Tag Archives: poetry

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Comfortable with angles

I am thinking about monsters
That I am comfortable with the monsters
in my dreams
but terrified by the angels.
Though I type angles.

But I also dream that all the angels fall
all are made to fall
they fall down then back up
when they fall down they burn
if they fall here
burn in the atmosphere
then they are red or black and burnt
and we think they are devils: monsters.

If angels are monsters
and monsters are angels
and they go back and forth
and I type angles
because everyone makes mistakes
even angels
and to make something perfect
is an offense to the Beloved
because only the Beloved is perfect
and ineffable.

Still the angels.
I am afraid.
So was Mary, sore afraid.
Monsters are easy: at worst they can kill me
and they never have
in my dreams.
And they are sad and alone and weep.
I comfort them. Which makes them afraid,
because they are not used to being loved.
I wonder if I frighten them
like the angels frighten me.

And then I can understand
a little
of why the angels frighten me so much.
I too am not used
to feeling loved.

written September 13, 2023

For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: bread winner. But I can’t eat gluten any more and my lungs are too vulnerable for the work I love. So how bread and how winner? Maybe the angels and angles and monsters will tell me.

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Favorite

I used to have a favorite agate, chalcedony nodule
found on the beaches here, during Covid. Surprising me.
I did not expect anything and only long to find something
to sustain me, just a little. I find a stone shaped heart, agate hard
and not clear. Not chalcedony, murky with impurities.
Yet the stone sustains me and I keep walking.
Even when I see that the impurities are on the outside too.
Camouflage, refusing to be washed clean, refusing change.

That one is lost, back in its’ native mud and sand. Someday
it may be polished clear, but it shrinks as it is tossed
among the other stones. It is running out of time and surface area.
It may not be heart shaped any more. My favorite now is clear,
a rich red with tiny streamers of darker red inside. I carry it with me,
I carry it in my heart. It is more nearly shaped like a heart,
a real heart, then the conventional one that is lost.

Be warned, then, that that one may be on the beaches here.
Or it could be that it has already been picked up
and taken, the finder hoping to wash it clean and see
the clear beauty as the light shines through.
Transparency is rare. I walk a mile of beach to find even one
clear stone. Don’t be fooled by that one: the dirt is embedded.
I won’t say never, but the chances of transparency and love
shrinks as it is worn away by the restless tides
and crashing against all the other rocks.

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Empty

Cupid shoots seven arrows from her quiver.
Eons of experience, she hits where she aims.
Six hit in my heart but the seventh in my liver.
Now I can’t eat gluten and wine gives me pains.
I wonder if hearts are like cats’ lives?
I think it’s seven but it might be nine.
The thought of more arrows gives me hives.
I’ve had enough of love to last through time.
I hope it’s seven and the arrows are done
And Cupid wanders by and fails to see me.
I’ll emulate Hestia and Artemis for fun
And Artemis’s hunt stays protective from the the trees.
The love of friends is enough for me.
An empty quiver will set me free.

For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: quiver. The statue is Galatea, in Port Townsend.

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Purple weather

Walt Kelly was the master of bargleflooping and he could play with language in such fabulous ways! Once Howland Owl and Churchy were trying to make an A-bomb. They had a yew tree and a geranium and crossed them — by them falling over, two small plants in pots, to make Yew-ranium! Which did not explode, thankfully!

My sister and I grew up reading Pogo comics, old books at my grandparents, and memorizing bits and pieces. I still notice when Friday the thirteenth falls on a different day. This poem is one of my favorite bits.

Many happy returns

Once you were two,
dear birthday friend.
In spite of purple weather:

But now you are three
And near the end
As we grew some together.

How fourthful thou,
forsooth for you
For soon you will be more!

But β€” β€˜fore one can be three
be two;
Before be five be four!

_________________________ by Walt Kelly

For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: barglefloop. Walt Kelly already is bargleflooping the internet, because I did not remember the correct name of this poem and found it by searching purple weather!

I took the photograph from Marrowstone Island. It’s a bunch of terns enjoying the tern towards purple weather.

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Enemy

A friend and I are talking this morning and he is talking about praying daily. “Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us”. That turns into a discussion of enemies and ourselves. It’s easier to have an external enemy identified than to deal with ourselves, isn’t it? Here is today’s poem.

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Enemy

Do you have an enemy?

Do I have an enemy?

maybe I have no enemy
I have people I have forgiven
I have people who I have asked to forgive me
I have people I have forgiven
but keep distanced
no reconciliation
possible if they continue abuse
blind and deaf
saying “We are righteous!”
over and over to each other

A book teaches me
asks what are you most proud of
in yourself?
Three things:
strong, smart, tough.
The mirror is what you fear the most
weak, foolish, vulnerable
I shy back, hate the author
and he is correct
at least for me

Like the sutra
sometimes I am weak
sometimes I am foolish
sometimes I am vulnerable

When there is a person
or people
I want to hate
What aspect of myself
of my past
of my psyche
are they bringing up?
Are they stronger, smarter, tougher?
Are they weaker, foolish, more vulnerable?
Why do I want to hate them?

It’s easier, I see
to hate another person
and cast them out like a demon
then to look in the mirror
and see the aspect of myself
that I long so much
to hate

That demon
once cast out
will return with seven more

Mirror mirror
on the wall
tell my why
the angels fall

if an angel gets it’s wings
every time a bell rings
each time we hate another, as well
an angel falls heaven to hell

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Keeper

Here is my lovely momento.

I write a poem called “In my parents’ house”.

In 1995 my mother, Helen Burling Ottaway, makes teapots with the poem on the pot. She gives me one for Christmas.

She dies of cancer in 2000. My sister chooses my poem to read at her memorial.

A friend then reads the poem at my sister’s memorial in 2012 (also cancer), because I missed the California memorial. I was sick at home with pneumonia #2.

After she dies, I am sent a box of a few things from her house. Yarn and a second teapot. My sister had one.

I give the teapot to my niece, my sister’s daughter, telling her her grandmother made it.

My mother signed things with an H inside an O.

Here is the poem:

In my parents’ house
love is dispensed in teacups

When they notice you
Pacing in some empty mood
Or with that blank deserted face
Eyes shutters into an empty mind
They say, “Would you like a cup of tea?”

The warmth of the cup in your hands
And the hot liquid, sweet and milky
On your tongue works wonders
And binds your soul to your body

When my sister is twelve
She embroiders a patch for a quilt
In yellow flosses, a cup
with steam curling upwards
And the words, “Such a comfort. TEA.”

____________________

I think my maternal family still has the quilt, with jeans patches. My grandmother Katy B handed out squares to everyone at the cabins in Ontario and we all made squares. She and my cousin sewed them together and tied the quilt.

For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: momento.

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Wrought iron man

I know a man from an iron dale.
Stiff and creaky, he won’t change.
Rust flakes off as he hunts his grail:
the perfect woman, but he has aged.
She’ll let him do just what he wills,
drink and sing and run and hide.
A plastic doll might fit the bill.
While his joints freeze, dudettes abide.
He could do with rustoleum, a coat of paint.
He doesn’t see that he leaves a trail.
His friends cringe at his rusted taint.
I note that now they are all male.
He’s proud as hell of his iron will.
He’ll soon wake frozen, rusted still.

______________________________________

For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: wrought iron.

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Sherbet skies

We sail on a jaunt into sherbet skies.
The water is gold, the wind is light.
The sky changes color and charms our eyes.
The light is gold sliding into the night.
The boat glides through the water with gentle ease.
Light hand on the tiller, our wake lights up.
We pass peaches and cherries and crackers and brie,
pour tea into each other’s cups.
It’s cooling off so we sit very close.
Phosphorescent creatures trail behind.
Warming each other as we steer the boat.
Darkness falls and we don’t mind.
The sherbet skies call us out to roam
But we are ready to come about towards home.

____________________________

For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: jaunt.

Hoping for more peace and tolerance on Juneteenth.

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Stone heart

My mind is done and unsurprised. My heart a stubborn rock.
My heart does not give up: loves where it loves. It doesn’t care
about reality or whether it is derided or mocked.
My mind moves on and kicks my heart, wondering where
this tenacity stems from. My heart is done with tears.
It agrees to new friends and joys in dance.
When my mind says forget, my heart jumps and steers
my body into a warrior fighting stance.
My mind is cynical and laughs and derides my heart.
I let them fight back and forth every day.
I cannot reach an end unless I start
to honor my feelings, the heart must hold sway.
My mind moves on, ignoring what you do.
Yet my stubborn heart remains a friend, strong and true.

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Untie

Untie my heart and go find
I am not looking anymore
I am playing for the summer
Back to work in the fall
but my heart is untied
and has escaped control.
It might be wild or quiet
or silly or angry. It might
like this today and that tomorrow.
It might wail with sorrow
and then laugh and laugh.

Heart untied and

Gone.

The white furry object is not a tie. It is a Barbie stole made of rabbit fur and lined with pink fabric. Both cats are enjoying carrying it around the house and shaking it and pretending that it is a live rabbit. That stole has to be nearly 50 years old, so I am letting the cats choose it as a toy. Good that I have great ancient cat toys.

For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: ties.