Pink—small—and punctual—

Thursday, March 5, 2009

Pink—small—and punctual—

Pink—small—and punctual—
Aromatic—low—
Covert—in April—
Candid—in May—
Dear to the Moss—
Known to the Knoll—
Next to the Robin
In every human Soul—
Bold little Beauty
Bedecked with thee

Nature forswears
Antiquity—

-- by Emily Dickinson

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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)

dancing in life

She was dancing in life
chocolate milk in hand
Watching Star trek..
Reading the comics and laughing
Chasing Bailey, 'the wonder dog' around
the dining room table.
The Star Trek mug draining in the sink.

When at work, there were cinnamon rolls,
heavy metal music, and words such as 'schmack'!

There was always exciting talk of Jerry. She was so
proud of his love. She'd proudly tell me, 'Jerry loves
me unconditionally.'

Tracy was always praising the Lord for her life and circumstances.
Always telling me, 'Mary, God has it under control!'

She gave me a beautiful birthday card last October, and I feel
like these words are meant for all who knew her:

Just think, you are not here by chance, but by God's choosing.
His hand formed you and made you the person you are.
He compares you to no one else--
You are one of a kind. You lack nothing that his grace
can't give you. He has allowed you to be here at this time
in history, to fulfill his special purpose for this generation.

In her note to me in that card, she said, 'Our God truly only
has our best interests at heart.'

Dancing in life she was
When his light directed her feet, the
dance was perfect
His grace was always enough to keep her
feet moving.

She danced through my life and I feel so privileged.
I miss Tracy so much, but I can't wait until the day
when she greets me again at the door of heaven-- She'll probably
be stirring her chocolate milk, or have a paintball gun
in one hand. She'll be dragging me over to the heavy metal band that she's found.
I look forward to that
day--but I plan to be ready from this day forward,
I will be keeping a pair of earplugs in my pocket.

By Mary Leslie (1995)

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)

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

RocksWorks - Words & Pictures

Thursday, March 5, 2009