April Poets Cento

The lines for this cento were originally penned by 14 poets in a group I started years ago to participate in National Poetry Writing Month. All are from poems written during this past month; my work in creating this poem was simply to bring all of our voices together in a single, final poem.

Last night the moon called:

April sliced the bottoms off all the clouds.

Bright moments and hopeful air,

thoughts like wings in constant motion,

too filled with joy to be contained.
We are growing into a bigger picture.

Blown from my eggshell,

I stopped in wonder.

We are being unmade.

Barefoot, backwards,

in search of what is true,

of life becoming.

By laughter and praise, by the sails of our souls –

watching other people’s stories,

a thrilling, unbroken rumble.

The poem leads us where it will.

We who write poems are a useful lot.

It’s spring and they sing,

tin jars of haiku pencils

pulsing in our secret language.

You knocked on my window, I let you in –

A conspiracy that flourishes with the birds.

All the ways we find not to be alone,

turns out, indeed, we are each other’s keeper:

I see you. I am you.

And God’s got the rest.

How the month has spun.

Carry on, carry on, oh my people, carry on –

the world begins anew today.

dashed

a bouquet of my favorite flowers

arranged in a beautiful glass vase

offered by a taunting hand

dropped to shatter in the road

broken glass and petals everywhere

flattened by a truck

Rental

Landlord with a chainsaw

Says he didn’t like the shrubs.

Left the dirt, at least.

Back again today,

Replaced the old house numbers…

Can’t tell the difference.

Don’t park in the drive

on Thursday: pressure washing.

(Dry the clothes inside.)

I shouldn’t complain;

I’m fortunate to live here.

Just don’t raise my rent!

Sure

In these uncertain times,

two people can argue

as if one of them is sure.

But what can we be

sure of, really?

Surety is scarce

as Charmin these days,

as far as I can tell –

how can we be sure

we’re backing the winner

when the data are as shifty

as the San Andreas fault?

We shout from our islands,

unwilling to set a toe

in the ocean that divides us,

too afraid to build bridges

lest the contagion spread

and our surety falter.

The only thing I’m certain of is

that we might both be wrong.

Inside Reverse Fold

Bend here, crease there

Opposite to the end game

Don’t go out, don’t play

And you’ll be safe another day

It feels backwards

                                    It feels unbearable

Just follow the instructions

                                    Just trust the process

This is how you fold a swan

                                    This is how you survive a pandemic

This can’t possibly be right

                                    I can’t bend that way

                                    I’m stretched too thin already

I’ll rip in half

                                    These creases run too deep

                                    To ever reverse

Is this really how you fold a swan?

                                    Is all this really worth it

                                    When no one knows the ending?

So many complicated internal folds

                                    Such a convoluted internal dance

To coax the grace of a bird

From this flat white square

                                    Why do we even keep trying?

                                    Who wrote these instructions?

Just when you think

This is never going to work

Suddenly

The whole piece shifts

One reverse fold pops out

                                    In sharp relief

Then another

                                    Just when you think

                                    It’s beyond hope

                                    And it’s time to give up

You coax the reversals

                                    Massage the creases

                                    The way they were always

                                    Meant to fold

Watch them transform

Before your eyes

                                    And lo!

The ugly duckling

Rises to claim its grace

                                    A swan at last.

As The Garden Grows

You can always tell

when children

have been in the garden.

They blaze about,

loud as the earth singing,

bursting with sunshine,

covered in birdsong

from head to toe.

Water them well,

fertilize their dreams,

tuck them into their beds

and watch them grow.

Four Letter Words

Calm in the face of the storm,

Wake the goddess of gentleness within you.

Give her your fears, your tears to hold.

Wake up to the possibility that

Life is meant to be this way.

Hero is the name on my neighbor’s door.

Hope is always an option.

Feel it,

Know it,

Live it:

Love.

More to Give

(a Pantoum)

  

If we are kind to one another

we may find we have more to give,

realizing that we are all the same –

in reality, we all are one.

We may find we have more to give

to our neighbor, whose need is great.

In reality, we all are one…

Our neighbor may have more to give in return.

  

To our neighbor, whose need is great,

we can offer the gift of receiving –

Our neighbor may have more to give in return

if we allow him.

We can offer the gift of receiving

with grace and gratitude

if we allow him

to give, for that is wholly human.

With grace and gratitude

we discover our oneness, through desire

to give, for that is wholly human –

to give, and to receive.

We discover our oneness, through desire.

If we are kind to one another

we give and we receive,

realizing that we are all the same.

Diagnosis

I’m a professional, take it from me:

This is clearly a case of

early onset Hangry.

No doubt about it –

classic case,

all the symptoms.

As with most maladies,

prevention is the best medicine – But –

sometimes it sneaks up on you.

Once diagnosed,

swift action is required

to successfully avoid

Complete Functional Breakdown

and Undesirable Side Effects

too gruesome to name.

  

My tried-and-true remedy:

Two fried eggs,

served immediately,

followed in swift order

by half an hour outdoors.

  

Prescription signed

Mom.

On The Bright Side?

A Haiku brought to you by Single Parenting in the Time of COVID-19 

Afternoons like this…

Let’s just say we’re both lucky

I’m not a drinker

High School Crush

He gave me a rainbow plastic ring

he'd found on the ground

and I thought it meant yes

but I was wrong.

I fell for him anyway

and discovered, to my surprise,

that I could live

in his no thank you world

and still love myself

for all he didn’t love me back.

Sometimes

the gift of no lies in the opportunity

to say yes anyway.

Unasked

how many answers does it take

to ask the right question?

one sneeze, delivered just right,

can break the wine glasses in a restaurant

  

if you hold up two fingers and squint between them

you still won’t see me after I’ve gone

the sum of the distances between three points

equals a triangulation of perspectives

  

the average of four tone-deaf tenors

can't be used to tune a piano

five times the capital of the Ottoman Empire

may or may not rhyme with Constantinople

  

six is the whole of my favorite number

for reasons known only to my fourth grade self

so many answers linger in the air

to questions left unasked

  

perhaps it’s best that way

How Does Your Garden Grow?

Treasure beyond measure

what’s your pleasure?

How does your garden grow?

Full of trees and shady breeze

enjoying idle ease?

Or regimented veggies in a row?

Where Would I Go

if I were free to travel

any distance (or none at all)?

I would go

to the library, just to touch all the books.

To the farmers market, to fondle the produce

and marvel at the many-colored eggs.

To the theater, to shed tears over fiction

for a change, perhaps to laugh.

  

I would go to the forest

and stay there, perhaps a long time,

listening to birdsong until

I lost myself and found myself home.

I would go to the sea when it’s stormy,

let the salt wind whip my hair

into a frenzy of memories

only I can touch.

  

I would go deep inside

in search of what is true. 

The mind can travel any distance

but still cannot bridge the gap

between bodies.

I would go to your door

and look you in the eyes: 

we are here, we are alive.

Attention Spans

when we first started video chatting over facetime

we talked for an hour and a half at a stretch

showing marble runs playing word games

(hangman to guess our middle names)

writing our own madlibs just for fun

but attention spans have waned

kids would rather goof around

the red button is tempting

adults try to snatch bits

of conversation while

keeping kids under

control yeah right

perhaps before

too long we

will start

saying

adios

first

and

then

just

hang

up

.

Outdoor Yoga

My muscles are tired

and filled with sunshine,

tight tendons aching

to be stretched after

bursting bleacher runs,

bicycle sit-ups, and a single

just-high-enough hurdle.

I ease into Warrior One,

feet planted firmly on the grass –

inhale slowly,

lift my gaze to the clouds –

  

and topple ungracefully

as their breezy drift

blows me over like a feather.

  

I get up,

close my eyes this time,

and try again.

Spent

spent like the dollar 

that flew from my fist, 

spent like the summer 

the first time we kissed 

  

spent like the evening 

with Friday night’s date, 

spent like the time 

when you’re already late 

  

spent like the notes 

at the end of the song, 

spent like an argument 

when you are wrong 

  

spent like the credit 

built up with the bank, 

spent like a car 

with an empty fuel tank 

  

spent like the pennies 

I’d pay for your thoughts, 

spent like the effort 

of claiming I’d not 

  

spent like a glue stick 

that’s run out of stuck, 

spent like a gambler 

who’s down on his luck 

  

spent like the silence 

that ended too soon 

spent like the air 

in a sagging balloon 

  

spent like a rainstorm 

come out of the blue, 

spent like the tears 

that I’ve wasted on you 

  

spent like these similes 

run out of rhyme, 

spent like No Refunds 

On Money Or Time. 

  

spent like a chat 

with a far-away friend, 

spent like this poem 

you’ve read to the end

Hope Eternal

(a villanelle)

Even now, I find my fragile hopes have wings,

though optimism seems in short supply;

Even now, I find that hope eternal springs,

  

and feeds the rivers with the confidence of kings

who know those promised waters won’t run dry.

Even now, I find my fragile hopes have wings

  

that can withstand the compass needle’s swings

and carry me as far as faith will fly.

Even now, I find that hope eternal springs.

  

I built the past to which my future clings.

We all write our own stories – do, or die.

Even now, I find my fragile hopes have wings.

  

If I listen, something in me sings –

sings for the strength to laugh, to love, to cry.

Even now, I find that hope eternal springs:

  

For the courage to clip the anchoring strings,

set free my hopes from open palms held high.

Even now, I find my fragile hopes have wings. 

Even now, I find that hope eternal springs.

Flower Child

(Playing with the Triolet form)

He loves me, he loves me not.

As simple as it sounds –

with a fistful of daisies, affection is sought.

He loves me…. He loves me…. Not.

A fistful of daisies is my life’s lot.

But he’s clutching daisies, too, plucking their crowns. 

He loves me? He loves me. Not

as simple as it sounds.



Or, a different take with a couple of tiny strategic edits:


Where the Petals Fall

He loves me, he loves me not. 

As simple as it sounds –  

with a fistful of daisies, affection is sought. 

He loves me…. He loves me…. Not. 

A fistful of daisies is my life’s lot. 

But she’s clutching daisies, too, plucking their crowns. 

She loves me? She loves me. Not 

as simple as it sounds.

Wake-up Call

I smile at everybody

it shocks them

out of their daze of fear

to see someone loving them

even now

What Can I Give?

A smile when nobody else is smiling

A smile from behind a mask

(the eyes don’t lie, they are filled with love)

  

A smile, even when –

  

Even when I am afraid,

even when I am in pain,

even when I am angry with the world –

  

that is where humanity shines most brightly,

when, in our fear, in our pain, in our anger,

we defy it all with a human connection anyway.

Even if I cannot touch people with my hands,

I can still reach out with my heart,

with a smile that speaks for itself:

I see you. I am you.

Respite

(A Shadorma)

Alone now,

first time in a month.

Finally,

it’s quiet.

So many things I could do!

I think I’ll just breathe.

Untitled

Tonight the world is close at hand,

the breath of humanity against my window,

fogging the glass so I can’t see the stars.

Tonight the moon is out of reach,

hidden behind the clouds of my neighbors’ fear.

Tonight I walk the streets, alone in a dream of my own devising,

buoyed by an invisible longing to be alive

come what may.

Eight

For Guy

I sang you to sleep tonight,

the same songs I used to sing

in the days and weeks

when we were first mother and son.

As I sang, the memories flooded back:

singing for so long I no longer knew

which verse came next,

whether I was singing backwards or forwards,

who would fall asleep first – you or me.

How attuned I was to your waking – and, later,

how attuned you became to mine,

so that I couldn’t stir in the morning

without you mirroring my wakefulness

from your own bed.

Some things haven’t changed much.

I thought of your feet, remembered

the picture of your whole foot

lined up with my big toe, a perfect match.

Of your hands, how one tiny fist

stretched to curl around a single finger,

holding fast.

Now your fingers twine easily with mine,

pulsing in our secret language

as we walk down the road,

cross the street, and head to the park:

Three squeezes for I love you, 

Four: I love you, too.

Golden Birthday

For Guy

Yesterday you spoke
of the anticipation
of tomorrow's tomorrow - 
a golden day
for celebrating eight.
And golden it will be,
a sun-drenched day following
a pink full moon,
and cherry blossoms
on the breeze.
What a day to be eight!
A day to wake up
to presents on the table
and cards in the mail,
to hear your classmates sing
(in Irish, no less!)
in your honor.
A day for self-portraits
and soccer kicks
and chocolate cake
with extra whipped cream.
Because, after all,
you only turn eight once.

Standards

Relax your standards, the advice says,
these are extraordinary times.
Nobody needs to be perfect right now,
it’s not worth trying.

But what if my standards are the only thing
holding my feet to this high wire,
the only net below me if I fall?

What if every slip of my standards
is a slip of my foot
down a slippery slope
tumbling to a no-net abyss
I haven’t even considered because
I’ve been so busy avoiding
its possibility?

I cling to my standards,
avoid the news, avert my eyes
from the numbers, tell myself
I’ll make the masks tomorrow,
I don’t want to think about it today.

Today I demand clean hands,
square meals, fresh air.
Respect. Kindness.
Forgiveness. Space.

Perhaps one day soon
my only standard
will be

Breath

No Shortcuts

The order of things:
Allow. Accept. Love. Forgive.
All will heal with time.

The Last Beautiful Day

The last beautiful day
was the one we spent with you.

You said, this might be
our last beautiful afternoon
for a while.
To which I replied, Nonsense –
We’ll make them all beautiful.
 
And you smiled and said, 
Of course we will.
 
Little did we know
the order would come –
the park is no longer a safe place
to enjoy an afternoon with friends.

The weather shifted,
we retreated into our separate homes,
brought the soccer balls inside,
shut our doors against
the grey tide of rising fear.

Now we share hailstorms over FaceTime,
text about getting caught in the rain
that seems to have settled in for good,
marvel at how the world has changed
since that last beautiful day.

Exchange

A 5 lb bag of all-purpose flour
knocked on my door this morning,
my friend’s smiling face
six feet down the path. 
Thanks for the bananas the other day, she says, 
do you need any more elastic for masks?

I talked to my mother like this yesterday,
standing in the rain
an emotional mile from her front door.
I’d better go now before I get soaked.
 
I closed the door softly,
hugging the unbleached promise
of fresh bread and biscuits,
momentarily satiated
by the sight of a familiar face
unfiltered by technology,
all the more precious for its distance from mine.

The ways we care for one another
may have changed,
but not the fact that we do.

Pollen

By a thousand cuts
Comes death to my poor eyeballs
Every time I blink.

The Words Will Come

One day the words will flow like water
Torrential, unashamed,
heedless of the cost –
weathering stone
with the sheer necessity of motion.

For now, the words come slowly,
filling the reservoir, drop by drop.
The dam still holds
the salty tears of all the words
unspoken, unallowed.

Ready your craft
for when the waters break.
One day the words will come.