let the little poem

Take a scalpel to the story

but let the little poem flow

go back and check your duplications

she sat and sobbed,

or babbled

danced or pranced or meditated

what can be elucidated

but let the little poem go –

Take a scalpel to the story

but let the little poem dance

let it weave effects upon our hearts

let it chart our weakness, spot us swinging

open the page and start us singing

let the little poem speak –    (or prance)

The world’s sense isn’t in us

unless we stop to listen

  stop to breathe

what is it that we fear, my dear

let’s hold hands and sheathe our scalpels

tuck them in our belts

pause, to feel our feelings

let the little poem seethe –

And when the dance is done

the song is sung

the hunter home from the hill

we can read the story 'oer

discuss it, let it lull us, add some more –

Time to recite

put down the book

let the little poem spill.

* * * * * * * * * *

Clocks, the Tree, Tagore and Me

The butterfly counts not months but moments, and has time enough.  –  Rabindranath Tagore

Waking, confused by night, I hear the grandfather clock bong twice

and the poet speaks in my mind,

Dawn plays her lute before the gates of darkness

and is content to vanish when the sun rises.

I ponder the Reaper who may claim me whenever he likes

and wish that I could live in love, not in mere time.

My mind starts up with a flash, its flow of thought

like the unrepeated liquid notes of a brook –

The digital clock-radio is insistent at 6:02

it begins to spout the news, but I hear the poet in my mind’s ear,

My heart today smiles at its past night of tears

like a wet tree glistening in the sun after the rain is over.

My watch repeats each number twice a day, as does our stately grandfather clock

Contained, predictable – clocks. Not like the tree, a winged spirit

freed from the bondage of seed and pursuing adventure across the unknown.

Ah, I remember me as a child, dwelling in ageless time – 

I’ll close my cell phone, refuse the time printed on its face

the burden of self is lightened when I laugh at me

I’ll take off my watch, recapture my child, climb the tree

the tree bears its hundred years as one majestic moment –

“Aroint you clocks!” I’ll shout,

“Off with your hands, off with your faces!”

My light laughter from the branches will carry clearly,

swiftly across time.

1. ** * * * * * * * *
   

2. *
   

Of Milkweed Pods and Agents             

Hazy evening

as I open the door of my red Honda

to find a fuzzy white seed-pod

one of those make-a-wish fluff balls –

which floats in, and hovers

I reach out

the seed pod hangs in air, and this time 

not like most times when I can’t catch the damned things

even if I chase them …

I simply open my palm

and it lands ....

I fold my fingers over the seed pod

whisper the name of my agent,

Oh to be a published writer!

just two words, first name and last

like a mantra

or maybe a magic focus word …

I open up my palm

jump into my chariot

slam the door, rev the engine

and back out of my parking space,

the seed pod flutters to the passenger seat

immobile for the moment.

I careen out of the parking lot –

luckily the light is green

speed down Craft Avenue

pass the Playhouse

and spin left onto the Boulevard.

Suddenly my feather-light passenger

floats up.

I grab it and stuff it into my bra

it escapes like breath

plummets up

and I laugh.

I roll down one window

(on my side)

letting go is an act of faith

as always;

the little fluff zigzags

on its own air currents

it finds a crevice somewhere

and –  invisible now  –

continues to ride home with me. 

* * * * * * * * *

Dance Partner

nervous, wild

“No,” I whisper to him, “I can’t follow,”

let me dance myself

like the squirrel 

tail wrapped around the frozen railing

then tail unwraps

she shakes her silver-furred splendor

leaps, solo

into the tree

rattling the icy branches so that our eyes dazzle

as she streams away…

when the music calls, I answer

who, you?    lost, lost

no, I’m beyond speaking

scattering notes as Jimi Hendrix warbles

I leap

the hot blare of a clarinet

or the electric lady guitar

melds my energy

melts my edges

and I am lost now

where I really know how.