sweep

sweep through the woods
sweep past the forest
the car winds along the road
we are warm inside

new broom sweep clean
new years starts again
old broom used and worn
old year illness torn

new broom brought to floor
new year contemplated
old broom set aside
old year must abide

new broom awkward feel
new year challenge real
old broom may have use
old year research truth

__________________________

For the Ragtag Daily Prompt.

If

This is one of the ten poems that my mother made etchings for, the year I was just done with college. 1983-4. I wanted to write, but had no idea what to do with the poems that I was writing. My mother Helen Burling Ottaway had done a series of etchings with a family friend’s poems, so I asked if she would do the same with me. She said, “Yes, on one condition.” “What is that?” “They have to rhyme.” She did not like the free verse. Almost all of the poems were about animals, except for one about my sister. Another friend printed the poems on a lead type press and then my mother worked on editions numbered 1-50 of each, inking the plate separately for each one. This one is number 5/50. You can see the imprint of the plate on the paper in the photograph.

If I could be anything
I’ll tell you what I’d like to be
One of those small green frogs
That sails from tree to tree

These frogs can jump, they have no laps
They are not birds with wings
the have parachutes between their toes
And I am sure that they can sing

They spread their toes and jump so high
To float like snowflakes in the air
Frogs fall like rain from clear blue skies
It must be nice up there

Why they jump I do not know
Maybe escaping hungry eyes
Perhaps to catch a tender bug
Or they just like to fly

If I could be anything
I’ll tell you what I’d like to be
One of those small green frogs
That sails from tree to tree.

Feathers

This is the final poem in my Falling Angels Dream Poetry series.

Some people say there are

Angels among us

I have faith in birds
I search for a nest
Hummingbird nest
the size of a nut
tiny, lined with spiderwebs
I love the herons too
great blue heron
flying lands in a tree
above me
I look through my mechanical eye
zoom in click click
and there is another
at the tree top
two in a tree
I move around
and there – one drops down
one flies
I am not distracted
a nest
a six foot nest
blessed
I move away gently

I wander back by the tree
gently
in the morning
in the evening
not one
not two
two in this tree
two in that
one in another
as many as five in a tree
six foot wing spans
a rookery of winged beings

angels among us
and why would we think
they would look like us?

hold me

poem: hold me

hold me, Beloved

hold me
I long for you
to be reunited with you, Beloved

to return to you

it is the children who hold me

here

the children
my children, grown
the hope of grandchildren
the damaged children
the new and young children
the old children in adults
who are so sad

it is the children who hold me

here

sometimes I am so sad, Beloved
I long for you

I do and I don’t
long for you
to call me home
and hold me

I know
that you hold me, Beloved
every moment

even when I cannot feel your touch

I know, Beloved
you will call me home

and hold me
now and forever
in your infinite embrace

Graced

Poem: Graced

I touched base with the psychologist

not one I know

just one who was around

asked if I could talk
for 15 minutes

indeed, he said
a difficult situation

you know that the person won’t change

echo
won’t change won’t change

I believed this
for two days

then I remembered
why I am a doctor
my secret weapon
my healing talent

I always have faith in change

everyone
has choices

“I can’t stop smoking.”
says the man

“My father quit three years ago.
55 years of two packs a day,
unfiltered Camels.”

“Camels!” says the man
“Those are bad!”

“You can quit too.
It might take more than one try.”

Why would I go to work
to talk about hypertension
exercise, birth control
obesity, heart attacks

unless at my core

I believe each person has choices?

Sometimes the choices
are between miserable
and horrible

life and death

still
whether a person is 9 or 90

they are graced
by choice

The photograph is from May 2012, at the memorial for my sister. My father is on the left, sitting, wearing oxygen.

resistance

Over and over
I resist
I stand at the edge
I stare at the torrent
The cliff
The falls
The abyss

Over and over
I resist

Over and over
I let go
I fall
Over the cliff
Down the falls
Into the abyss

Over and over
I am sure
I will drown
I will lose my way
I will not surface

Ecstasy is in the air
Between trapezes

I am elsewhere
I am other
No words
No thoughts
No body
No mind

The water is cold
As I expect
When I hit
I knew by the spray
Before I jumped

Submerged
Immersed
Subversive
Over and over

I am born
From the surf
I emerge
From the waves
I am delivered

Fear is my key
Grief is my key
In the places I do
not want to go
That’s where I must go

Over and over I resist
And then let go