An Angel sent by God best describes my Mum:
a more loving soul has never walked this Earth.
Mum could bottle preserves: apple, peach, or plum;
cultivate my pride, and shore up my self-worth.
And she could knit, crochet, macramé, and sew,
learning skills on her own; she took life in tow.
I have always felt loved and safe around her:
so when I think of her, tears begin to stir.
It's my last day with the old giants
In mourning I hike the lost trails,
sniffing the aroma of the bark,
that cinnamon of the forest
Under tepees of wood
in a membrane of shadows,
I stalk the earth, its mammal traces,
its elusive tracks,
to sit on a fallen log
where spiders macramé,
moss sloping to my knees
unaware of invisibles within,
grubbing in their tunnels
A lizard taps my foot,
responding, I muse to its touch,
my thoughts like Indian visions,
And when daylight mushrooms into night,
and an owl hoots from cedar,
I still sit with a lizard on my shoe
Huddled with the ancients of the woods
It's my last day with the old giants
In mourning I hike the lost trails,
sniffing the aroma of the bark,
that cinnamon of the forest
Under tepees of wood
in a membrane of shadows,
I stalk the earth, its mammal traces,
its elusive tracks,
to sit on a fallen log
where spiders macramé,
moss sloping to my knees
unaware of invisibles within,
grubbing in their tunnels
A lizard taps my foot,
responding, I muse to its touch,
my thoughts like Indian visions,
And when daylight mushrooms into night,
and an owl hoots from cedar,
I still sit with a lizard on my shoe
Huddled with the ancients of the woods
I made a small declutter vow
To get myself unstuck
That every day I’ll toss one thing
And so far, I’m in luck.
My travel guides from years ago
To places I have been
Were easy things for me to trash,
A good place to begin.
Some macramé for hanging plants,
A box of potpourri
And dinnerware with chips or cracks
Were thrown away by me.
Of course, I’m near the very tip
(The iceberg’s down below),
But every day I’ll chip away
And find one thing to throw.
For sentimental fools like me
This takes a lot of thought.
Too bad the empty space will fill
With new stuff I have bought!
Dream Catcher
You hang
crookedly
from the white plastic hook,
swaying slightly to the west.
Caught to catch.
Five cheaply dyed feathers splayed from winged birds
My dime-store exotic.
Amber, red and gold
Colors of fire, passionate sun.
Colors of purpose.
Dead birds now.
Was this their dream?
To hang near my window
Catching dust and kitchen bacon grease?
The vibrancy of temporary color disappearing
forgotten with age
You do have movement though,
those 2 inches back and forth.
Back and forth
Not much for flight
Not much for sight
Or dreams.
Your five cowry shells
Ransom
For all my desires.
What powers do you possess
In your woven macramé
to make this life
Something more
Than simply caught
or bought
or hung?
First published: Page & Spine
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