Poetry Thursday

I took my sorrow and placed it firmly into a paper sack
the kind you get at very good grocery stores
a heavy one with wire wrapped handles

I knew it must be hidden so I wouldn't be tempted
to take it out every so often and fondle it
worry it between the fingers of my heart
like those beads Indian women use to pray

I carried the bag by the handles
hoping I wouldn't hear the sorrow rattling around inside
bumping against the confines of its paper prison
searching for its own escape from darkness

Into the garage I carried it
my eyes searching furtively for the perfect spot
like a dog who needs to bury a bone
a place where I could retrieve it if I must (but not to easily)

There, behind a box of Christmas lights, used only rarely now
or no, on the shelf next to the catcher's mitt and car wash bucket
perhaps in the old fruit cellar
the warped wooden door shoved up against it

Panic rises, for there seems no safe place
so I stand holding this bag of sorrow, my palms moist on its handles
finally knowing it won't be hidden.

~~~~~~~~~~~

When I was a young woman, I allowed sorrows to consume me. If I were sad, or worried, or upset, I couldn't eat or sleep...I curled myself tightly into a ball and let life pass me by until I felt able to move forward again.

As I've aged, I've become more adept at compartmentalizing sorrow. It's not completely hidden, it's not ignored, it's simply set aside in a secret place, so that I can go on with life.

Thank you all for your kind comments and all the positive thoughts you've sent our way this week.

It helps more than you know :)

Poetry Thursday~When Morning Comes

When Morning Comes

When morning comes

pale early light

nudges open my eyes

recalling me from distant travels

in the land of dreams

I stumble from bed

heavy hearted and sore

no delight in this day set before me.

~

When morning comes

black coffee drizzles

into a shiny, clear pot,

preparing to ignite my sleep laden spirit

I lean across the sink

and throw open the window

hoping to clear the fog from my head.

~

When morning comes

cool breezes caress

tender, dry, skin

anointing me with freshness

I offer my face

to the wide open window

rejoicing in the baptism of possibility~

when morning comes

~

Thank you, Poetry Thurdsay, for providing a safe place to share and experience the joys of poetry.

Poetry Thursday

Shifting the Sun

Diana Der-Hovanessian

When your father dies, say the Irish,

you lose your umbrella against bad weather.

May his sun be your light, say the Armenians.

~

When your father dies, say the Welsh,

you sink a foot deeper into the earth.

May you inherit his light, say the Armenians.

~

When your father dies, say the Canadians,

you run out of excuses. May you inherit

his sun, say the Armenians.

~

When your father dies, say the French,

you become your own father.

May you stand up in his light, say the Armenians.

~

When your father dies, say the Indians,

he comes back as the thunder.

May you inherit his light, say the Armenians.

~

When your father dies, say the Russians,

he takes your childhood with him.

May you inherit his light, say the Armenians.

~

When your father dies, say the English,

you join his club you vowed you wouldn't.

May you inherit his sun, say the Armenians.

~

When your father dies, say the Armenians,

your sun shifts forever.

And you walk in his light.

~

I am an Armenian - I offer this poem to my friends Sherry, Elaine, and Julie, who each lost their father this month. May your path be illuminated by the light of his memory.

Poetry Thursday-Rivers

Rouge River~Lola Valley Park, 2006

River Visit

I've come to think of you

As my own personal river,

Running as you do

Through this park

Where I've walked each day

For most of my life.

~

Your solitary sojurn

Mirrors my own,

Searching as you are

For the sea

Where you might spill yourself

With ease

Into something far greater

Than you could ever be.

~

Mostly I stand and stare

And let you do the talking,

Knowing as you must

More truth than

My few years

Could teach me.

~

Your sweet babble

Confiding secret dreams and sage advice

Reminds me I am not alone,

Running as I do

Searching as I am

Knowing so little about life

Yet continuing with joy

To flow.

~

A small section of the Rouge River runs through the park right across the street from my house. The Rouge is a 126 mile river which eventually empties into the Detroit River. It served as the highway and water source for the Woodland Indians back in the mid 1700's. In the 1800's, French traders used it as an entry point into Detroit.

Industrialization took it's toll on the Rouge. It's not a pretty river, in fact it's gritty and hardworking, like most of the people in this city. But I still like to stand along its banks and listen to it as it runs underneath the roadway. When my husband was a child, he ice skated along it's banks, and picked his way across it on a stone bridge on his way to school. My son delighted in standing beside it and throwing rocks into shimmering pools.

It may not be beautiful, but its mine.

Poetry Thursday

Habitual Conversation

In the habit of long years
I turn to him and say
More coffee?
Remember your medication
Wear a warm coat
I love you

In the habit of long years
He replies
Yes, please
I will
Allright
Love you, too

In the habit of long years
Familiar words
Set each day in motion
Quiet whispers
Like the gentle tick
Of ancient clocks
Mark life
With simple phrases
Of unstated devotion
Nourished
In the habit of long years

There is a definite shorthand in the conversations between people in long standing relationships, a pattern of speaking and response that devlops over days and years of repetition. The other morning, it struck me that Jim and I repeat a certain dialogue on a daily basis. At first, I felt dismayed at the banality of this revelation. However, I then realized that beneath the trite question-response, there was an unspoken dialogue of caring and concern based on deep understanding of the other's needs, both practically and emotionally, an understanding that develops quite remarkably "in the habit of long years."

For more poetry, click here

Poetry Thursday-Spill

It's been a long while since I posted any poetry, but I happened to meander over to Poetry Thursday the other day and the random prompt generator happened to give me a very appropriate word...

Spill

naturally
i didn't mean to do it
somehow
my elbow brushed against
that topheavy bottle of cream
over it went
spreading a silent pool of reproach
in french vanilla
across my countertop
a languid pool running
over the edge
dripping casually onto
my clean floor

so early in the morning
for this to happen
my eyes still gummy with sleep
i stand frozen in shock
incapable of moving

"you're always in such a hurry"
my husband says
but
"you're so clumsy"
is what he really thinks~
he turns his back
and pads away
while my eyes stare transfixed
on this fountain before me
until they too fill up
and
spill

Poetry Thursday-The Body Knows

The body knows

in love's first flush

where to cling

how to trust

the fiery pull

of limb to limb

the eager search

of groping hands

tracing patterns of delight

along its length and breadth

is all the body knows

~

The heart knows

on love's long road

how to cleve

where to hold

each moment burned

in memory deep

of struggles shared

and joys to keep

reminders as we travel on

join two lives into one

is all the heart can know

~

The spirit knows

in heaven's bower

where to seek

how to power

lovers lost to earth's embrace

toward soul's eternal wedded place

journey in this world unknown

seeking union deeply sewn

completing life's eternal spire

joined body, heart, spirit, one

is all that love can know

Poetry Thursday-Night Thoughts

Thoughts of you keep sleep away
stabbing my heart
with cruel remembrance
of your lips on mine
the electric touch of
your warm hand
just there
where life gives form to life

I tangle myself
in this web of pale linens
angry at darkness
which summons you
to my heart, yet
fearful of light
that even now filters
through eyelids closed tightly in protest.

Beyond sleep now
I ache with yearning,
my body flush with rising heat
recalling stolen moments
shared by two souls
who wandered from their chosen path
only to be lost
on this road to pure redemption.

I savor this agony
these thoughts of you
that arrive under cover
of each night's dark mystery.
My daylight self lost
to this wild forest of memory
where you wait in secret
and torment me with love.

And yet all the while,
beside me he sleeps
lost in thoughts of his own.

I borrowed the first line of this poem from here, and I thank Rethabile who so graciously offered it for this week's Poetry Thursday objective.

Poetry Thursday

On A Tree Fallen Across the Road

(To Hear Us Talk)

Robert Frost

The tree the tempest with a crash of wood

Throws down in front of us is not to bar

Our passage to our journey's end for good,

But just to ask us who we think we are

~

Insisting always on our own way so.

She likes to halt us in our runner tracks,

And make us get down in a foot of snow

Debating what to do without an axe.

~

And yet she knows obstruction is in vain.

We will not be put off the final goal

We have it hidden in us to attain,

Not though we have to seize earth by the pole.

~

And, tired of aimless circling in one place,

Steer straight off after something into space.

~

It's been a while since I posted for Poetry Thursday. It seems I haven't had much poetry in me lately, nor have I taken time to read any. That's always a big mistake - as Robert Frost himself said, "Poetry is a way of taking life by the throat."

Most everyone is familiar with Frost's other "road" poem (The Road Not Taken), which is the one I intended to post today. But I came across this one in the battered paperback collection of Frost's poetry I had for my college America Poetry class. Unlike most of the other poems on those yellowed pages (yes, its been that long since I was in college!) this one had no scribbled annotations surrounding it, suggesting that I had never read or studied it.

Although this poem doesn't exactly follow this week's PT prompt (which is "the street where you live"), this "road poem" speaks to me right now, because I've had some some big branches come down in my path recently. It's good to be reminded that they won't "bar the passage" to my journey's end for good - they're simply forcing me to stop, take stock, and figure out how to proceed "without an axe." It gives me courage "not to be put off that final goal" I have "hidden within me," but to collect myself and steer "straight off" after my dreams.

for more poems, go here

Poetry Thursday-Favorite Lines

Wild nights-Wild nights!

Were I with thee

Wild nights should be

Our luxury!

~emily dickinson

Dying

is an art, like everything else.

I do it exceptionally well.

I do itso it feels like hell.

I do it so it feels real.

I guess you could say, I've a call.

~sylvia plath

I first started reading poetry when I was a teenager -
well, who didn't? These lines were among my favorites, and pretty well
exemplify the roller-coaster ride that was my emotional life in those days.
No, I really wasn't bi-polar, although if there had been a barometer on my feelings, it
might have appeared as if I were.

For years, I didn't read poetry at all.

And then, thanks to Poetry Thursday (thank you, thank you, thank you!)

I found these lines:

Every day

I see or hear

something

that more or less

kills me

with delight,

that leaves me

like a needle

in the haystack

of light.

It is what I was born for -

to look, to listen,

to lose myself

inside this soft world -

to instruct myself

over and over

in joy,

and acclamation.

from "Mindful", by Mary Oliver

Not coincidentally did I place these words in the center of the page. These are the words that restore balance to my life, overfilled as it sometimes is with minituae and busyness.

These are the words and set me on the right course, when I seem to be veering off into some dark distance. These are the words that remind me "what I was born for."

I'm now long years away from being a teenager, and, no, my nights are not "wild" by any stretch of the imagination. But, neither do I dwell in thoughts of the "art of dying." I'm happiest when I can "lose myself in this soft world," and "instruct myself in joy and acclamation."

Poetry Thursday - Everyday Inspiration

The poems I love best are homages to the "everyday" - a sunset, a favorite tree, birds singing, a fulfilling pastime or a special relationship. These things add small touches of pleasure to our lives, so it makes sense to memorialize them with poetry, which should itself be another of life's everyday pleasures.

Every Afternoon

Along about four o'clock
every workday afternoon
I begin to think about my chair.

You know the one -
the soft old green one
just there by the window
with an oven warm spot

baked in the late day sun.

Everday after work
I fold my weary bones into its lap
lean my aching head against its neck
and sigh.

It fits me just right, this chair.
Although it is large enough
for a small boy
to curl up at my side,
snuggle in close to my heart
and hear a story or two ~
these days it's just me.

It could be that one or both
of the dogs might come
and vye for a spot on my lap,
a loyal, forgiving soul
to share this comfort with.

Either way,
I begin to think about it ~
my chair, my book,
maybe one dog or both~
along about four o'clock.

Poetry Thursday -When I Am Among the Trees

Who could not love a day like today, with its brilliant blue sky, crisp breeze with just a hint of chill, and most of all, the trees hung with their great scarlet and gold medallions. And yet, in spite of all this beauty, it was a day of great weariness for me. One of those inexplicable days when the soul is heavy and the body even wearier. I dragged myself home after a late afternoon rehearsal, threw myself into my softest easy chair, and picked up the book on the table beside me. I opened it to these words of perfect beauty and simplicity. And while the second stanza pierced my heart with it's truth, I was comforted by the sage advice of the last - "it's simple...you too have come into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled with light, and to shine."

When I Am Among The Trees

Mary Oliver

When I am among the trees,

especially the willows and the honey locust,

equally the beech, the oaks, and the pines,

they give off such hints of gladness.

I would almost say that they save me, and daily.

I am so distant from the hope of myself,

in which I have goodness, and discernment,

and never hurry through the world

but walk slowly, and bow often.

Around me the trees stir in their leaves

and call out "Stay awhile."

The light flows from their branches.

And they call again, "It's simple," they say,

"and you too have come

into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled

with light, and to shine."

for more poems to ease your weary soul, look here

Poetry Thursday- Your Own Voice

As someone just taking baby steps into the world of writing, and particularly the world of poetry, this week's Poetry Thursday prompt made me throw up my hands (metaphorically speaking) and cry WHOA! Voice? I don't think I have a "voice" yet, at least not in the poetic sense. Not in the way that Mary Oliver has a voice, or Jane Kenyon, or Naomi Shihab Nye, some of the poets whose work I've been reading and enjoying. I spent most of the week wandering around thinking, "where is my voice?" and "how do I find it?" I had just about decided to post a poem from one of the poets mentioned above, as if to say, "I don't have a voice of my own, but how I wish I had one like this!"

But then, I heard something. Not a voice, really, but a tiny whisper. So, I have a poem of my own to offer after all.

You must know ~

I've been searching endlessly

for this voice of mine.

Perhaps it hides

beneath loads of laundry

and lists of chores,

notes from various people

(not friends)

who beg money or time from me.

Perhaps it's injured or frightened,

remembering a moment in the past

when it ventured cautiously

from behind it's safest shelter,

only to have me ~it's protector~

shove it hastily aside,

discount its worth,

continue blithely with

the truly important tasks

that fill my day ~

the dusting, the driving, the tidying up

of all the cobwebby corners

of my world.

I tell myself now

to sit quietly

and gently call its name,

coax it to me

with a promise

of fresh ink, blank paper

and

a full measure of my devotion.

There is more poetry here

Poetry Thursday - In the Voice of Another

~1~

If Life should walk Beside me

all Lovliness to See -

I'd take its Hand - invite it In -

my Heart's true Company.

If Death should walk Beside me

grave Lonliness to Bear -

it too, would be Welcome -

my Heart's burden Gladly share.

For now, Content, I walk Alone

midst trees of Evergreen -

my Rhymes and Songs to Guide me

toward Pathways yet Unseen.

Emily Dickinson has always fascinated me, from the time I was a child and first read "I'm Nobody! Who are you? Are you - Nobody - too?" I was, and still am, envious of her complete self-containment, her single minded dedication to her poetry. Her reclusive life seemed romantic and glamorous to me, a young girl growing up in a midwestern suburb, cherishing her own dreams of "the writer's life," and I almost feel as if I'm committing an act of sacrilege, making this faint attempt to capture the rhythm and grace of her voice.

For more poems in the voice of another, go here