21 Tuesday Jan 2020
Posted in Poetry
Tags
Aging, Courage, Death, Dying, Hope, Life, Loneliness, Loss, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Snow, Soul, Soul Poetry, Souls, Strength, Survival, Winter, Winter poem
Imagine
if someone covered you
in ice;
how would you feel
in a chill
blanket of snow?
What darkness have
you
known, the kind
that can kill you,
your voice
silenced
in wind-drifts,
the hissing whisper
of winter’s kiss?
29 Friday Mar 2019
Posted in Poetry
Tags
aspen, Aspen Trees, Beauty, Courage, Death Poems, Dying, Hope, Life, Love, Love Poems, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Soul, Spirit, Spring, spring poem, Survival, Women's Poems, Yearning
early spring,
a cold aspen, clothed
in soft buds, robed in white,
like ash, born of snow;
to touch her is to quake
with the anticipation
of a thousand leaves
desperate to unfold;
a thousand leaves
desperate
to unfold you.
17 Sunday Mar 2019
Tags
Afterlife, Beauty, Chaos, Courage, Death, Death Poems, Division, Dying, Fear, Freedom, Hate, Loss, Poem, Poems, Poetry, politics, Sadness. Sorrow, Soul, Spirit, Suffering
Can you be in awe
of how much some
are expected to suffer
in this lifetime—
we are often given
more than we can—
I saw a moth
with a broken wing,
and though it struggled,
I could not crush it—
but placed him, instead,
among the leaves of jasmine,
and walked away.
11 Monday Mar 2019
Posted in Poetry
Tags
Aging, Cancer, Death, Death Poems, Dying, Fear of Death, Foal, Hope, Horses, Love, Poem, Poems, Poetry
My father is eighty,
has cancer,
lives two hours away,
and I worry—
could I get there
soon enough to say
I love him,
should his last moments
come quick, unexpected—
like a foal born in the night
while I’m sleeping,
even though I’d been there
to catch him all day.
07 Monday Jan 2019
Posted in Poetry
Tags
Afterlife, aspen, Aspen Trees, Conversations With Maggie, Death, Death Poems, Dying, Eternity, Happiness, Heaven, Hope, Infinite, Life, Loss, Love, Maggie, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Souls, Spirit, Winter, Winter poem
Looking back, I see you
looking back, smiling,
I say your name,
as if to summon
the dead to life,
and it works,
for a moment.
It’s winter,
and the earth feels
like your absence,
the once living things,
here, but not here.
How many times
did you sit
next to me looking
out at the aspen?
And now, here it is
bare again, waving
its naked branches again.
Today, it looks like
it’s doing The Twist,
and, I think, it hears
a song I don’t, no,
a song I can’t, hear.
Looking back, I see you
looking back, smiling,
your secrets, a dance,
a song that plays
while the world listens,
and twists to a secret melody,
it cannot hear.
29 Friday May 2015
Posted in Uncategorized
From our first breath,
Straight from the womb,
We average twenty five thousand
Nine hundred fifteen days,
Of welcoming the sun,
Falling asleep under the moon.
You can buy a car for that much,
But it won’t have leather,
Or a back-up camera,
Or, probably GPS.
His doctor said, two and half years,
The average in late stage prostate cancer,
But I like to think,
Nine hundred twelve and a half days.
Nine hundred twelve times
To welcome the sun,
Nine hundred twelve times
To fall asleep under the moon
And a half day left over,
To dream about both.
30 Tuesday Sep 2014
Posted in Uncategorized
Tags
Death, Dying, Finite, Horses, Infinite, Irish Wolfhound, Stars, Why Death Scares Us
What’s the worst thing, she asked,
About dying?
The stars, I said, As I leave the barn,
My horses, buried nose-deep in Timothy.
The pounding dirt, I said,
The Irish Wolfhound’s lope,
And the dust of her joy.
My children, I said, Their hate of me,
Then, their love of me.
I will miss all of that.
What’s the scariest thing, she asked,
About dying?
It ends in dust, I said,
That upon my death,
I really die.
That I am finite, and not
Like the stars,
That all I am, all I know,
All I feel, is less than the dust
Of the stars, I said.
25 Monday Aug 2014
Posted in Uncategorized
Think of yourself motherless
In this false, frail world.
This world where you don’t touch blood,
Or suffering, or death, but hope
Someone will be there to touch yours.
She pulled my hand to her bare breast,
Cupped it underneath,
Rested the heft of it,
In my palm:
Do you feel it, she asked.
I feel it, I said.
I feel it.
10 Monday Mar 2014
Posted in Uncategorized
Tags
Death, Death Poems, Dying, Poems, Poetry
Crocus in late March,
Canada geese in flooded pastures,
Frisky horses, like land-Orcas,
With their wide, wise eyes,
And mysterious trust in humans,
All that makes sense and speaks
Of some grand, beautiful plan.
But death makes no sense to me,
And I’m sick of everything dying.
