Tuesday, December 10, 2019
Christmas Poems
Solstice
the sunstruck red
of unpicked apples
A plastic creche
to hold some straw
and the Son of God
Cold
after a year in the attic
these gold and silver baubles
Behind the door
behind the wreath
cookies still warm
Snowflakes falling
on my head and on yours . . .
we are not strangers
c.p.
Tuesday, November 5, 2019
Seasonal Haiku
Seasonal Haiku that will appear in Farm Song before my 71st Birthday, I hope.
October moon
the black cat stretches its paws
up up up the pane
Special guest
sunlight slides
into the cherrywood bowl
Email from a friend
I thought I'd lost -
Thanksgiving
Cloudless sky
70 years of birthday candle smoke
gone
c.p.
October moon
the black cat stretches its paws
up up up the pane
Special guest
sunlight slides
into the cherrywood bowl
Email from a friend
I thought I'd lost -
Thanksgiving
Cloudless sky
70 years of birthday candle smoke
gone
c.p.
Wednesday, August 7, 2019
Carol’s Mother’s Day Wish on Mom’s Birthday
While raising 10 other children,
three of them born after I came home,
She accomplished Himalayas of laundry, Rocky Mountains of cooking,
and Fruitful Plains of flowery gardens
In the midst of all this activity
She did everything I needed and almost everything I wanted
Because she fed, bathed, and made wrinkle-free beds,
I spent more than 50 years in bed without a pressure sore,
no case of pneumonia, not even a single night in a hospital
I was a reader and she found perfect books
at the library and on the bookmobile
I was a writer and she scribbled my confusing corrections
in crowded margins
I was a poet and she brought me stories
of outdoor experiences
that I could turn into haiku and tanka
I was a bookmaker and she helped me design covers
measure and cut and tape, choose fonts and evaluate colors
She packaged and mailed hundreds of books
She participated in every aspect of my life,
Always with interest and engagement
She was at least half my memory
Now she relaxes on her sunny porch
Great-grandchildren and hummingbirds
swirl by
Happy Mother’s Day
To my amazing
And very dear mother
You gave life to me twice –
once on November 16, 1949
and again day by day starting in the 1950s
With love,
Carol
Tuesday, July 9, 2019
The Weight of Stories - Poems for Mom
Bunny Purington on the Bridge of Flowers, July, 2015 |
A swirl of high clouds
between the retreating sun
and the frosted earth
My mother folds away the old quilts
that did not save her asters
Blue-painted beanpoles
in the new-planted garden
copper chimes flicker
I relax into the stillness
of growing things
This hepatica
whose freshness lasts for an hour . . .
if left in the woods
I wouldn't have seen it,
wouldn't have seen it wilt
Her sharp knife quick
to peel, core, slice the red apple
- we talk of childhood fears
how I blocked my ears
against the fairy tale
Tipped-over maple tree -
its deep roots released from earth
by too much rain
I also want to end my days
where I have always lived
West wind
shudders the farmhouse
I feast on comfort food
beside the garden catalogs
a kitten plays
By the attic stairs a
pot of rosemary
- at night the house creaks
under the weight of stories
no one ever threw away
Tanka from Gathering Peace
c.p.
Thursday, March 7, 2019
March 2019
Early morning in Colrain after the March 5, 2019 snowstorm. |
Parting words
a window thrown open
to the spring evening
Mauve tulips
the garden shades
from twilight to dusk
Evening stroll
stopped. by the blank of peepers
stopping
White picket fence
dandelions
on both sides
As you can tell, I’m impatient for spring. Farm Song is still a work-in-progress, with no deadline I dare announce.
c.p.
Thursday, January 17, 2019
January 2019
Black-and-white cows
he opens the barn door
to a sky of stars
So cold so clear . . .
how many steps from here
to Orion
Hungry
the kitchen table laid
with seed catalogs
Sink-full of dishes
kitchen walls streaked pink
by sunrise
Grandchildren in the farm kitchen, Spring 1998 |
Winter kitchen -
rereading the newspaper
before it feeds the fire
Snow on the road
on the fields, on the branches . . .
on the cardinal
p.s. "Farm Song" is still a work-in-progress, with more complications and more interruptions than I could have imagined.
c.p.
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