Joni MItchell Sings After Thanksgiving

On the day after Thanksgiving

all of those I love leave me again

for the coasts.  

 

So far from the snow and cold.

 

I tip my glass full of smoothe elixir,

so lucious; this grateful concoction of losses

that even the moon can't soothe.

 

On the day after Thanksgiving

Joni Mitchell is singing again.

Her viscious truth stands proudly

over the body of sadness.

"I really don't know love. . . .

at all," rings like a meditation bell,

daring me not to sob.

 

Daring me to be quiet again

as I discover what I have given up. 

I really don't know myself 

at all.

It might as well drizzle.

Her voice skates on the open ice

of my broken skin and bruises.  

These illusions have fooled me again

and I am walking on the frozen ground

trying to shake the constant doubt

I can't help but bury deep in my pack.

 

On this day after so much joy,

steaming mouthfuls of holy communion,

Joni sings

and I know I am bound for 

a very long winter.

 

 

My Guest is Late

It didn't snow here tonight

but my guest is late

because an over zealous trucker

got stuck at the curve near Hogback.

The darkness and blustery chatter of the rain 

slow the thick quiet with the sudden lack of traffic,

the regular rattle of wheels  on Route 9

and chains over brittle rubber traveling east.

Soon the skinny light of December

will shrink with the cold days

and Molly Stark Highway will close

more often than the big rigs

and skiers from CT, MA, and MD would like.

I pull the blanket over aching shoulders

and drink a cup of tea before sleep.

The hum of November

all around like copper leaves

falling to their resting place.

Somewhere Before

Somewhere before I was born
I was ashes in the Earth,
or maybe that was after I died
the last time.

In the circle of all the women
I've ever been, my feet are firmly
on the ground
dancing with God.

Here, around this fire and the heat
my essential self is urgent,
seeking to join our deepest longing
and know just what to say

to the heart of the haunted
ghost-structure
where old damage
is bloody and dreaming;

the wisps of freedom
that rise up
from sorrow's bed.

Considering Frost

It is cold tonight

as I wander out onto the porch to gaze up at the crescent moon,

feet bare to the worn wood, 

the rest of me snuggled in the wooly green sweater

I haven't worn in six months.

The stars stumble into the sky

from the slumber of the clouds and rain, 

bright again and oblivious to my tired eyes and ragged emotions.

The Big Dipper, that glistening cup of comfort,

so easily discovered in the darkness.

It doesn't take much recognize the signs of the end of the season of growing.

The air alone is somehow thinner, ready to cut the threads that weave together

hope and ambition and leave me wanting to sleep more

curled in blankets and scarves with sweet, creamy tea.

In the morning, I won't be surprised if the frost takes the flowers from me,

greedy and violent like a child stolen from her bed in the night in a fairy tale.  

I am grieving already

and have bulbs waiting in the basement 

ready to tuck into the earth once the cosmos,

Black Eyed Susan, and even the asters are gone.  

The secret society of women into which I was born;

mother and all her sisters,

each fall tenderly planting hidden life

in the nearly frozen ground,

each will gather  in the twilight

from North Dakota to Vermont

and imagine the spring equinox

and the green tips of life returning to us

after so many losses.

If we only consider frost

we will lose everything;

go mad for the search for the color

at the edge of a daffodil petal.

Instead we kneel on the cold ground

and pray for more.

Cowboy Song

My mother sits alone tonight,
lost on the prairie
in western Minnesota.

She sits in her worn flannel pjs
on her first anniversary without my dad,
alone in the chair where he always sat.

For more than fifty -five years
her husband sat
dreaming of the sky,
predicting the future,
like the guys on the 10 o'clock news.

He was my mother's cowboy
on the watch for everything; anything.

On the watch for the roof to blow off,
the pipes to freeze, the dog to die,
the crops to fail, the tire to blow out.

It could happen, you know.

This ritual is hers now,
after the hairspray and bad fashions
talk about the shootings
and the government gone wrong--
after they are done spouting off,
the real reporters come on
to tell us what they know
about tornados, drought,
and rain.

Before bedtime now
my mother is alone
and listening
to the raspy weather
that will gallop across the fields
to the soothing sounds of the winds whistling,

that never stop blowing
in that godless place.

On a Day Like Today

The sound of this rain
is like the gentle grinding gears
of a small machine
working past the shock
of full immersion
in the body.

Cleanse my mind
that I might renew
the celebration,
make me dizzy with dancing
and all the ways
we cleanse our souls
in front of all the other
souls waiting to dance.

Or better yet,
shock the gold finch,
the cardinal, and the broken
brown sparrow, by hollering
at my children to come home to supper.

The view from the ruddy rain and chill
is breath-taking.
The path to get there,
nearly impossible on a day
like today.

Wading into Winter

Near midnight
I feel the rumble of trucks,
not so far from home,
making their way from New York
to the east coast of Vermont.

The windows are closed
against the unexpected cold.
leaving us feeling the flashes
like shivers on our naked bodies,
against the summer sheets.

When fall swings into the shorter days
like a forgotten winter dream,
daring us like roulette to curse the cool,
we know better and put on a layer,
a sweater and jeans, and our high top Converse sneaks;
maybe even a shawl and heavy socks
knitted by someone's mother.

We know better to take a blanket from the linen closet
or even a quilt and rock quietly, or take a nap
before opening our mouths
to complain.

Any Northerner knows
that winter is always worse than this day
that feels like you are wading
into the cold water on an early summer day
when you just aren't ready
to take the plunge.

The Garden Love Forgot to Leave

On a night where I consider falling stars,
I hear the whirr of crickets and tree frogs
knowing it won't be long until the frost
cuts through the fields like a scythe,
grazing the grasses too short,
our barefoot days of summer
only stains and calluses
to be scrubbed clean.

My nostrils tell me
the farmer has been haying
one last time;
the waves of flowers
and wild fodder
sweet with the sun
even after it sets.

I have no need for bales
to remember how good
this withered vegetation will be
in January.  The walls of a barn
warm with animals who chew
on the cud of all that is lost.

On this night when the day turned under
and exposed itself,
blushing pink,
and then opened up
into the seeds of all light,

I ache to brush back the curtain
of all joy and look out the window
into the garden where love
forgot to leave.

The Next Generation

This wheel is slowing
to an aching pace,
pounding the life
out of this body. 

The shoulder grinds
and the skin loosens
around the mouth
and eyes.

Labor and the chores of living
satisfy those of us who work.
We find the value
in the ways we spend
a moment with our hands
dirty from peeling a mango
or bright green parsley
to the eyes that nearly close
while writing a poem
at the end of the day.

These perpetual thoughts
are a trance of the busy mind.
The mystery of the body
satisfying.

The next generation delights
in the slow torture of spaces
and less time. 

I close my eyes
and rest in this solitary
and silent place. 
Only the crickets
and the sound of passing trucks
on Rt. 9

Rumble on into the unknown
and you will find the strangers
you thought you knew
as children.

l

New School Shoes

On the first day of fall classes
students stumble drenched
and drunk from anxiousness

huddled to their binders and books,
an expensive coffee in their hand,
they mumble and ask for assurance
like they are crawling out of Plato's cave.

I shiver and shift in my new school shoes
wondering if they have been overcome
by the deception that slinks around
in the backrooms of powerful places,
or if they have just forgotten
their manners.

Perhaps it might not be worth the ache
in these shoulders and neck
after carrying the load of intelligent conversation
and my own overfull backpack
for so long. 

A young man sniffles,
startles me,
tucks in his shirt,
and asks the way to the restroom
and the code to the door.

I wait for the moment to pass,
write something down he might remember,
and pray for the wisdom
to wait and see.

Mowing the Grass on Labor Day 2018

Just like Minnesota in August,
I am hunched and pushing
the electric mower
while sweat and ache
flow through the prarie
of my body.

The crows perch above me,
black angels
in the fading maples,
cawing and laughing
at my toil.

I miss my father again today
and remember all these miles of walking
behind a machine
and the ways he taught me
to do this chore,
first for old Mrs. Bauma
when I was in the 6th grade,
and then at the farm on Saturdays,
and now, without the smell of gas and oil,
yoked to the green of Vermont.

What I would give
to have him teach me again
how to change the oil,
sharpen my kitchen knives,
put away my tools in their proper places,
wash the sink after dishes,
make my bed just like they did in the Navy,
and remind me how to tighten the bolts
clockwise on the wheels of my car.

Just one more time,
on a hot and muggy day like today,
to watch him squeeze the last drops
from a bottle of beer,
smirking with his eyes bright
and shirt stained with the work
of just mowing.

Sunflowers at Sunset Lake Road

So many summers now,

seven I think,

I have planted

the hope of sunflowers

at Sunset Lake Road

These seeds are for my neighbors

who walk their dogs

or stroll to the Diner for ice cream.

They are for the strange girl

in the black dress.

She passes by unsmiling.

They are for distant friends

and my dead father

who loved the nature of sunflowers

to boldly bloom 

while everything changes.

Gone

for Jonah as he leaves for California (August 2018)

How do we navigate this departure
into the frontier of constant time
and traversing the Rockies
in a truck
with a box
you made
for yourself
when I thought my job
of calling you
from some celestial orbit
was the only sacrifice
that was required of me?

Sleepless nights and constant crying
while you navigated your way
out of some other deep sorrow
of another life

abandoned

and it was my job
to hold you.

"Don't let me go!" you screamed

day and night.  

Don't

let 

me 

go.

I stood my ground

because I called you

from all that darkness

into the light.

I

called

you.

Until now.

The truth is, you've been leaving for a while now.

The first day of kindergarten,

with your simple, shocking wave.

Boston, Florida,

skateboards, 

snowboards,

Miles and miles of music.

Alabama, NYC, road trips,

running away,

coming home

California

L

A

the alphabet of strangers

and angels, 

the city of the festival

of roses.

And now

the magnetism of mystery,

umbilical long gone.

I am lost in all the losses.

What can I say about love

when you are already

gone?

Looking Back

The pulse of crickets
has me counting tonight.
My fingertips are raw with grief
knowing that the fading light
eventually leads us to leaving
all this glory behind.

The autumn vagabond has already shown up
in a few limbs of random maples,
stressed by too many storms
that cannot be counted
by the average observer.
Red, yellow, and faded orange
migrate into the leaves,
silently packing up
the remains of wavering heat
in a borrowed valise.

The summer people
will soon close up their shutters
and return to the safety of the city
before sunset extends her arms
and collapses exhausted under the blinking stars.
Darkness does not live in NYC, Boston,
or LA; these cities of twenty-four hour flashing neon.
Tourists arriving to Vermont in the longest days
of fireflies and hay making,
have no idea what they abandon after the switches click off.
Nobody dares look back as they drive away,
caught guilty of nothing,
without a tearful glance
at the natives.

Nearly Hovering

It is easy to imagine
on the first sunny day in a week
that the blur and whoosh of feathers
are messages from the places Love is made.

Hover near the bee balm,
breathless and steady,
and the thwirring sound of souls
in the dull green body armor of a hummingbird
will focus the mind as quick as her wings
will take her.

Gold finches,
gracefully chase each other in the birch
and hop from Black Eyed Susan,
delicately eating those impossible seeds
and lighting in the thick grasses not yet harvested
by our haying farmer.

Listen for the pattern
of cardinal calling
like a punctual monk chanting Psalms.
Even before the sun rises
he is waking all the aviators.

You don't need a passport,
or even luggage,
to take this trip
where languages
need no translators
to make sense
of all this joy
lifted to the sky
in nearly weightless prayers.

Meditation Before Sunrise

Stumble from the sheets
to check the glow of time,
a collision with the layers
of mystery as it passes.

I sit in the euphoria
of the silence of the house.
No music. No hum of a fan.
No voice spoken in harsh whisper.

Only the treasure of the breath
that digs past consciousness
into the humus of thoughts,
discovery after discovery
of all that was forgotten,

uncovered by the archaeology
of Memory wiping her hand
over the top of the box,
sneezing and coughing
as dust rises.

Count the beads,
cool and blue with the night,
each round globe an offering of prayer
as the heart opens to the possibility
of love.

Sleep

This epidemic,
this wandering sleepless
from day to day like robots
animated by abandoned souls,
is not what the Creator meant for us.

Soon the birds,
who are angels
disguised as creatures
made by God,
will fly to each nightless window
and make a nest for all the suffering.

There is hope in this fantasy
where the secluded prairies of our exhausted selves
will come to rest in the love of something bigger
than the screens of fear that pull us away
from communion that happens
when we close our eyes
and pray for the wonderland
of sleep,
erase the boards of our minds
and start out new
in the morn.

Begging for Repentance

This baptism of August heat
sticks to my skin like God whistling in the garden,
the parent who already knows
you've done something dreadfully wrong.

At this point, I would take ashes of the oak fire,
crush them on my forehead, 
call the shadows to come in the early afternoon
when I could wrap a shawl around my shoulders,
put on another sweater and a pair of socks
to escape this misery.

Sleep decays before I put my head on the pillow
and growls like an angry cat
and the deep ache of an aging shoulder
when three a.m. stares me in the face
while I wait for the sun to heat up the sky
melting all hope for relief.

Even the hum of the fan
brings me to the edge of madness
after so many storms
of not wanting to touch anything;
anyone.

The prayer forgets
the meaning of repentance
when all you can see is damnation. 

Sometimes

Sometimes the fields across Sunset Lake Road
are filled with fireflies, frog songs, and crickets.

Sometime the sky is brilliant with the moon and crows
gathering to remind us of love,
mottled and traced with death,
but, love nonetheless.

Sometimes the cracked leather of time
is grooved with decay
and rubs away the solid ground we stand on
when the unwelcome guest arrives,
preparing, as always,
to sweep the house bare of everything beautiful;
getting ready for some new sorrow.

Sometimes, as closely as I read the charts,
the night sky becomes filled with flashing
and thunder, heavy with doubt
and I am lost in the swirling tenderness.

Sometimes, like tonight
I turn and  turn
hoping to decipher something
deep in the dunes
of one quiet moment
just before sleep.

The Day After I Die

Now that my father is gone from all suffering
and sleeps in the roots of the Norway pine
on the land that he loved,
I have started to imagine the questions
my children will have

the day after I die.

Imagine the secret life in the gardens

and stormy hours of a guilty mind,

dark and flashing in the night sky with fear,

 

all the disappointments

creaking around in the attic

of my home,

and dust we call the body,

they will never know.  

There is a black and broken trunk in the basement

and a few boxes of letters in the eaves

that might help them understand,

an album, a few photos, and journals

with the names of strangers, poems,

and lovers they never knew.

The day after I die

they will start to tell the real stories

of the ways I loved them,

sang them to sleep,

 

and failed them

with my disappointments

and misguided men, 

made the rafters of their hearts

heave with heat and the motion

of a living homestead 

that they will come back to

when they have no place else to go.

Leading the Blind

As the sun forgets to shine for another dark day in America
I have decided I might like to close my eyes,
start to walk barefoot
or naked so that I might stumble
on some chirp of a cardinal,
red and joyful

no compass in sight,
more blind than the bad guys and the broken
who would shove splinters under my nails
if they really knew me
and the venom that grows
within each rudderless day
under the rule of constant
glorious fear.

What would happen
if I closed my eyes slowly,
as if in prayer,
let my olfactory take the lead,
surrender to the God of love
and local gardens?

If I ate the fruit
could I block out the swirling madness
of the nation who forgot themselves
in the telling of a story of apples and freedom
that was never true?
This Bible collects dust
and slowly tears us all until
we have forgotten the way home.

I have forgotten how many steps
between the rooms of love

and hate.  The aisle is a tightrope
cluttered with the detritus
of forgotten promises,

something that might have once
been sacred, honest,

even if you hold it
in front of a blind man
asking for more.

Christopher Columbus' Mother

How can a mother prepare
for all the voyages
that the moon will take her on
when she splits her belly in two;
reaching to the ends of the heaven
for so much love?

Flat as the Earth is,
the heart hooks herself
to the west winds
and sails to some unknown place
with her son
who knows nothing
about the sea;
the womb of all creation
defying logic for swelling waves
that constantly heave and roll.

There is no map
for the place you will travel now.

This chaos of leaving
is nothing like the sleepless nights
with a boy who cried for your breast.
You were alone then
as your body ached
to heal,
abandoned and lost,
no land on the horizon,
no stars to guide you.

The rocks were so near
you could taste the iron
and feel the grit of loss
on your tongue.

When the explorer leaves you this time
with a warning that he may never come back
from the fires and flood,
you grieve in all the ways
mothers do.

All we can manage is to pray
and watch the edge of horizon
for some simple sign
that we have done enough
to bring them home
when their journey toward nothing
is done.

Before I Fly Away

When death comes to find me
I want to be ready like I am today,
aching to be like the birds
hopping in the snow
to find one small black seed at a time.

There are no words
for this gratitude
that is covered in a shell
and must be cracked open
with my wisest self;
a curious and hungry beak
waiting for communion.

If all I have to give
is the love I have been given,
it will be enough
to turn to my friends and lovers
and say “Come. Eat what is so very good.”
before I fly away.

Lament

This full-throated day

amplifies everything I’ve known,

memory swallowed and spoken

like an oath on the occasion

of all truth-telling.



I resolve to gaze directly into the eyes of sorrow,

touch the gravelly places in my chest

with the words that soothe and steady me

on the simple sand near the sea.



Look at the package as you unwrap the gifts.

The flannel shirt

and the scarf, plaid and soft synthetic,

worn next to the warmth

of a tender neck.



This treasure is meant to be gathered

to my face and inhaled.

Small particles of love,

solemn and steadfast as any hand

pledging allegiance,

hover around my heart.



I open my mouth to speak,

expecting vibrato; a lament.

Instead, the sound of needles rattling

at the end of cold branches,

unlikely clicks of rain against the window,

and the death rattle of tall prairie grasses

tumble from my lips

like the last breath from the body.

Getting Ready to Turn 53

They stopped me all week,

asked me how I would celebrate another year.

I breathe into the idea of 53.



I always like my birthday, at the end of February,

not a leap year, and far enough away from Christmas

not to ruin that holiday, close enough to spring

to have something to look forward to as mud season

takes over.



As a child, the winter thaw cancelled skating parties,

even in Minnesota. There was no smooth gliding

over frozen surfaces of water.

Never the end of winter, but warm enough

to survive until the flowers arrived and the early green flowed

into the leaves. Birthday bowling or sleep overs with the girls.

Pink frosting on Angel Food. Candles and the story of my birth

before singing the song.



This year will be the most different I’ve ever been

with my father gone from his body and traveling free

with the crows and the dreams of all the ways

he has shown up for me. This year will be different

without the call from my champion before 8 a.m. to sing the song

and to tell me about soaking the cast off his arm

after driving on bumpy roads through the jungle

to hurry my arrival. The VW with the wicker basket

behind the seat for the baby. The trip to the nursery

looking for the white baby among the sea of brown

only to find me protected by the nurses.



This year will be different

with my heart space left

unprotected and open

to everything.

From the Ashes

In these days after death reminds me of who I am,
I touch the wounds I carry on my skin,
in my belly, all around my heart,
marveling at the raised edges
and the marks that do not diminish me
but, rather, bring me strength.
 
In the northern places
sacred ground is frozen,
waiting quietly for now,
for spring to open up
so that I might return
the remains of love
into the Earth’s aching chest.
 
If I am not awake in this waiting,
water might swallow me up
like so many stormy days
stuck behind this lifetime of sorrow.
 
But my eyes are not closed
as I gather the clever kindling I will need
while I hold the light of this flame to the tinder
and gently blow on the shavings of magnificent oak
that will become a radiant fire,
and then nothing
but remains
that look just like anyone else
and ashes.

Forgetting Myself

Before dawn I rest quiet hands on my hips,

look out at the field into the shimmering morning

and wait for the warmth of the light

like I do every day.



This body wakes to the radiant invitation,

like a lover waiting to take me

onto the dance floor

and play with the music;

forgetting myself in the movement.



The birds, delighted

slip from the sky

onto branches,

to the feeder,

and back to the sky

with all the magic

God has given them.



It is impossible not to open my voice

and sing along with the wind

that carries these feathered sisters

from their nests and their babies

long enough to nourish their souls

with flight and water.



Prayers have lifted from all our hearts

as simply as spreading the holy wings

of angels who teach us to fly.

The Night of the Ravens

The night the ravens came
the moon was blue


and the snow glowed under us;
the Earth and her crystals bright
were all magic.

The field of light across the way
swelled with the clicks and caws
of that flighty darkness,
rose and fell,
just like every stormy ocean will do.

Hundreds of feathery spirits had come
to announce the news
that love is stronger than any death
and that the messenger is always present
in the sound of wings.

Math Homework with my Son

for Julian

The perpetual questions of this son
spark and twist in the evening
as algebraic concepts curl exponentially
over our heads.

His voice is moving deeper into his chest,
closer to the earthy self to which he is called
to live and breathe and find his own
immortality.

I watch the edge of his lip
where the faint darkness of his new self
is a shadow of endless love
turning with the spirit
of all the generations.

Infinity is unfolding before my eyes,
in this moment, as we silently consider
the distance between our hearts
while erasing the answers
to the math homework
that will be due in the morning.

Wild

The field was empty white
with not a mark on the secluded ache
of this January day.

Even the wild turkeys making their marks
as they filed quietly
like old monks toward the brightest hill
looking for apples
under the snow.

The monotony of the wind and biting cold
wore us down today until all that was left
was the urge to sleep.

The fire crackles and huffs up the chimney
drawing the will for more heat
to rise.

All we can do is throw on another log
and pray in our humble shawls rocking a
nd look out at everything wild
past the fortress of this old house.

Every Day Ocean

The brine of this day's deep work
is fresh on my lips,
tingling and chapped
from the winds and cold
encountered in rough waters.

My mind billows with ideas
that always come as I chart the course
for a new year.
The certainty I'll see the stars
and know where to go next
is a blessing
if even for the moment.

Let the current of hope take me
into the wide open ocean
where love and kindness
are the leviathan we wait
to behold and follow
if we are steady
and strong enough.

First Day

On this first day
let the moon
carry you on her back
laughing at what the night
thought he could get away with.

Even children know
that magic sits
on the fingers
of each blessed flake
when the silver strands of love
drift to hearts, lonely and waiting
to sing.

On this first extraordinary moon
hold her tight as she runs
free and with the strength to make it
all the way home.