Wild Flowers♥

One of Those Nights

2011-09-01T16:52:00.003-05:00

You're an RN without a stethoscope
listening to lung sounds,
you can't hear a thing
unless the patient has audible wheezing.
You start to take his blood pressure,
good thing the cuff is automated.
While the cuff is inflating
the call light from the next room rings,
a bed alarm goes off down the hall,
the ED calls to give report
on a new admit, a confused patient
wanders the hallway looking for a hammer,
if you had one you'd throw it.
One of the LPNs whines
her team is really busy
can't your team take the admit.
The top of your head pops off.
While the two LPNs pass meds, you
help the other RN settle the admit,
three call lights ring incessantly.
You leave the room to get a gown, a j-loop,
IV's are beeping in three rooms,
nobody has answered the call lights.
You check the IV with blood infusing,
answer a light, discharge a patient,
forget what you went to get.
Answer another call light, check another IV,
help a patient to the commode,
recall that you left the other RN in need
of something. Still can't find your stethoscope.
Holidays are double time.

Keeping Vigil

2011-08-31T17:09:00.002-05:00

for Eric

A hunter, prowling on a summer's eve
tries to subtract a cottontail from the woods.
A boy finds it in the tall grasses
thrashing about, blood in its ears,
he wants to save the rabbit.
He places it on a yellow towel
inside a cardboard box, feeds it fresh lettuce
and thin carrot roots from the garden.
He thinks on a name, Peter perhaps or Dyno.
The boy watches as its bleeding slows
the rabbit darts randomly around
in the box claws scratching,
scratching. He sees the rabbit list left,
then right, and fall onto it's side.
As its breathing stills he pets the soft
brown fur, wills it to live. In the morning
the rabbit is rigorous. The boy still sees
the soft rise and fall of its sides,
in and out, in and out. A tear stains
his dirt-smudged cheek.

I wrote this one four years ago when my son Eric was not yet a teenager. We blamed this bunny's death on our cat Sabrina, but it turns out several years later my daughter Jackie fessed up to shooting it with a b-b gun. Although our cat Sabrina is the best rabbit hunter around, I think she caught 9 0r 10 this year, this was not one of hers. There is still a wooden cross by the side of our road that says Dyno.

Fifteen

2011-08-30T19:16:00.004-05:00

(after Kim Addonizio)

I know my daughter is going
she sits across from me
in the driver's seat, reaches
over to the radio buttons
always seeking, never listens
to an entire song. I know
how she used to bring
her baby blanket everywhere,
how she ate the fuzz from it,
now a scrap of security
tucked away in a drawer.
She sprays perfume that smells
like cotton candy, carries
a cell phone in her pocket,
and drinks bottled frappucino.
She defines cheerleader,
and confident has her first
I love you boyfriend.
She knows how to use
all the oxygen in the room.
I call her princess,
the only thing I say
she embraces these days.
She pretends not to know
that I know she is going.
She sits across from me
with her learner's permit
and birth control.

Haiku

2009-01-28T14:34:00.004-06:00

cold sun
down, up into pines
mourning doves

quick chickadee
pecks evergreen cone
pine nuts

warm spring rain
robin red breast sings
grasses green

white admiral
glides on blue breeze
drifting boat

flowerpot
full of orange dahlias
sun rises

from cornstalk
crow takes wing
autumn harvest

north wind -
the white sky
shivers

in a jar
dry chrysalis
unopened

Menominee River Songs

2009-01-28T14:26:00.001-06:00

after Li Po

1.

A long hot summer, deserted water
Menominee River will return your sorrow.

Unable to gauge the grief of the families,
I climb the train bridge to Wisconsin’s side

gaze into Michigan, the distance of loss.
I look down at the river flowing past,

it never ceases unless the dam breaks.
I ask the water: will you remember

nothing of them as you carry their names
and each fistful of tears so very far?

2.

Menominee River’s white-tail deer are countless,
a flurry of leaps, colored leaves falling

coax spotted fawn out of the autumn woods
they frolic, drink the sun from the water.

3.

Meandering river, in sadness I gaze
into blossoms of red, sorrow follows you

under the bridge, no matter which side,
the water flows, but I can no longer look.

4.

Along the Menominee River banks
Michigan’s woodlands are unforgettable,

the blue sky open, granite spilling ridges,
white water washes the rumble of stones.

5.

Hundreds of white pines spread away here,
a hundred stands of maple trees ignite,

broad-winged hawks fly the endless ridges,
unseen, gray wolves night after night howl

stay away form the Menominee River,
the great-horned owl cries, warns of sorrow.

6.

The burning sun heats up the river
scorches the sands, three crows gather.

He heard them laughing together
near the water, made them take flight.

7.

On a slab of concrete at the train bridge,
three white crosses and bouquets of flowers.

On the sand abandoned clothing is strewn,
on the waves wilted petals ebb and tide.

8.

The river’s a bolt of blue silk,
the shoreline stretches toward heaven

on the banks where children scattered
only hoof prints of the white deer.

9.

Train bridge mid-river at the swimming hole,
the Menominee’s depths pass underneath,

in rough waters, a boat rocks, deserted,
a round hole near the bottom, trying to sink.

10.

Campfire lights up the night sky,
from a leafless tree an owl whoos

on silent wings it whooshes by,
ghost stories are passed around.

Portrait of a Mother

2008-06-19T12:54:00.002-05:00

She sits on an old wooden bridge
the water blurry, the edges sepia.
A carefree breeze musses her curls.
She leans back against the rail
her jacket buttoned tight,
her ankles crossed, smiling
as if she can prevent the fall.
Her son does not remember her

this way, happy or young. He knows
only the cruelty, the riot in her head,
the fragile fissures of her sanity
wisps of white that came undone.
He scatters her freckles across
the possibility in his daughter's face.
(11-27-06)

American Haiku

2007-06-29T12:16:00.000-05:00

These inspired by Kerouac and the Beat Generation

July 4th
red, white and blue streamers
at the used car lot

at the corner Citgo
gas prices rise
corn husks in the tank

in the ditch
an empty Pepsi can
fills with ants

picnic at the park
a McDonald's wrapper
caught in the breeze

out in the field
an abondoned Chevy truck
home for mice

in this garden
bald goodyear radials
hold tomato plants

young Lions at bat
a fence sitting robin
keeps score

found dumped
old Frigidaire
mouth open

In Baghdad

2006-12-02T11:48:00.000-06:00

This poem is in honor of Sgt. James D. Priestap, a soldier from Hardwood, MI (Dickinson County) who was killed in Iraq.

In Baghdad

US military deaths hit
2,881
as of Tuesday Nov. 28, 2006

and yours among them
on Thanksgiving day, Jim
killed by a sniper at checkpoint 17
distributing food and water
to Iraqi police
giving candy to children

securing Baghdad
baga data: God given
a sheep enclosure
with blast walls and barbed wire,

and you in body armor
the bullet hit your shoulder
then your heart.

Who will hang the drywall in Hardwood,
work the night shift,
be husband and father, hero?

Is war still about the land,
the oil, race, and religion,
and changing the map of the world?

Your platoon divided
the ammo from your weapon.

More Suns

2006-11-24T18:20:00.000-06:00

More from The Many Names For Sun. These inspired by translations of and after the great Chinese and Japanese Poets, Li Po, Wang Wei, Basho, Issa et al. These Songs incorporate several forms, Chinese Song, Haiku, Tanka etc. I hope you enjoy the many dynasties of zen.

168. Gilded, At The Creek
after Li Po

I follow the sky the rising sun wakes
and love the cold creek's purple clarity;

eastern light reflects the water's way,
small currents lead a wanderer's heart.

A song, both sun and moon this morning,
snowflakes settle in the pines, soon white.

170. Radiant, Along the Path
after Wang Wei

Walking on aspen path near the creek
dappled with saffron leaves, birds fly up
scatter floating catkins caught in the light
a ponderous wave of joe-pye weed sags.

172. Fading Sun, Morning Tea
after Issa

At dawn, deer in the fields licking first frost
from each other's hides, my sigh a white puff,
before the snows of winter they will mate,
autumn's last cricket sings a lonely song.

174. Luminent, Last Flower
after Basho

One white chrysanthemum in the garden,
sickly, one bud droops in October's sun,
frozen, I am tempted to pick it,
it would melt in my hand--autumn frost.

176. Enlightenment, Following Rain
after Tu Fu

After the endless rainfall
the granite hills grow darker
then brighten, fill with gold threads.
Yellow grass edges the creek,

all day long the blue jays screech,
salmon clouds stream from the east.
Once dry, the wildflowers bend
where the wind is soughing, fall.

178. Firelight, Mourning
after Buson

Wood smoke rises, the north wind gusts so hard
in dry fields of grasses and wildflowers
it doesn't linger, the snow blossoms white.
You're gone and winter fills the emptiness.

The Putting Away

2006-10-24T20:02:00.000-05:00

It starts with boxes full
of empty boxes.

Arts-and-crafts ornaments
wrapped in yellowed tissue,

glass balls, delicate cells
of purple and silver
stacked in plastic containers,

strands of colored lights
twisted in double helix knots,

packed in cardboard boxes
or festive popcorn tins.
Dry pine needles vacuumed up,

she wants to pack away the threat
of cancer. Wrap it carefully
in lab slips and consent forms,
store it in a box full of empty
boxes, duct tape it shut.

Hide it in the attic
covered in cobwebs
of normal test results.

Haiku

2006-10-13T09:40:00.000-05:00

Here is a sampling of one of my favorite short forms.

red basket
caught in snowdrift
handle up

stray snowflakes
early green dragonfly
flight delayed

hungry racoon
rattles full garbage cans
restaurant closed

new house
old chevy pickup
on flat tires

mushrooms
on the forest floor
dinner plates

night frost
the cricket
sings on

The Many Names For Sun

2006-08-31T20:39:00.000-05:00

The following poems are from a series of Chinese Songs my friend Gary Blankenship, who introduced me to the form, and I are writing. We have been exchanging these poems for one year this September, my first in the series is dated 9-9-05, we are over 120 songs. With this momentous anniversary I have picked some to share, which was a difficult task at best with so many to choose from. The even numbers are mine, the odd numbers Gary's. Enjoy!

64. Backlight, Loss

I walk through ageless white pines, lost;
the path narrow, the way is long.
I watch trees toppled by machines;
today darkness swallows the forest.

65. Sunbonnet, Meeting

Broad wings of calico hide her plain face,
the bill of a ragged cap hides his eyes.
Rough hands browned from years under desert sun
touch a bow holding sheaves of flaxen hair.

66. Sun-splashed, Shadow

Noonlight washes the dark northern woods,
tree silhouettes sway across the snow.
I see one porcupine high in old pines;
fat ball of quills, our morning argument.

67. Sundisk, Happiness

A winter of near record rainfall
has seemed to last for an entire year.
Today, balmy, blue skies all around;
weather for scolding squirrels, new nests.

68. Solar Sail, Arrival

We prepare, mount our new bluebird nest box,
plant seeds in mini peat pot starter trays;
post for the first fragile green sprouts flight,
the sudden blue feathering of wings.

69. Dusk, Departure

A bluebird box mounted near the fence;
sparrows dab mud under garage eaves.
A small boy filling his b-b gun,
only red birds and gray in our future.

70. Sunfast, Feat

Swiftly the gray squirrel travels the eaves,
teases the cats with bushy tailed antics.
Interrupted, the chickadees complain
this intruder hangs by back toes and eats.

73. Sky Wheel, Journeys

The road we travel, dark and tree-lined;
the bridge at the end, slippery and wet.
Beyond the stream, fields of fresh flowers;
a cabin large where two can lay their head.

Enfoldment, Desire

2006-07-09T10:58:00.000-05:00

Paper, white and blank,
colored bold primaries,
with precise patterns;
one 8 inch square
for fingerwork, for folds.
It can become anything--
crane, frog, secret box.
Each crease a word, a thought,
a transformation.
Contoured, smoothed,
tied with gold thread
and hung from blue sky,
a brilliant lotus sways.

***

A Path Along The Creek

2006-07-08T22:44:00.000-05:00

A path along the creek is littered with brown
parchment that disintigrates with each step
into the smell of wet loam, the path dips down,
borders the cascade of water over rocks

into a pool of white foam; side by side a pair
of mallards summoned, dabble the edge of waiting
for the ambition of buds, red in the maples, silver
in the birches. A male phoebe beaks mud from the bank

carries it to dab and mold in a corner of the eaves.
After his week of toil the female arrives, inspects,
and cups the nest to the heat of her body, readies
it for brooding six small white eggs. In a few more

weeks grass, sedges, flowers, and leaves. Winter
fades, the monotone woods awaken. Step careful,
watch under your feet, bloodroot eases up the first
warm rain night, green leaves curled, the perfection

of each white bud wrapped tight, waiting, waiting
for their one day to open to the sun and bleed.

Recovery

2006-06-09T21:06:00.000-05:00

This is the spring she waits for the flowers
to bloom, keeps small inspirations in a book,
and plants only burgeoned annuals. She takes nothing

for granted, not even the day, and counts only
in hours. She watches chipmunks steal sweet
pea seeds from careful dirt rows. Her child

numbers twenty months of life, is finally able
to stand, pale seedling in the struggle for growth.
She wishes the sunshine would heal them both,

reminds herself to enjoy small buds, and learns
again how to laugh. Black flies come, then
mosquitos, after small tubes of their blood,

red spills from the cup of a tulip when hope
is most blue. She marks her child's journey
with silent tears, pressed petals among journal

pages. She prunes rose bushes, is scratched
by thorns, and tries not to fret about her child's
first step while she cradles her in greiving arms.

She buries despair in deep soil under the bleeding
hearts, weeds worries and casts spent seeds from her
palm's hollow to disperse with the down of dandelions.

***

This is about grief, about letting go of the perfect child you imagined you would have and loving the child that you hold.

Softly It Enters, Speaks

2006-05-24T09:30:00.000-05:00

(after Jane Kenyon)

She is fireweed struggling
up out of the ashes,
purple petals ablaze...

a smile, a grimace, a gift...

she is a child, open heart
surgery, and crossed eyes...

silence, sign language,
whispers and song...

she is the first snow, the last
brittle leaf of the winter oak,
the first wildflower bud...

the duckling, awkward,
learning to fly...

the shy kitten, determined
making her own way...

she is a raindrop clinging
to a pine needle...

the tempest, the eye
of the storm, the sunburst...

She is the one who
always finds my heart,
before I know it is lost.

***

Another for my daughter Meghan. She has Down syndrome. This poem is everyhting she is.

Small Death

2006-03-18T13:48:00.000-06:00

(after Billy Collins)

I thought of her small death so often,
tangled in the tubes and wires of the dark,
that it came to have shape and strength,
more than a weak cry in an incubator
and the blue mottled skin of a defect heart.

Her small death had an entrance and exit
wound any bullet could pass through
at ordinary times and leave
on the prickly rush of strangled tears.

Her small death held both grief and gain,
the imagined perfect baby stolen, replaced
as a stranger with broken and retarded
parts, weak muscles and difficult growth.

Her small death had a heart-lung machine
and a pacemaker, it had a ventilator hissing,
and alarms that you could not turn off.

In the harsh fluorescent light I took her
small death to sleep with me, and in every
corner of the nursery it hid from hope.

In the dark of night it became the hope
of the next day and all the days to follow,
and moved into the future in the beat of her heart.

***

My daughter Meghan had open heart surgery when she was 5 months old, this comes from that time and all the times it comes back to me like it was yesterday. She is 12 years old now.

Seamstress

2006-03-15T19:05:00.000-06:00

I try to sew myself
to your left side,
a chain of cross-stitches
kindle along our skin,
an iris at the shoulders,
an apple at the hips,

so our single beats
collide with each
breath, I try to stitch
us chest to breast,
our bodies spools
of indigo and flame.

When the needle
pierces our flesh
threads tangle,
slipknots unravel
and dragonflies arc
from our ankles in flight.

Rigors Of The Heart

2006-03-12T12:51:00.000-06:00

I will write you
long poems
with a porcupine
quill, sign
my name
with the claw
of a black bear.

I will keep
our empty words
undigested
in the coughball
of a screech owl.

Our love
will be imperfect,
small bones
scattered under
yellow pine
needles.

***

Wild Flower

2006-03-11T09:10:00.000-06:00

(after Louise Gluck)

Part 1

You want to know what I am thinking?
I walk along the creek's edge, stopping
now and then to smell the wild
flowers, photograph their ephemeral
petals. I am compelled to catalogue
their brief existence: in fact
I am looking for strength.
Even though beautiful things
are short-lived, their beauty
will return. The smallest blooms
have the sweetest scent. I am tempted
to gather a bouquet, to hold on
to the scent, to press
the perianths. Always the white
petals fade to pink, then wilt
and drop. They leave behind
a seed head or some color berry.

Part 2

You want to see my face,
but I do not turn your way.
Your eyes follow me as I wind
my way along the full creek
and through the burgeoning woods.
You want to know what I am thinking.
I stop among the nodding trilliums,
count star flowers, touch anemone.
I stoop to pick one small white
bloom, unidentified. I bring
it to my nose. I still do not turn
your way. You see me as beautiful
again, it surprises you.
Later, you will read my journal,
find the names of wild flowers,
one small white blossom, pressed,
a poem growing along the margin.

***

Gesture Of Irises

2006-03-10T14:20:00.000-06:00

He wraps anger
in the silence of white
paper and coiled
ribbons of insecurity,

then builds limestone
steps, asks if she wants
irises to transplant
or will she let them rot.

In the hot sun she plants
wilted promises along
the steps. A light on her
knee, the dragonfly folds

onyx wings in prayer.
Hope is the purple of cold
creek water, next June
there must be irises.

Find More Of My Poetry

2006-03-09T15:16:00.000-06:00

You'll have to check archives and past issues, but you'll find them and some more great poetry along the way.

http://www.amaze-cinquain.com/front.html

http://www.mindfirerenew.com/

http://www.lochravenreview.net

http://pages.prodigy.net/sol.magazine/

http://webdelsol.com/IBPC/winningpoems6.html