Archive for the 'Poetry' Category

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The Illusion

I just finished reading a book that was so good it is hard to let it go. The story was engaging, the style of prose elegant and there was a quiet depth to it, like a still pond with apple petals floating on top. I feel that reading it has subtly changed my interior narrative voice.

The cover is closed for the last time
pages set in perfect alignment once more
I return it slowly to the shelf
Feel it slide home between its fellows
square up the corners with a reluctant finger,
a small gesture of respect.
I feel the ache of departure
of a companion and kind spirit
and remind myself that no story is ever completely finished.

Posted by Tracy on Aug 5th 2010 | Filed in Poetry | Comments (1)

The River

A love song for the Big Darby as it used to be.
 
I am the river.
 
I am bluegill and small-mouth bass,  pumpkin seed and shiner,  
hellgrammites and crawdads, water striders and dragonflies.
I am back eddies and quiet pools filled with swift, argent minnows
the opal eye of perfect shells, gleaming in the sand.
I am the phoebe and the hopping wren,
the silent regard of turtles and the deliberate trek of the snail.
 
I am the smell of mud and rocks baking in the sun,
of fish scales and algae and something washed ashore.
I am the diamond flash of  the bass that breaks the water,
the dapple that dances through the branches of the walnut tree.
I am the olive light as you glide beneath the rusting steel bridge,
and the slick rocks piled just so, to help you step across.
 
I am the song of many voices- 
the roar of the cataract and the whisper of sandbars and muddy flats,
I chuckle as I twist around rocky bends.
I am the call of the kingfisher from the canopy
and the whistle of the heron’s glide on stately wings,
the scream of cicada and the whine of mosquito,
the echo of owl's cry on moonlit water.
I am the laughing voices of children splashing in the shallows,
the whoop and holler of teenagers floating old inner tubes downstream,
the silent fishermen in their canoe.
 
I am the sycamores, leaning freckled boles across the water
offering a perfect perch for a dreamer to sit and read.
I am the fan-dance of the willow branches trailing in the water
near the deep hole where the fish hide on hot afternoons.

I am hidden stumps and hanging branches decorated with bobbers of yellow and red,
dirt paths worn smooth by generations of bare feet,
calloused hands and fishing hooks in the brim of an old cap.

 
I am the spring flood, the boggy field, washed-out road and uprooted tree,
I am highway and highwayman,
life in perpetual motion,
untameable and unpredictable.
I am the constant, the lodestone, the landmark by which you find your way home.
I am Mother and maker, communion and destination.
I sing you to sleep with a song that is as old as life
and as new as the rising sun.
 
I am the river.

Posted by Tracy on Jul 28th 2010 | Filed in Poetry | Comments (0)

Insistent

The writing prompt was to pose a question, and then answer it in a poem. My question, as always, was "Why do I keep trying to write poetry when it makes me crazy?"
 
Because it burns the tips of my fingers,
it itches underneath, like a cough too long held in-
something in my throat that cannot be pushed down
but must be spit out.
Because it follows me through my day,
a fretful toddler clinging to my skirts,
unable to tell me exactly what it needs,
merely whining of unfulfillment.
Because even in my sleep it finds me,
a cat crouched on my chest, rumbling in my dreams,
stealing my breath
so that I rise from my bed, gasping from weight of it
to pace the floor, trying to lose it in patterns traced on midnight carpet.
Because it rains down on me when I find myself in moonlight,
filling my eyes, coating my hair,
sticky, clinging, insistent.

And because, in that swift, sweet dimension
between the condensation of the vapor of thought
 and the fermentation of word-
It is perfect
containing exactly what is needed and nothing more.
 
By the time my hands trace thought to page, my words are just a web
spun around the perfect parts, which are missing.
But it whispers to me that if I keep trying
the right words are sure to tumble out at last.
Then I need only erase the wrong ones
to make the flame as true as the spark.
 
So I go on, adding and subtracting my rational and irrational numbers,
trying to find the correct emotional algebra,
the proper values of x and y to balance the equation,
to equal the moment of perfect zero,
the synapse and spark of creation.

Posted by Tracy on Jul 13th 2010 | Filed in Poetry | Comments (0)

Summer Storms

 
Thunder clouds and lightning bugs fill the summer night.
The deep twilight smells of roses and rain.
It lingers like a melancholy lover on the threshold of night,
reluctant to depart,
unable to speak its true desire.
The air  drapes across my shoulders, soft and warm .
Everything  feels thick and slow
like the muffled drumming from heaven
punctuated by the fireflies’ messages, chartreuse script across the lawn.

 

Fireflies hold nothing back,
They shout their desire to the summer nights
give it all for love and die with no regrets.
Me, I just rumble like this thunder, keeping my distance
hot air rushing back and forth, accomplishing little.
 
I wait for the storm to break, suspended in time, 
between flash and roll,
between thick and bright,
between storm and stars.
.
A rising breeze twines my nightgown around my legs
and the leaves show their pale bellies
as a breath of cool suggests it’s finally going to rain.
The fireflies still text frantically, ignoring the storm’s last call.
Maybe I should go inside now and call you.
Perhaps I will just stand at the back door
and flash the porch light your way.

Posted by Tracy on Jun 15th 2010 | Filed in Poetry | Comments (0)

Belly Laughs

 

It comes bubbling forth-
not effervescent and bright, like soda
but rich and hearty, with substance-
that belly-laugh of a baby.

He leans into her stroller,
sweaty, tousled head close to hers,
makes a silly face and growls for her a second time.
She rewards him once again with that amazing laugh.
Now he laughs too, delighted with his new-found ability
to elicit this big response from such a small person.
He looks at me for approval, his blue eyes merry
and, infected, I laugh too,
with joy at the pleasure they find in each other.

And so we make our somewhat awkward way through the store-
growl, chuckle, growl, chuckle…giggle giggle.
We earn a few odd looks
but most people smile- a reflexive human response
to the sound of a laughing baby.

Small children don't laugh sardonically, or at someone else's expense
they only can laugh from joy.
What an amazing thing, that such a new person
who only recently learned not to poke herself in the eye with her own fingers
already knows such joy.
So we treasure that sound, because it means that
whatever problems there are in the world,
right here, in this small moment,  life is good.

After a few minutes' distraction, he  remembers, growls again,
and right on cue that rich laughter pours forth
like lovely chicken soup,
warm and nourishing
and I have to wipe my eyes
because the moment is keen as glass.

Friends, siblings, future companions on the family journey
through the good stuff and all the bad that awaits us-
I hope they retain, somewhere in their souls,
a memory of this time
when they were each others’ favorite plaything.
I don’t know what the future holds,
but for now, there is joy enough,
love enough to brighten the whole world
in the belly laugh of my happy baby.

Posted by Tracy on Jun 5th 2010 | Filed in Poetry,So I've got this kid... | Comments (0)

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