This Dog

This dog,

as still as a frozen dessert,

a screen door the only obstacle

between her

and that chipmunk,

squawking in a rhythmic riot.

 

She has caught two,

both dead within seconds,

perhaps longer in chipmunk time.

 

Mostly,

the chipmunks get away,

the ornamental border plants

at full density now.

 

After the chase,

with nothing to show,

she trots back to her blind,

appearing nonplussed,

maybe even content,

to have tried and not succeeded.

 

But she has the memory of a chipmunk,

held tight in her jaws:

it happened

and in each attempt,

the memory rides high and brilliant,

at the border line.

A Spinner

a few more oldies and then off to a new year of writing every day….enjoy

aneverydaypoet60

When spun,

a story ignites,

the velocity of imagination,

the kindling heat,

setting the words,

aflame.

I spun stories

to soothe,

to quiet,

parents who

wanted tales

that convinced them otherwise.

I spun stories

to expel.

My baby sister

sometimes needing

a way to feel and release,

in all the confusion.

I spun stories

because I had to,

because my mind

and heart

demanded it.

So I coud be soothed,

so I could feel,

so I could become a spinner

of stories,

the words set aflame

by the velocity

of my imagination,

still.

Painting of Carol,  by Paul D. Ortlip

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Life’s Sustaining Pulse

a favorite……

aneverydaypoet60

A year ago,

enroute to work,

I found him in a parking lot,

lying in the snow,

stilled by something

hard and quick:

glass,

metal,

plastic.

I held him close,

for at least an hour,

as others tried to find,

a box,

a doctor,

a reason.

During that hour,

I pledged to stay,

until a final breath,

or,

open wings.

And me,

in my morbid expectation,

of departure,

maybe death,

watched in volcanic awe,

as he hopped

onto my finger,

looked me in the eyes,

and flew away.

I watch cardinals now,

sometimes up to four or five,

emerging from their

winter cover,

to chase each other,

in pursuit of seed.

Each one a reminder,

of life’s tenacity,

and the danger

of morbid expectations,

that can persuade the heart

and eyes,

to look for endings,

instead of

life’s sustaining pulse.

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Looking Up

another favorite…..

aneverydaypoet60

Do I write about

star light,

a buried body,

or getting old?

Looking over

the brewing choices,

there seems to be

a theme:

Light that takes

light years to reach us,

moving through

molecules of time,

unwavering in its destiny:

to shine.

A dream

of a body buried

beneath tons of sand,

knowing it would be

found someday:

what we conceal

will inevitably

be uncovered,

unwavering in its purpose:

to enlighten.

Getting old,

the accumulated wear,

reaching muscle and bone,

slowing us down,

so we must stop,

looking up,

waiting for the secret of light,

to be revealed.

All of it

leading me to this:

faith,

in star light,

in messages from within,

and in whatever it is

that holds me together,

as I stop,

long enough,

to finally see.

Photo: Leigh Pumilia

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To Make it Back

some kind of favorite……a few more before the year is up….blessings…

aneverydaypoet60

To be human,

to dream,

then curse,

in fierce frustration,

as it crumbles.

To listen,

then judge,

the pieces fitting

just barely,

making sense of it,

then losing the way.

To scream,

then laugh,

at all the times,

there was nothing

left,

but breath,

and flushed glowing faces.

To make it back

from the lowlands,

standing upright

when possible,

relying on each other,

and the dreams,

still alive,

breathing toward some light,

still visible,

in the distance out there,

but not so far away,

anymore.

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Song of the Plow

another favorite….just wish we had snow this year…..soon….

aneverydaypoet60

Awakened by

the song of the plow,

a rumbling bass

without much rhythm,

couldn’t dance to it,

or raise my flute to play along.

Its song is of the night,

breaking into dreams,

becoming part of the story,

evoking the appearance

of wildebeasts,

and lions.

By the time I have crossed over,

into the land of

shovels,

ice scrapers,

and roof rakes,

the plow has rolled on,

leaving a crusty residue

at the end of our driveway.

I can still hear its song,

rising from the lowlands,

its growl

mingling with the

percussive rush

of that waterfall

below.

Photo: Leigh Pumilia

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Over 60

another favorite……..

aneverydaypoet60

Over 60

this just can’t be,

I haven’t had enough time

to get here.

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To My Sisters Who Got Away

aneverydaypoet60

To you,

my sisters who got away,

I hope that you are space,

opened wide to great expanses,

that the energy you once were,

is free

and wild,

becoming whatever forms you inhabit,

reindeer,

candles,

songs.

To you,

my sisters,

I hope that sometimes

you travel

close,

really close

to my heart.

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What Matters Most

aneverydaypoet60

What matters most

is often obscured

by the re-emergence of a time

almost forgotten.

As the memory alights

in full view of the review board,

in quaking fits and starts,

it begins to roll,

in panavision.

Instead of looking away,

the choice most certainly preferable,

I stare mesmerized

by the poignancy of its existence.

Nostalgia for what was,

the figures and places

re-purposed,

and re-imagined,

beckon in tempting taunts.

Before I have time to comprehend

the connection or relevance

to what matters most now,

gone.

I must begin again,

turn away from my fascination

with all that once was,

and focus fully

on what matters most

now.

.Photo: Leigh Pumilia

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Staying in Place

aneverydaypoet60

It is hard to be
sure of love sometimes,
but
staying in place,
waiting for the breath
that will settle the heart,
insures that love is stronger
than doubt
or pointless rumination,
and once the breath is taken,
there we are
staying in place,
for what love will bring
next.

Photo: Leigh Pumilia

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