The Way She Walked

 

 

 

 

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Trains Passing


Alone I am watching


the long wavery shadows


of the night train passing


Each night the trains flash


across my ceiling


a steady pattern of movement


relentless as night




But I have spent a lifetime


watching trains pass


their distant calls 


are lost to me


It is only the last


sound of their silence 


that is troubling


like the aimless wave 


of a brakeman


 

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Cleve

Cleve said the mountain mists late in the evening came to cleanse the meadow and rinse the knobs There was a reason for this jewel like moisture beads of shivering pearl in the cool of night Cleve had his explanation for God and nature simple wisdom handled by a simple man Ignored by the men women scorned him gentle when he died his dogs stood in quiet attendance

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Fishing in Winter

It is best to come here on cold days
the fish are sleeping in a mud mask
and I can throw lines with abandon
no fear of hooking the soft mouth,
or bright, staring eye
It is only the silence I am seeking here
and the act of throwing lines
is a mantra of movement
I am hoping to catch the spirit
of elusive tranquility, expand my
heart in the woods,
find my big fish story
take the solitude home for a quiet supper

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Faces

you are not shy, my mother said, then turned
and walked into her ready audience
and I repeated her words in a cherokee chant
clutched my arms to my chest, rocking

you are not shy, I told my blue eyed daughter
she tossed her blond hair, flung herself forward
in a cheerleader's skirt, pounded volley balls
with clenched fists, a natural participant

you are not shy, I told my brown eyed daughter
crossed my fingers, hoped, my luck would hold
her eyes were dark shadows following my back
behind me I heard the hum of a cherokee chant

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Mandolin Girl

One day she grasped the mandolin
by its curly neck and curved it high
up into her breast
and it sang as though they had
met after a long separation
and it followed her into the rich
valleys and whispered beautiful
lies before witnesses
and in the city streets it leapt
into crowds pushing its sharp trembling
notes into the dense air
In bad times the icy spears of its strings
ran a range of cold bitter moods
but it would swing on a good day
and sing away the shadows
songs of fine laughing
and a chorus of glowing grace
When the mandolin girl grew too
old to play, she placed the music
in a bed of hot stones
the curly neck bent and the strings
broke in thin screams
ashes and a million songs
flaked up the chimney into the night air
and the mandolin girl clutched her
white chest to grow deaf listening
to the last lyrics

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Leaving the Sea

There are many hills here, which is why I left the sea
and you, a frigate, seeking the blue-footed boobies, ingesting
food meant for the young, inflating your magnificent wingspan
and luring females with your bright plumage, red and tawdry

I have flown away singing a free thrush song

There are many mountains here, and it is certain that you,
fast mover, quick glider, cannot leave the sea, or see beneath
the tree lined ridge, all the resources I have hidden, in the
cool caverns, buried in the spring of this new valley

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The Appaloosa

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In winter the Appaloosa disappeared and though we walked his haunts and searched the fields we never found his prints or guessed his will But there were times when staring from my warmth of fire and shadows that I thought I saw some horse shape flash of freedom cross the snow That Spring we found him where the ground gave way rendered helpless, frozen where he stood, a space too narrow to leap or raise a hoof his body poised as if he meant to stand and wait until the ground rose up again Then I recalled the nights I thought I saw that horse like shape of frenzy cross the snow and wondered if his spirit freed from flesh was roaming with abandon now at ease too often nature holds what God would free

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The Way She Walked

 

It was the way she walked

with curly hair and her tongue

on her lip stained teeth

touching and nervous

Her hair parting

to a double crown of troubles

some tight, some loose

and bouncing into her face

A zebra scarf flew behind her

lines of black and white

a testament written

in a foreign hand

I loved the fresh air smell

of her clothes too scanty

for the season

too loose for braced shoulders

The way she folded into hard chairs

without a hint of apology

The way her eyes believed 

in small parts of heaven

the way I believed

in the vibrant brooding

sight of her

lopsided by heels

weightless in her brilliant

view of the highway

shaking a snow globe

and searching the road

for old summers

pondering philosophy

with her small cherub lips

her head high and defiant

a russet sun without fear,

the way she walked,

with her curly hair.

 

 

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A Robbery in the Spill

 

There is a spill here that has floated

over the vastness of this water

A bridge has been abandoned

The life of the water is on fire

Wild things batter the shoreline

One man dived beneath the channel

in a  narrow rescue of recovery

The effort exploded his heart

He is floating now faraway on the horizon

A woman dove smoothly through the spill

She dove until the world turned dark

She walked out of the water 

with the bones of a dinosaur

She has hidden them in the old trunk

that was a gift from her grandmother

Someone has alerted the authorities

She is keeping old bones,

without the written permission

of her state.

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Sleeping Birds

 

I am tired of babying

the beauty of song birds

Today I will rise early & sing

into the still darkened trees

straight into the sleeping bird byways

that have awakened me so often

I want them startled in their solitude,

leaping to their skinny feet in a flutter

I want them disoriented in a storm

of piercing whistles & stunned

by the huge head hovering

in the heart of their home

My breath as cunning as a cat

My eyes a double cyclops

Till they too see morning

can be a sudden shock,

lance sharp.

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I See You in my Sleep

 

In the frontier of my dreams

you ride the horizon

on that thin line where you float

into oily small waves

& it is impossible to imagine

you are real or mirage

You are shivering,

a man riding wet into cold wind

I try to warm you

with the feathers of a peacock.

some of them coral & comforting

some of them ragged where the bird

has bitten through in a cleansing

You ask if the wind has risen

back on the mountain

I say no, only on the horizon

& suggest you follow

the old lion through the thicket

that always claims the best rock

to sun himself

In the silence we both hear

the music of a violin,

opening or closing some movie

we have not paid to see.

 

 

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Women in the Snow

 

Yesterday on the beach

she was a sea gull

a seal heart

a short coat unbuttoned

and reading aloud

In the spring she read

a bridal magazine

chose houseshoes

flung long soulful looks

into the large square

of the picture window

where golden rings tightened

 

around the drapery drawback

around her finger

around the crime scene

where the victim lay

But she had witnessed

women in the snow

in the tarot card

 in an ice storm

in the restaurants of bad backs

and the faces of laurels

withering in the cold

The women in the snow

held empty bowls

and sturdy shoes they carried

in large bags

beside the sweet talk of a loser

They cultivated gray matter

and spoke like wood chopping

on a dull stump

Some of the women screamed

in the snow with children

They were in agony

they got their feet wet

they threw shrill vowels

when the children vomited

They stuck lost kisses

on apartment shelves

But the way she wanted out

was in a strong wind, on a reindeer,

in the backseat of santa's sled

with a moisturizer and a manicure

and a mirror that held a light inside

She wanted five hundred feet

from ocean front

in a short coat,

 unbuttoned,

with a seal heart and a sea gull

and a new start

in a palm tree with a sun beam

with a red flower

and a book sleeve

where she could read

or she could write

till her eyes fell

on a fairytale

that she struck down

 with a sea weed

then she read the part

in the gray print

where the brain lived

and she stayed there

till she grew up again

where the only rings

were around the sun

and around her head

when the hot breeze 

and her hair flew

in the beggar wind.

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THE THIEVES

 

Aunt Dee, a widow woman said,
how late at night the winos
off the tracks
crept to her windows
stooped beneath the sill
discussing into morning
what to steal
She had a loaded gun
beneath her bed

Aunt Ann, her sister,
was apt to boast
she knew the full extent
of their dire thoughts
she told straight out
they likely meant
to slip some unknown night
into her bed
to find if she was spinster
like folks said
and steal from her
more value than her sister's
fake pearls and ivory pins
and cameos
She had no gun at all
she had me know

 

STAR FACES

 

Sometimes when the stars
string across the sky
in neat lines
I can see my grandmother
hang a new wash
from their corners
and lift her head sighing
at the fresh scent

There are people I love
just above the sky
my brother singing the last
lyrics he ever wrote
his feet tapping time
on a full moon
I believe falling stars
are familiar faces
looking too closely
for family and friends
longing toward earth
to begin again

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Reviews

[Clarisse]

With the first poem, about the train lights, i thought i was the only one that would watch the light from cars run across the ceiling!