Secrets

After Daddy died, Mama seemed lost and
the house was filled with whispers.
She and Grandma used to sit close together
at the kitchen table, holding hands
and talking in hushed tones.
They had many secrets but would stop talking
when they noticed me standing in the doorway.
That’s how I learned a lot of things
I wasn’t supposed to know,
like how he died.

As husbands came and went,
we moved around from state to state.
I was always the new girl in school
so I learned how to make friends fast
and how to say goodbye,
although there was often no time for that,
just time to grab our things, run for the train,
get our seats and watch out the window
as the towns and countryside
flashed past, including cows.

At night, my little brother and I slept in a bunk
up above our seats.
The Pullman Porter would fix us up
and we’d pretend to go to sleep
but as soon as everyone was quiet,
we’d sneak down and run up and down the aisles
until Mama put a stop to that.

It wasn’t until I was eighteen
that one of those secrets between Mama and
my Grandma popped right up in my head
to change forever who I thought I was.
And I’d known it all the time.

Barbara Wolf (2006)

['Secrets', according to Barbara Wolf, "tells the tory of how the death of a father is experienced by his daughter immediately after the event and as it plays out many years later. I have left it to the reader to determine what the secrets might have been." The above poem has been paired by the poet with our first introduction to her, 'The Ritual', which has also been called, "As a Child".
-RocksWorks]

Nomads

Nomads are not collectors of rocks.
The family of Hassan found themselves
in a desert where red rocks
turn orange and violet in the sunset,
their shadows rising from the sand
purple and indigo up their craggy sides
as the sun drops like a stone behind a mountain.

Hassan’s eyes cut right and left
at the splendor everywhere
beyond his prayer rug.
This beauty brought his mind to
the vibrancy of the hues and the arabesques
of the very rug beneath him and,
though the family moved on,
he knew he would always have
the loveliness of this evening
in his life.
He could roll it up, unfurl it and
contemplate eternity upon it.
Nomads are collectors of rugs.

Barbara Wolf (2006)

[These two poems represent contrasting ways of appreciating the beauty of nature and natural objects. The speaker of each poem, very different from one another. Nevertheless share an aesthetic sense whi can be found in some degree in all people.
-RocksWorks]


To be a collector of stones
is to furnish a space with silence.
To hold them in the hand,
smooth and flat or rough,
almost round, a beneficence.
And yet, it is through eons
of the violence of fire and ice
and planetary upheavals
that they come to their present peace,
to rest here for awhile on a window sill
in sunlight and moonlight
and night’s long darkness,
to quiet the soul.

Stones are as varied as music
from the lumbering bass drum
to the staccato of the piccolo.
Sprinkled with water,
their colors sing.
To move them from place to place,
to build a cairn
where balance is all,
is a meditation.

Barbara Wolf (2006)

the soft song of truth that sets me free,

Naked, Barely

That beauty cannot hide behind rocks,
or fearing the sun lay low beneath the surface of the waves
- dancing only with the moon shadowed caves.
the eyes are ever open in this existence, if i choose the form - of - knowing persistence.
the ever changing glowing chant of distant bells, which lead me away from the clutches of my own created hells--
the internal screaming of my devious Mind, that plays his little tricks as if he´s kind.
He does not turn away from the projected make believe, for me Mind will continue to deceive
as many times as I allow- analysing and rewinding keeping away the present now.
He knows not of the secrets of the heart, the whispers of the soul are just the start:
the beginning of a story to perpetuate fear, the fear that I feel is always, ever near .
that's why I do not tell Mind to go away and find another person to go and play
I enjoy the sensations, the erection of lust, the being right - even as it forces blindness like a moonless night.
to believe my fears as if they know whats true, proving that we are human un-divine through and though.
The black masked angel never is the one who knows, the heshe´s two faces undecided when the whistle train blows.
I watch to see who gets on board with Mind to play,
watch the ones who have learned to keep away --
For when i get it and it is clear,
Mind situates himself gently near.
Allowing for the love song to kiss my knees,
as I listen to Heart´s greatest
... self-fulfilling
... ... ... ... ... needs.
I am the undetectable breath when I allow life to be,
the singing of the chicken in their low hanging tree--
the soft song of truth that sets me free,
whilst enjoying the reality of loving humanity.
Open the Heart and let her be heard,
the balance of my existence with that of the bird
the balance of the sweet with the sour, helps me to be real in every hour.
..I ask to let the world know why,
..why with every tear, its happiness I cry.
..the perfection of the ocean reflected through,
..to the one we ..... ... always
... ... ...... ... ... knew.

The imperfect, wondrous YOU.

gEnevieVe celestE
(2007)

Barbara at the BPA

a love poem

high theater

a glowing windy night
full of moonlight
on water

now covered by clouds,
small scattered things
here and there

casting mauves,
many silvery grays,
a backdrop for

schools of golden fish
made of light
darting in and out

of existence
but always more
filling the stage

until their scene ends.
winds change everything
vanishing the clouds

only the alders remain
great slanting leafless poles
against the sky and moon.

and now act three begins
as seen from my windows,
backstage.

by Barbara Wolf (2003)

A pair of poems ...

When I Am Old

When I am old and cannot dance,
bring me my drum that I might
tap a beat.
Carry me to beneath a tree,
woods all around and
listen with me
to Earth’s soft sounds,
dog at my feet
and quiet mushrooms witnessing.
Here we’ll call death to our laps
and soothe all fears,
letting what must,
throb its last.

Barbara Wolf (2006)


It's Some Job

It’s some job
to prepare for death.
All the papers to sign,
last words to write.
All the feelings of years
to be legally codified
so that the family will
waltz right through
the many first calls:
the picking-up of the body
by the mortuary guy,
Social Security, the bank,
friends and family to notify,
the care of the precious dog.
Then there’s the tossing of the ashes
on the water—or perhaps they’d prefer
a ceremony in the garden
beneath a tree.
Someone could bring a guitar.
After all the food is eaten,
the kitchen cleaned
and everyone has gathered pans and coats and left
the house will be quiet.
There will be no one
sitting at the window
gazing at the bare maple tree
against the changing evening sky,
or watching the busy crows.
Silence will take up residence
throughout the darkening house
and there will be no one
to hear the mouse.

Barbara Wolf (2006)

Hammering

It starts early these dark mornings,
long before the sun is a gray smudge
behind the clouds and fog.
Hammering.
It goes on all day,
except for a lunch break
and then until well after dark.
That’s when he lights a lamp,
his shadows large on the inside walls.
I watch him from my windows,
the young builder of a large house,
unrolling the black paper on the roof,
tacking a billowing blue tarp
across the high peak,
storms on the way.
He works alone,
a solo ballet,
conscious of every step,
what tool to reach for.
Sometimes he waves.

Barbara Wolf (2006)


Hammering - Part II

Those late nights–
he should be home
having dinner with his wife
or soaking in a hot tub
to soothe his aching body.
But there he is on the roof,
a rope tied around the brick chimney,
the other end around his thigh.
I tip my wine glass to him,
he bows with a flourish.
He loses his footing,
He’s falling down the rough shakes.
He grasps at air, the blue tarp,
but it tears like so much gauze.
He’s falling over the side,
dangling by one leg.
I hear sirens.
There are firemen and a ladder.
One grabs him in his arms.
I sigh and turn over
and see the clock.
It’s 6am.
And then I hear it.
Hammering.

Barbara Wolf (2006)

Hammering

Barbara Wolf, 2006

some question

they are born
at first they are nurtured, cherished even
then they grow up
and are told that they are needed
to keep the foe at bay
the mothers are proud, if sad
but some are bitter
they have questions
does war provide the only
means to be heroes?
do we think that if blood is not spilled
on the ground
the sun will not rise?

and what of all the maimed and crippled
those who survive
legless
crumpled in their wheel chairs
forgotten
to live out their lives
long after the war is over
the next war on its way?
did they lust to be heroes?
or were they merely the unlucky
the ones whose numbers came up
the sons and daughters of the poor
to whom promises were made
or were the children of zealots
eager to see them
fight for their country
to make their parents proud?

or is war our disease?
in our blood
chronic
incurable

by Barbara Wolf (2006)

Haiku

across my blankets
shadows of maple branches
wind and moon conspire

through darkened cedars
bright golden path on water
leading to the moon

a wild roar rises
through moonless woods this night
newscasts warn of storms

I break up the moon
with a tossed pebble
soon it's whole again

caught by flashlight's moon
a spider on the blanket
I make the first move

how to make new moons
fill several water bowls
the children's delight

a garden party
so many moons are shining
in our martinis


by Barbara Wolf (2000)

Dream Family

They’re all gone now,
all the aunts and uncles
who bored me so at family dinners:
Uncle Armand who chewed so loud
and told bad jokes,
Aunt Millie with hair like a burning bush
and whose lipstick ran when she ate.
Now my mother,
the beauty,
has joined them,
she of the many husbands
and lovers,
one of whom was the father
I barely knew;
and my Grandma Sarah,
breasts like feather pillows
I used to cuddle up to
on sleepovers,
gone long before.
Now I have all their pictures,
some in frames,
others just leaning against the wall
on my bedside table.
They visit me in dreams.

By Barbara Wolf (2003)

[Published in 2003 by the Bainbridge Island Arts & Humanities Council, this was posted in the windows of town businesses.
- RocksWorks]

Bus Poetry

what I've learned from water
is to welcome change,
flow when I can,
become snow when I must,
then perhaps a mist,
hovering over the earth,
or a fog, snarling traffic,
even an ice cube
tinkling
in your drink.

by Barbara Wolf (2004)

- adapted from "The Water Way"
for 'Poetry on the Busses'
King County Metro, 2005.

The French Bath

She is not easily convinced
that a bath is a good idea,
afraid that she'll slip and fall.
I tell her that I'll hold on tightly,
get her in and out of the tub
and no broken bones.
Even more unsure, she walks with me to the bathroom.
I turn on the water, testing it with my wrist,
while she sits on a chair and watches,
wrapped in a towel, forcing a smile.
She's game to try just to please me,
but her eyes search the walls, the ceiling.

I say, "Honey, the water is ready.
I'll hold you under the arms
you just stand up by the tub.
"Slowly, she rises from the chair.
I slip one arm around her waist,
hold her hand and move her closer.

"Now, lift your leg, Mommy,
That's right, and in it goes.
Doesn't it feel good?
"the eyes wide, the look is skeptical,
but both legs are now in the water.
As I hold her, she gingerly
sits in the tub, surprised that it doesn't hurt.

At ninety-six, bathing had become a sometime thing
and then ended along with showers.
Her husband was too frail to help her and
she didn't want him to see her
so wrinkled and fearful so she lied about her baths.
She managed with a wash cloth and a little soap,
a "French Bath," she called it and no danger of falling.

I run a bit more hot water into the tub,
wash her back and shoulders.
"Here's the wash cloth, Mommy," I say,
"You wash under your arms and don't forget
" Down There." We both laugh.

II

Soon it's over and I begin to let the water out.
This is a crucial time and
her anxiety rises.
"Just let me put this towel
around your shoulders," I say.
"I'll wrap it all around you
and hold you like before."
Slowly, I lift her up,
so light in my arms,
one leg straightening, then the other.
She is standing, reaching out for the wall,
something to hold on to.

I am also afraid.
I hold her carefully as she raises one leg
and I guide it outside the tub.
Before we know it
she is standing on a mat beside the tub,
a large fresh towel and my arms around her.
We laugh.

"There, wasn't that lovely? Don't you feel better?"
"Hmmmmm," she says, "Thank you, dear,"
Still questioning the wisdom
of such a perilous endeavor.
"Well, I feel better," I say.
Although I know that after I leave,
It'll be back to the "French Bath."

Barbara Wolf (2007)

['The French Bath' above was written after the death in 2002 of Barbara's mother.
'The Waitress' was written in 2006, after a car trip to be with her dying step-father, John, "my mother's fifth - and best - husband". It exhibited at the Bainbridge Performing Arts 37 year poetry celebration in 2007.
- RocksWorks]

The Waitress

The meal was good and cheap,
deep fried but tasty.
The waitress, forty or so,
had scraggly bangs
she kept sweeping back from her forehead
and a tired sweetness about her.
I wondered how she could
rise out of her life,whatever it was,
to be so gentle as she
administered to all our hungers
and patient.
Is it fantastic school of waiting,
teaching the fine art of recognizing
that everybody hurts
and we all need butter and sour cream
on our baked potatoto smooth out the rough edges
and pickle relish on the side
to sweeten the day’s sorrows?

Most of the diners are gruff truckersw
ith huge bellies their grimy T-shirts
barely conceal.
One brings flowers,
golden day-lilies from his garden.
She puts them into a large mayonnaise jar
on the counter.
There they sit in this smoky eatery
like brass trumpets rising from a fog.

Outside the truck-stop
a breeze has kicked up
stirring the two trees
that grow among the big rigs.
Their leaves flash silver
in the late-day sun.
Birds with red under their wings
dive bomb for my crumbs.
Inside the restaurant window,
she smiles,
rearranging her flowers.

Barbara Wolf (2006)

Heather's poem

The snowy face of the moon gleans hot breath
in the frigid deserts of the sky.
And I was as lonely as one of these steam trails
coiling upwards in chilly, expansive darkness for
infinitely expanding hours.
Loneliness is an old friend and comes
to the back door
sits down with me under the stoops of twilight.

by Heather Wolf (2007)

Perhaps ... Life

Perhaps, after all, life is more powerful than death.
It keeps happening no matter the multitudes
eternally obliterated in wars and other savage ignorances
or by diseases which feed upon us
like guests at a banquet,
yet, there it is again, right in my garden,
those gladiators, roses and slugs,
fighting and dying and always more.
In an alley in Benares, a baby tossed in the trash,
found by a beggar, the beginning of a long lineage.
Kittens in a bag in the river, but one survives
with a crook in its tail to be passed on and on.
Ah, the forms life takes—and then there are ourselves
who contemplate all this and know our part in it,
to bear the agony of loving the dying,
to witness the pain life everywhere endures,
yet, laughing with friends, being silly or crying
and holding one another
or being silent together
or alone.

by Barbara Wolf

The Speed of Dark

we may never accelerate ourselves
to the speed of light,
but the speed of dark
moves surely within us,
all that darkness of soul
which goes with knowing
we will die---
that love will die with us,
if not before,
after one of our many marriages,
perhaps, implodes
or a beloved leaves---
haunts our days,
inhabits our dreams.

Optimism is the miracle
in the face of this sure knowledge
and laughter,
rising out of us
like multi-colored balloons,
soaring above our
soon-to-be corpse,
the gift we didn't expect,
the surprise we didn't know we wanted.
like going to a garage sale
and finding a treasure
we hadn't imagined,
like the leap of the heart
and the fire in the groin
in the presence of someone
we hadn't expected to feel that way for,
like the sudden fork in the road
we hadn't known would appear
as we traveled our path
and the joy of following it
blindly to its end
and even beyond.
and so we dress up,
we brush our teeth
and move into
the light of day.


- Barbara Wolf (2006)

Mother and Daughter

[In an e-mail exchange, the poet shared the below poem with her daughter. - RocksWorks]

I’ve lost myself

somewhere in the airport
Ladies Room.
Many faces fill the wide mirror
but mine is not there.
I wash my hands and see
an old woman, once blonde,
squinting into my eyes.
She seems to be searching
for someone.
She leans in closer.
A weak smile tries to happen
on her face,
but it appears to disappoint her.
She turns from the mirror,
walks out the door.
Her flight is almost ready.

By Barbara Wolf (2006)

[Her daughter's return message on the morning of Monday, April 3, 2006 read, "That is the SADDEST poem. I hurt for you reading it mom. But I suppose it is true. But mom, here's my response." - RocksWorks]

Daughter's Response

You lost yourself
In the mirror
Somewhere inside the years
before you wrote the poem
When I watched you
Blond, slender, beautiful
Putting on your makeup
The mask in front of your mask
The one you reluctantly wore
To the dinner engagements
The company dinners
That took you hours to prepare for
Hours that when added up
Took years.
I remember your hair
Washed, ratted, flattened, curled, twisted, pinned, sprayed
Never right
You’d throw something down in pain
Saying, “I’m not going, Joe.”
“I just can’t go”
Always worried that you’d be judged.
Who was the judge then, my mama?
The one who decided your value?
Was it the Spanish Inquisitor?
The bank employee?
The young eyes around you in the classroom?
No, they all saw you, my mother, who I loved
And still love, exactly as you were
Exactly as you are
Long gray haired, soft skin, passion in your eyes
For the world of books and cultures and children
Throw away the mirrors, mom. When you die
I highly doubt that your last words will be, “I wish I’d looked better.”

by Linda Wolf (2006)
Learn more about Linda Wolf.

For Genevieve

She is open and vibrant---
she gets sad and lonely.
The view from her window
is the world, its beauty
and its pain.
She knows the suffering,
balances it in her mind
with the emerald spring,
the glory of life's love,
but it is not easy. She goes
within to find the heart to
wake up each day anew,
expecting joy, knowing that
she will be needed
to keep the balance,
to lessen the sadness
where she can.
Her smile and laughter
are the gifts she brings.
Her compassion eases
what others go through.
Her heart beats for life
in herself and she radiates life
to all who come her way.

by Barbara Wolf (2008)

The Lion's Tooth

Here on a low seat, tool in hand
I sit beneath a cedar’s shade
surrounded by a sea of grass
covered by a carpet of yellow.
Dandelions everywhere.
My work is hopeless,
yet I stab the grass and twist
at a root, only to bag half a catch
the rest still in the ground to
rise again.

Angry words of the night before
have left me spent and speechless.
Weeds of the soul, deep rooted
refuse to die. They can’t be forgotten,
erased-- and forgiveness comes hard.

Yet how peaceful here in the shade
to hear the morning sounds,
bird calls, a boat on the water
And to feel purposeful
in this garden job.
Remembering what was said,
digging at it
then letting it go,
beginning to understand
that there will always be weeds.

Barbara Wolf (2007)

Garden Meditation

I sit in my garden this mild September morning,
a gentle sun warming my cheek,
a slight breeze stirring the leaves
of the avocado tree above my head
and I am calm as a stone.
I sink into the sights and sounds of this beauty.
Nearby, a bird shrills; a passing plane adds its basso note,
growing fainter as it leaves the scene.
All the plants and trees of the garden,
orchestrated by a fresh gust of wind,
take up the chorus.
The slanted sunlight dances with its shadows
on every flower and leaf.

And as I write, everything is changing.
It’s warmer now. The air is different, dryer.
The light and shadow dance has moved
further into the garden.
Smells I was unaware of before rise
from the damp bricks beneath my feet.
A winged creature, a species unknown to me,
lights on my page,
its transparent wings trembling.

There is no need to hold on to any bit of it.
Its reality is that it is passing, as I am.
But today it did not pass unnoticed.

Poem & Photo by Barbara Wolf (2007)

The Dusty Soul

Just when I think I’ve got it all,
There’s more —
drifting under the bed,
caught on chair legs,
observed in sunlight
coming through a window.
It’s like the things I do that I regret,
but catch myself doing over and over again.
It’s never finished.
I hold myself to a fair standard
of housekeeping
and mindfulness of what I say and do
but I still have a dusty soul.
There’s always a wispy bit
clinging somewhere,
like the way I hold back warmth,
ignore the help that’s needed,
become defensive,
over-react to something said.
But I am grateful that
I have eyes to see and, sometimes,
enough courage to get out the vacuum
again and again.

by Barbara Wolf

The Poets and The Apple Tree

We bring plates of food and wine
and our poems and plant ourselves
around her garden on creaky chairs or on the grass,
rows of vegetables growing nearby,
writing their own poetry on the evening air.
While the dog makes friends with some children,
running after them, tugging at a sock,
we are in thrall to the apple tree blooming above us,
its gnarled branches venerable evidence
of its struggle to prevail
as, one by one, the poets speak their words
or read those of others,
moving us with what we all go through,
the losses, the joys, the yearnings
and most of all, the too ripe pain,
the unnameable that falls outside the poems,
like the apples on the ground,
the ones that never make it into pies.


by Barbara Wolf (2007)

Love search ...

I've tried the internet
and found a few
but when we meet
and talk of love,
the rubber hits the road
and leaves my heart behind

by Barbara Wolf (2004)

As a child

The Ritual

As a child,
I don’t remember ever seeing
my mother kiss a man.
Long after having become a mother myself
I saw her kiss her fifth husband, John,
and then only on the cheek
after he brought her
a bourbon and water, no ice,
their usual pre-dinner drink,
when she was in a hospital bed.
The nurse said, "Why not?"
John took a flask from his pocket,
poured a shot for her and one for himself,
put a dash of water in each
and handed one to her.
Mom reached up and pulled him close
by his jacket collar and kissed him.
The drink remained on a table by her bed all afternoon
while John held her hand.
The slanting rays of the sun through the blinds,
turned the glass a glowing transparent amber,
Through which,
from where I lay at the foot of her bed,
I could see the clock.

by Barbara Wolf
(c) 2007