A Treason
At eighty-two he doesn’t visit,
rests mid-stair, forgets mid-sentence,
time a treason all the more outrageous
for having been a man beloved:
who railed, and raged, and gave commands,
yet sits now, mute, while young fools stand—
his good eye’s same old, sovereign squint
the only sign that deep within
there lives deposed, dethroned, none other
than his royal majesty the king, my father
~ Patrick Phillips
West Texas
Blue sky and train near Van Horn, Texas.
Happy Birthday Viki!
In Praise of My Sister Wisława Szymborska My sister doesn’t write poems. and it’s unlikely that she’ll suddenly start writing poems. She takes after her mother, who didn’t write poems, and also her father, who likewise didn’t write poems. I feel safe beneath my sister’s roof: my sister’s husband would rather die than write poems. And, even though this is starting to sound as repetitive as Peter Piper, the truth is, none of my relatives write poems. My sister’s desk drawers don’t hold old poems, and her handbag doesn’t hold new ones, When my sister asks me over for lunch, I know she doesn’t want to read me her poems. Her soups are delicious without ulterior motives. Her coffee doesn’t spill on manuscripts. There are many families in which nobody writes poems, but once it starts up it’s hard to quarantine. Sometimes poetry cascades down through the generations, creating fatal whirlpools where family love may founder. My sister has tackled oral prose with some success. but her entire written opus consists of postcards from vacations whose text is only the same promise every year: when she gets back, she’ll have so much much much to tell.
**This poem doesn’t really remind me of my sister. But it’s a poem about a sister and I think it’s funny. While it is probably true that my sister doesn’t have a purse full of poems she does actually have a body of scholarly writing. She doesn’t limit herself to postcards.
Dusk’s Doorway
NOT not will, not desire: perhaps prayer not still: held at the end you said: I want to keep my eyes open, to miss nothing not entreaty, not regret not future, not past: touch and warm weight breath and again: what word can be heard not loss, not absence: perhaps soul not inside, not outside: dusk’s doorway not alone ~ by Anne Michaels
A Safe Place
EVERY DOG’S STORY I have a bed, my very own. It’s just my size. And sometimes I like to sleep alone with dreams inside my eyes. But sometimes dreams are dark and wild and creepy and I wake and am afraid, though I don’t know why. But I’m no longer sleepy and too slowly the hours go by. So I climb on the bed where the light of the moon is shining on your face and I know it will be morning soon. Everybody needs a safe place.” ~ by Mary Oliver
Gratitude
Gratitude Forget each slight, each head that turned Toward something more intriguing— Red flash of wing beyond the window, The woman brightly chiming About the suffering of the world. Forget The way your best friend told the story Of that heroic road trip, forgetting that you drove From Tulsa to Poughkeepsie while he Slumped dozing under headphones. Forget The honors handed out, the lists of winners. Forget the certificates, bright trophies you Could have, should have, maybe won. Remind yourself you never wanted them. When the spotlight briefly shone on you, You stepped back into darkness, Let the empty stage receive the light, The black floor suddenly less black— Scuff-marks, dust, blue tape—the cone Of light so perfect, slicing silently that perfect Silent darkness, and you, hidden in that wider dark, Your refusal a kind of gratitude at last. ~ by Jon Davis
April is Poetry Month
Sometimes
by Sheenagh Pugh
Sometimes things don’t go, after all,
from bad to worse. Some years, muscadel
faces down frost; green thrives; the crops don’t fail.
Sometimes a man aims high, and all goes well.
A people sometimes will step back from war,
elect an honest man, decide they care
enough, that they can’t leave some stranger poor.
Some men become what they were born for.
Sometimes our best intentions do not go
amiss; sometimes we do as we meant to.
The sun will sometimes melt a field of sorrow
that seemed hard frozen; may it happen for you.
Sounds so Forlorn
Van Horn, Texas
Nature Decorates for Christmas
A Christmas Cactus beautifully placed around an old fence post. Seen at South Llano River State Park.
Junkyard
A lineup of old trucks in front of the junkyard in Carizozo, NM.