When you still wore stardust,
before you discovered this plane
When the galaxies danced at your whim or will
still then, nothing remained the same.
You wept when a planet was born or died
Your diamond tears descended as rain
Your divinity moving in and out the tides
Why then, my beloved, do you think these gifts arcane?
Now is the experience, like any other ride,
only now the power is that of indigenous hurricanes.
In a room with one window,
colorful curtains against the dim
holiness was born anew
as a breathy release prayed again
suspended between tender bruises,
indulgent heart, and reflections mirrored
in cultured ceremony, societal grieving,
a confusion of emotional hymns
sung toneless to the dim, enraptured heart
refused warmth or comfort, only respite
in a room with one window.
On Easter, as a child,
I’d get strapped into conformity
To behave better than any other day
Because Jesus woke up from the dead
To make sure i presented pristine in white
Married to seasonal forgiveness
Hailing the rituals of ages old debt to the earth
Celebrating without sin; with damnation refused
Awaiting Beltane’s lustful repose to greet the blending turn
The sugar cookie pink dogwood sprinkles bridal paths;
creating instant asphalt chapels.
The scent of innocence found in clover and black walnuts
admire the buttercups, grape hyacinths, and forget-me-nots
I inhale the pastel afternoon of 72 degrees, skirt weather
rising sun peeking the treetops looking for reflections
The yellow skin blanket warms the earth,
nurturing the robins, crows, and a fashionable pair of bluebirds.
In the dark margarine yellow window boxes,
purple pansies assort themselves presentably.
There are four square pillars looking like an estate;
updated but settled into a routine of security.
A squeal of young girls holding a picnic at the curbside
interacting by taking turns instead of having a leader.
They worked in tandem, familiar with their abilities.
A nap in a hammock sounds incredibly plausible, but
I return to the silence of a squeaky cat and gentle spirit
The singing tree is abuzz with pollination
Beezus kneezus
They are tuned to lawn mower and cultivators of grand design
Twirtling whistles calling attractive charps.
I hear sky calling trills and thrills with a distant dog barker- carnival style
Deep fried in a crispy batter with enough calories to kill a small town faster than Walmart
Frogs are ritting and roting a love song to be begged generations long
Chattering bamboo charms cardinal directions hovering home
Guns ranged into collapsing sound; whips cracked precisely
S-s-s-s-sisserig rus-s-s-s-s-s-stling leaves and branches
Seabird seabird seabird bird bird trill
Barn Owl haunts the blue jays battle while carpenter beezus kneezus
Mourning dove calling sadly the droning plane cruising altitude
Leave your week behind
Come hold your love in faith
Ease your troubled mind
Come bless your hands with grace
Join hearts one to another
To raise your spirits high
Open up your life
To shine your holy light
Bright shining bright bright bright
This is a time for lasts, as we say goodbye,
but this is also a time for intensely real firsts.
A time when the reflection upon our own mortality
comes to the forefront, peeled away into puddles of grief.
The firsts that haunt the memories
are those that ask, “How can the birds be singing?
Why does the traffic keep moving?
Don’t they realize my world just stopped?”
Like a delicate flower praying in amber
First, there are the beginnings found only at the ends,
then there are the lasts that can only be found
looking in the rear view mirror
as the year of firsts steps forward
begins.
When it first comes home that there isn’t any
physical shell to go sit with,
to hold hands with,
or look into their eyes on this day or any more other days,
the comprehension of our provisional lives
settles like “dust-we-meant-to-get-to-until-things-changed.”
The sound of their breathing or their laughter
has begun to fade and yet, they show up
unexpectedly fully present as echos of last being.
What they don’t warn anyone about
are the May 4ths, the June 13ths, and the October 27ths.
The ordinary, every day chores laden heavily
with surprisingly unpredictable waves
The first meal alone, knowing they aren’t there.
Using the last of the coffee you bought
on your last shopping trip when you didn’t know;
While there was still hope you would shop again.
Packing the clothes they used to wear catching
a whiff of their cologne
that sparked the memory of their hugs.
The realization that along with your firsts,
you also experienced unwittingly, your lasts.
All of the things that seemed so mundane,
ordinary when they were around,
even through challenges,
suddenly become
…absent.
And although they never leave us
their love woven into our cloak of shared life,
everything seems suddenly out of sync;
off kilter; out of phase,
unraveled.
When we think of the deaths of our people
The ones we knew inside and out,
We brace ourselves for the celebrations
because we’ll go through the motions
We’ll go through the first motions of knowing
with all of our people, but one, we’ll be grieving.
Whispering ‘Bless their hearts” reverently,
We’ll be eating funeral sandwiches,
served in hushed tones after the nice service.
We’ll make motions of Christmas, Thanksgiving,
their birthday, your birthday, and the first anniversaries.
It’s the days of confetti we go to like holy sacraments
feeling gawked at and sacrificial; awkwardly naked.
But smiling politely with a discreet exit
helps to survive through the first holidays.
This is a time for new beginnings, letting go of goodbyes
but this is also a time for honoring that which has been before
A time when the reflection upon our own mortality
comes to the forefront, inspired by the love
which brought blessings and comfort throughout the years.
May peace be granted to you as it has been to My loved one
My favorite part of my home is if you stand
at the bottom of my kitchen steps
looking towards the front door at around 8PM
when the traffic returns home from their workday
my disco ball chandelier confetti’s my foyer
with dance party festivities.
My favorite part of my home is
if you sit on my back deck under my ancient oak
while the chickens are bathing in the dirt or
scratching where my Hosta’s used to grow and bloom
you can hear St. Thomas on one side, 4th Reformed
greeting midday with their church bells
My favorite part of my home is
if it rains, any amount at all, the basement
because of the slope of our just under quarter acre,
floods rudely sopping the carpet
but not the floor unless it’s a ridiculous amount
which you’d know nothing about here.
A favorite part of my home is found,
almost as much and as frequently,
as the obligatory Kawphy
served in: brewed, pour-over, cappuccino, or Keurig,
because one type isn’t enough when you love it,
are the multitude of teas that can be brought to life
nearly as instantly as the hot pot can boil.
My favorite place in my home is my mailbox.
I feel like “Walking on Sunshine” knowing maybe…
That today might be the day that one of several
who write me frequently may have done so.
They never fail to lift my spirits, bring me joy,
remind me that I matter in the great white north,
in the deep rainy south, in the breezy southwest,
No matter what or where, I am uplifted in their love.
My second favorite part of my mailbox is the flag.
When I see it up, then down, knowing maybe…
they will also know they are loved by me unequivocally.
Another favorite part of my home is my studio
It is my place of solace and solitude
where I can stretch my head and heart
to write whimsical or paint darkness.
I can embrace the mood of muse intimately
without pride or caution as she warms me thickly.
But what I love more than any of those things,
what gives me purpose to breathe life into the walls,
to shovel out the walk for the fourth time today,
to sort the recycling and the trash every Wednesday night
are my family.
Punky the Chihuhua, Herbie the turtle,
Louise, Fifty, Julie, Roy, and Maude the chickens,
(Two of which are indoor and wear diapers)
Our pet Human, Will, that I found on a street corner,
guitar strapped to his back as he headed out to busk
one freezing sunny snowy Sunday morning a couple of years ago.
Back then, he asked for a warm place to sleep for the night,
he’s never left and I don’t want him to, neither does Ben.
Without Ben the Great or me, we aren’t the we,
that make our Home at Kawphy Hill
words. hearts. secrets.
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