in my stamps, signed on to silence, I dream the old friends open their empty mailboxes. In dreams, they come to visit, dressed