Güd wrtr

for Helen Plenert

The artist posts a photo of
her paint-speckled hands after
reloading her acrylic paint palette,

and I enlarge it to look at the colors,
which I cannot accurately name—
periwinkle, bright blue, mustard
that looks as if it could be rising
on dancing stems a winter field,

and, of course, the brush, which must
have hundreds of colors embedded
in its handle. But I focus on Helen’s
speckled palms, evidence of a painter’s
craft, every dash and dot testament
to pigments coming up on canvas or paper,

perhaps like words show up for me—
only with more color in the impressions
rising from formerly mute paper,
feathery brushstrokes that our minds
imagine into images

from those graceful, painterly hands.

to remind you that you, who lives
amid such abundance, who has
so much of what others do not,

are just as reliant on the basics—
good food, clean water, electricity—
as everyone else, that your

privilege can, indeed, leave you
in the dark for 56-and-a-half hours,
that you have no control over

so much in life that you take
for granted. But O! the joy
when, at 8:20 a.m., the light

next to your bed switches
on, startled to life, as you are,
after thunder woke your part

of the world in the deep dark
of night, a tympanic overture
to morning’s amazement that

prompts you to leap out of bed
in the chill of your unheated
house to see if—yes!—

the heater is again diligently
chugging away, and you,
forgoing slippers, dance through

the wintry house in your jammies,
flicking switches, watching lights
come to life, chortling as they do so,

confusing the sleepy cats with
exclamations, with thank you’s
to those who brought back the light,

as you promise yourself never to
take the blessing of electricity,
of indoor heat and hot water

(as some of your students used to say)
for granite ever again.
Amen.

After the big bad bug got us
on vacation, after a canceled flight
home and a long drive up the center
line of our state, in this season of rain
and wind, watching the widening
pond consume the backyard, after
electricity vanished days ago thanks
to a downed tree and uprooted
power pole down the street—

we realize that we are struck by
inconvenience, not crisis, finding
heat in flannel sheets and soft
blankets topped by cats, making
tea and plugging in devices at
the homes of those who invite us in.

Pummeled by weather,
not bombs or invading forces,
we are assured that our power
will return at some point, and we
fortunate souls on standby
trust that it will be so.

On my way this morning to drive
Mom to appointments and errands,
I admire the greening of the rural
roadside that only that only
weeks ago wore an untidy mop
of parched weeds. And look—
the leafless oaks, some up to their
knees in rainwater, tiny buds
already dotting their stems,
they wait, too.

for Dickie

Aren’t we all? I hear him say,
and I protest, No!

It’s one of the great benefits
of living within shouting distance
of three hospitals—no matter
the storm, power’s never out for long.

But last night, shortly before a
new day, as the winds tore through
our bare trees like a raging bully,
as I sat at the computer ready
to post a poem, I heard a great pop!
and then darkness, and I sat quiet
for a minute, absorbing, alone.

Each storm is unique, of course,
and we sitting ducks weather them
as they come, these atmospheric
rivers, one after another, washing
over us, filling our thirsty rivers,
making the near-empty reservoirs
rise muddy and choppy.

When just enough becomes too much,
we fret. We must clean up after each
storm while preparing for the next.
Down H Street in daylight, I see the tree
that crashed through its fence, blocking
the road, taking out power lines
and pole 12 hours earlier.

You’re not without power, Janis,
says the one to whom I migrate,
electronic devices in hand,
all of us in need of recharging.

You’re without electricity,
he reminds me.
You have the power.

And so I do, taking to the page,
to write it all down so as
not to forget the gift. Again.

Put your chin in the little dip
and look into the bowl of stars,
tiny suns that blink and disappear,

then press with an eager finger
the button to indicate that some
part of your peripheral vision

has noted them. But immediately
you wonder, Did I really see that?
Was it an eyeblink or a floater?

Because you fear that you cannot
trust what you think you see, no matter
how tack sharp or dull your sight.

It is the sense you most rely on,
you and you and me, too, so you
sigh during this test, try to relax

your shoulders, breathe as normally
as you can, soften your focus and
imagine looking through a telescope

at a thousand, ten thousand suns
winking at you from a great distance,
casting light thousands of years old,

and you, lucky one, catch glints
as quick as a whisper into the cosmic
past, your eyes not deceiving you,

letting the light in, as they are meant to,
you wide-eyed, wonderful thing,
you.

Out the back door window
I see part of Mary’s mural
lit up, a soft midday spotlight
on words she painted a couple
of years ago:

I awoke with your voice and because…
…small green fans on slender…
…gold and fluttered to the ground…
…their little lives…

My words twine amid green
stems swooping up to gold fans
leading to poppies and anthuriums,
gold and red under a domed sun,
a bit of dangling purple wisteria—

plants that flourish in warm times,
recalled by a tender bit of winter light
beaming in from our nearest star,
making a momentary appearance,
as do so many of our beloveds,
as if to say,

Turn around; look up and blink.
I’m never far away, here,
just behind the rain.

Stones are very slow stories with secret memories of fire inside.
—John Tarrant

In this first month of a new year
pick up a stone—perhaps one
that calls to you, perhaps one
you picked up some time ago and
kept for a reason you can’t recall.

Pick up your stone, feeling,
for the moment, that it somehow
is meant for you, letting it warm
your hand. If you hold it long
enough, one hand covering
the other, close your eyes
and smile, the stony memory
of fire bringing a tiny puddle
of heat to your palm.

Sit with that fire.
Sit with the slow story
of your stone, letting it unravel
like a knitted thing, filling
your hands with kinked yarn,
its secret, flaming memories
given to you to hold, gently,
the warmth of something you
thought lifeless and mute
infusing you.

Accept the gifts your stone
has laid in your hands;
they are yours to carry into
the year spread before you.
Walk into what comes next,
scattering stories, maybe
a song or two, like pebbles
you offer to other hands
that will hold the secret fire
and share it with anyone,
with everyone, who needs it.

(Thanks to Jennifer Cox, Christie Domasky, Julie Woodside and Kathy Laharty for your good listening in my online writing group that helped shape this poem!)

take it apart
find Be wild
in the big word
then Be wild

however that
shows up for you

put something
on the page—
a blob of color
or words that
could become
something
but don’t have to

or let a sound
escape into the air,
a tune from
your own lips,
one of your
own invention
perhaps

Be wild

allow yourself
to marvel,
maybe with
a bit of
bewilderment,

at what you
have made—
no wrongdoing
or rightdoing

like the velvet
gray doves
matching today’s
nomadic clouds
coo-ooing
somewhere
you can’t see
just because
they can

(Thanks to Jill Badonsky, marvelous artist, for the inspiration. You can find her here.)

Workers chain-sawing downed
trunkslimbsbranchesbareandneedled
all manner of blowers blowing
under threatening skies holding off
for now

but we know the next storm is on its way
gathering like atmospheric birds of prey
and we, unused to so much water so quickly,
sit vigilant

wary about what’s coming at us, hoping
we’ve battened down the hatches well enough
knowing there’s only so much we can do,
that so much of this

is not up to us, and we must trust that
the coming tempest will pass through, move on,
that we will hunker down, then rise above
the gathering storm

to help each other set things right again.

people have often told me,
but she, like so many of us,
does not see this, even after

I point out that we have limited
vision when it comes to our
faces, only able to see in 2-D

what the mirror shows us.
But she sees 91 years of life
etched into her face, her neck,

and I say, But Ma, we’re not
supposed to have the faces
we had when we were 35—

we’re not the same people.
We grow into faces that reflect
the souls we are now—earning

every crease, wrinkle and sag.
We are lovely as fine leather
softening into itself, cheese

and wine becoming more
flavorful, mellowing friendships,
trees growing into venerable elders.

We can’t see ourselves
the way others do—in 3D,
lifetimes of energy radiating

like sunbeams, like crowns,
from our heads, glowing,
you beautiful woman—

you who made me and
my sister, also beautiful,
forever lovely, yes, we are,

and getting sweeter with
every year.
Amen.