Poem 88

Woman

She sits spinning spirits up into the starry night
but looking on what you would see is merely
a child woman, weaving wood rushes, and you might
make out a wordless tune hummed so softly even the deer
creep close to better hear.  Her name is carved
into water weeping caves, the entrances shielded
by thistle and thorn, watched over by the thrush who
whistles a warning tune when necessary.  No one knows
how long she has stayed in this forest of tall fern, silk-webbed
spaces, trees that drip moisture without the aid of rain. She
is not lonely, does not miss what she has never known which
is companionship of anyone like herself, diminutive, dainty,
sure of hand and spindle and the waves of souls she sends
on their way, expectant yet wishing for one more day.

Poem 89

This was written in response to an assignment in my Prose Poem – Craft class: Write a prose poem about an experience. Pay attention to lyricism, narrative, the specificity of details. Let what it means to you remain mysterious—let your thoughts free-float to the unexpected.

Storm

Outside the wind-driven breakers folding over, curving under, running rivulets up the sand, over the dunes, the full moon lighting a path from ocean to bay, the booms rattling the hotel room, the tide climbing the steps.  No.  This is not true.  It was once but isn’t now, the nor’easter on the outer banks years ago before we knew the future, how it can drown without green water and white froth – all that is needed is despair, the way the body curls into itself and the head voices that taunt and shout from the moment sleep flees, no matter if it’s morning or midnight, whether or not there is any kind of light reflected in the tiny pond behind my house and its dark but shallow waters that stay still no matter the elemental disturbances.  No.  This is not true either.  Now  kittens tumble over each other, black and white, all black, tabby, calico, tortoise shell – in numbers that continue to increase (how shall I feed them all?) –  in the rain soaked grass, moisture glinting like tears on the spider’s perfect web, the one I will break apart with my broom as the black vultures ride drafts overhead searching for what they smell is dying.

Poem 90

RESIST

Everything is politics:
the clothes you wear
the shoes on your feet
your purse/briefcase – how
you spend your money and your time
more an indication of your beliefs
than the posts on FaceBook where
you wring your hands and moan,
“We are well and truly fucked.” No,
we are not.  We are in a war – much as I hate
that term, it is in this instance true –
and tired as we may be, starting today
politics is also action, as in resist, as in
there is a line and it has been crossed,
as in if I must, I will go down fighting.