Kathleen Everett
postage paidI am writing to you
from this side of life, though I know your answer will only be in birdsong or the autumn breeze in the cedar boughs. Longing for word in faded ink, written in your strong hand or a picture postcard from the other side- ‘Wish you were here.’ I await your reply Going thru your desk, I find the note you wrote on the day I was born and I know the longed for missive has arrived. postage paid Paper CranesThe path folds into itself,
an origami of leaf mold and gravel. Its edges drift into stiff hedges of deep dried grass, shifting ever so slightly in the spring breeze- fluttering like paper, paper cranes, that fold their wings and unfurl to fly. Someone, once, folded a thousand cranes, a symbol of peace or redemption or grace, I forget which. These cranes took flight and flew with ibis and stork, heron and egret, until the fragile paper wings drifted slowly, silently into the flame, consumed. All that was left was an origami of ash, for me to shovel into the garden and work into the soil to feed the roots and nourish our souls, with peace or redemption or grace. The Moon Makes Me Laugh
The moon makes me laugh.
Her face pink-gold with exertion Pushing past the horizon, Filling the constellations, To rise in her nights journey. As she climbs, she prays in the voice of my mother, “I see the moon, the moon sees me. God bless the moon and God bless me.” The moon makes me laugh. Her bright face silver with light, Gracefully easing into space, Moving in celestial dance. As she rises, she sings In the voice of my father, “Don’t the moon look lonesome, shining through the trees. Don’t the moon look lonesome, when your baby packs up to leave.” The moon makes me laugh. From the dark bedroom My sleepy voiced husband calls, What are ya’ll doing? Come to bed. We can’t, I answer. We have moon sickness. As the dogs and I moon-bathe, Naked on the back porch. it's not the weight but how you carry itits not the weight but how you carry it
loaded onto your back like a pack mule or ahead of you wheel barrowing down the lane no it’s more how you think and feel and digest all manner of thoughts and feelings how your tongue feels as you voice those longings and fears or maybe how your lips part when you sing a love song or maybe it’s just that everything we think is heavy is just as light as a feather it’s all in how you carry it rising balloons tied to a string or tied to your heart maybe you are light hearted and drawn to whimsy and mirth or maybe glum and in need of a digestif or a good hearty pat on the back maybe you are light on your feet dancing up a storm or a jig or a pas de deux balancing between sky and earth its all a balancing act, you know we are not merely players on a stage but acrobats and clowns following the gypsy caravan with all our worldly goods tucked into our backpacks or pushed along in our barrows light hearted or not its all in how you carry it Oscillation and Displacement
waves ruffle across the water’s surface
sunlight glinting at the crests sends dazzling sparks of light across the rocky cove waves oscillate through space and matter without seismic displacement sends shocking particles electrical across the spatial disturbance waves of grief wash across my heart tears displace my resolve as you look back and raise your hand shielding your eyes from the suns bright glare or is it to wave goodbye Rapture
dark as pitch,
I drive along the spine of the Ozarks ridge no other car on the road not a soul in sight but me I suddenly wonder did I miss the heavenly trumpet have the righteous risen up soaring into the air exchanging their earthly garb for heavenly robes sparkling white washed clean in the Blood of the Lamb and I am left until turning towards home the headlights catch you standing in the doorway illuminated by the light and I know I will remain unrepentant |
well and rightlyLoss becomes more common
place next to years lived, well and rightly, left to grass covered hillocks and gravestones. I know now that kith and kin includes the land as well as the relations that one inherits in blood and bone and breath and love and life, the last time I thought about it, includes losing those both kith and kin and I will end with a small hillock of my own of green grass and the breath of wind, well and rightly. The ProdigalShe’ll get her back up if you ask her about it –
that life before when she left home and ran around. But she never says a word and shoos you away from the porch if you keep on pesterin’ her. We all know the story but never get to hear the juicy details of those high livin’days. And the stories of when she came home- bruised and barefoot, no better than the pigs in the sty. They ran all the way down the road past the mailboxes when they saw her- wrapped her in their best cotton sheets and covered her hair in honey. Calling all the neighbors, they butchered their prize hog and we ate like kings, all the sweet meat and greens and potato salad we could hold. And, my, oh my, that coconut cake. But that’s not what I wanted to tell you. Ever since then, she’s kept to herself, minding her daddy til he passed and now her mamma, tied to this porch like there was a chain on her, never uttering a solitary word of regret. Or remorse neither. Dayliliespetals
shatter one day daylily a single day an ephemeral beauty a beautiful, ephemeral life I am weary of death his low whistle in a minor key has been heard too often at my door I am ready to be relieved of his visits I am so tired of tears and the beautiful arrangements of roses and all the beautiful beautiful lilies an ephemeral beauty a beautiful life life Things said and not said all the Possibilities
wait
tone and pitch mean everything the sound of the liquid vowels and rock hard consonants that spill on the water way cascading over the falls into that pool that will be memory of this moment wait just now the thought held just so not spoken but seen in your eyes blue as the sky as the wing of a bird that takes my notice away as you stop to consider the next words that will spill from your mouth that mouth a hint of a smile tasting of life and ocean where the truth will be spoken or withheld wait don’t say a thing How many kinds of rain
The warm spring rain
Soft against the window panes The cold winter rain Splotched with ice Almost snow The summer rain storm Fierce and full of thunder Leaving the dry summer leaves Quivering in the wind The warm winter rain Breaking the chill of January Bringing the mid winters thaw The fall rain, gray and foggy Mists rising through the falling leaves And the rain On the morning we met And the rain On the night You left Dove Season
My people were dog people.
Hunting dogs, mostly, Shorthaired pointers, lemon and red With royal names, Duchess and Princess English setters, liver and white, Each successor named Zip. September was dove season-- Guns would be cleaned Trips to the leases planned. Daddy and PamPa, with uncles and brothers in tow, Leave in the dark morning With dogs, guns and coolers in the trunk. Late afternoon with the deepening dusk, The hunters arrived home Smelling of fields and gunpowder and beer. Small still birds spilled from canvas bags, Tiny feathers and the scent of blood Float in the air-- A pitying of dove.
|
