at my window

my yard is a meadow
where the grass grows high
wrens nest in the eaves
of my home
fledged sparrows hop
up the slope outside my window
eating seeds of clematis and goldenrod
crickets sing
all day
safe from the screaming drone
of an urban yard
nature rests and pecks and slithers and preens and
ruffles her wings
and does it
right here
with me.

9.21.10

poetry
walks with me
whispers in my ear
makes the strawberries in the grass
more vivid
as i stumble on the stick
poetry missed

34

i watched the monster
eat a tree
reach up to its height
and crush it
splintering
to earth
and scrape the earth
with its remains
pounding them
flat
i watched the monster
hating the monster
in the monster
there is a man
pulling the puppet levers
the gaping maw
his arm
tearing
destroying
but in his face
his grim
lined
face
there is sadness
disgust
for what he must do
he stops the monster to ask
do i want the wood?
my poverty he says
but not my will consents
yes
i want the wood
i hate the monster
but i cannot hate
the man.

33

i fell in love
today
for a scant second
but still
it grabbed and shook me
imagine
my surprise
he was painting
a brick storefront
on a scaffold
picking it out
in wet-slick gray
from its unremarkable
surroundings
a previously barricaded
DOOR
stood open
it was
the god-like act
of creating something
where there had been nothing
that won my heart
and eternal devotion
if only for
a moment.

ht.

32

in praise of spring

dirt in the creases
of your hands
beneath your nails
in your hair
behind your ears
(everywhere)
clean dirt
work dirt
good dirt
earned dirt
soft rich smells
of sweat and soil
earth and toil
salt from your lips
in your kisses
hay from your pockets
on the floor

4.27.10

31

13 April

piece by piece
i wrap myself
in a cocoon
of clothing
protecting
my softness
vulnerability
my hat
pulled low
over my too-broad melon
glass fronted eyes
a kerchief
guards the swiftness
of blood
my overalls cover
my cringing belly
the slow plod of my heart
the catch in my breath
my arms, though...
are free
and bare
and brown.

#30

poor moon
caught as you are
in power lines
and outshone
by the streetlight
is there no end
to the hubris
of these children
cluttering up
the skyline
with these webs
of Power and Light
bury them, o man!
and leave the night sky
to the moon.

ht.

#?

the period of shock
is mercilessly brief
the breathless, bloodstained
bafflement
before the heaviness of loss
before the cleaning up
and putting away
and sorting of things
the finding of pictures
and toys
and birthday cards
the loss
of hope.

ht.
3.21.10

wahoo!

i am back! please forgive the long lag. several weeks ago, i installed a "hit counter" on my blog. unfortunately for me, it was some sort of commerce worm, automatically redirecting everyone (including me) to an advertisement page. i could not get into my own blog until this morning. it took a herculean effort. i had to poise my pointer-thingy over the "LOG IN" button in an attempt to push it before the worm had a chance to activate. it took several attempts. after attempting to delete it from the template (the easy way) i had to dig it out of the HTML. if you know me, you know that this was akin to tilting at wind-mills. tot one up for don quixote! i may not be able to remember the name of the pointy thing, but i can find the words "hit counter - false id" in a sea of random letters and punctuation marks. (i know. lots of folk do not find them random. to me, cyrillic makes more sense.)
at any rate, i am back. the poetry project is back in the swing. i am, however, changing the "rules." (it is mine. i can do that.)i will keep posting poetry, but i will only commit to posting the best of the week. if that happens four times a week, good for me! but it will happen at least once!
love to all, and so nice to be writing here again.
down with the bloody red queen!
love
heather

27/28

i

weather is purely subjective
localized to each their own
jane finds gray skies
a palliative to the soul.

ht

ii

(2.12.10)
thank you
(mr. lincoln)
for freeing slaves
(in a foreign country, but not your own)
for setting loose
your dogs of war
(on the retarded
genteel South)
for drafting
the huddled masses
(to fight a rich man's war)
the Holy War
to Preserve the Union
and Free the Slaves
(and keep the Money
at Home.)

ht

25/26

i
hidden deep with the protective custody of
the complete jane eyre
i found, last night, a photograph
a woman feeding pigeons in William's Park
when i took the photograph (at 17) i thought
sweet, fat old lady feeding pigeons on a bench
"real life reportage"
i caught a pigeon sitting on her hand
her smile behind dark glasses
i never noticed that her sandals
were perfect snowdrift white
that her legs were bare and rather nice
or that she wasn't very old
at all.

ht

ii
i smell diesel
my old perfume
and long
for a home
with sails
and a mast
and a horizon
as vast
as the sea.

ht.


i am finding this project more difficult than i expected. i had forgotten that i have to dig for good poetry, as much as i have to dig for good prose. it requires a few moments of quietude, preferably a cup of tea, and a clean kitchen. i have been posting a quantity of crap poetry of late, leading me to decide that i will continue to write every day but give myself the option of not posting rubbish. in that vein, i will start re-reading all my poetry books. starting with wendell berry.
here's to better poetry. ht.

22/23/24

i.

four crows drinking snow
in the middle of the street
under pregnant skies

ht.

ii.

the sound of running water
trickles through my dreams
brilliant cold
melting snow
in braided rivers
down the drive
off the roof
pelting holes
in red mud
gray snow
and me.

ht

iii.

el nino
you bastard
give me back
the sun.

ht.

20/21

i

too many opinions
on Vampire Weekend
synchopated rhythms
repetitive chorus
remind me
(inexplicably)
of an Eye of Horus
hidden in my treasure box
reminder of a life
long before my own
a little boy i would oneday love
stealing fingers in Cairo
a desert i have never seen
places i have never been
in synchopated rhythms
and repetitive chorus
reminding me
(inexplicably)
of an Eye of Horus.

ht. (2.1.10)

ii

a scrap of song
on infinite loop
chases its tail
through the fabric
of a day
woven in between the threads
(lowland)
of doing and driving
(lowland)
chopping onions, making soup
(lo-owland)
washing dishes, making tea
(they sank him)
between the steady click
of knitting needles
(in the lowland sea)
it plays
again
and again
only the refrain of
the Golden Vanity.

ht. (2.2.10)

18/19

i
1/30/10

Facebook
has 2,2 many
sounds
for a mother's ears.
silent snow
without
POPTAPTAPTAP
POPPOPPOP
TAPtapTAP
within.

ht

ii
1/31/10
i remember
birth
yours, child
all night
early morning
miles davis
butt-first birth,
baby
who knew
that you'd
be
so...
you?

ht.

happy 17th birthday, son. i love you. -mom

17

i
gas stove's loud hissing
chorus over rustling snow
winter nights whisper


ii
i am not superstitious
but snow has voices
creaks and groans
and tapping songs
punctuated by
the sharp report
and the tumbling percussion
of falling limbs
i am not superstitious,
or maybe i am.

ht.

16

(disclaimer: i can't really disclaim it; i did write it. but it IS the only thing i wrote yesterday so i have to post it. better to skip this one and read today's.)

when i was young
and the world was new
my heart was green
and my eyes still blue
i believed so many things
in god, and love
without the strings
i am not much older now
but the world has lost
its rosy hue
i don't believe in anything
not god
not love
not even you.

ht.

15

the canine avenger

i saw my dog
through other eyes today.
my sweet bennie,
the terror
of razor fang and claw,
canine avenger of Asheville High.
come to wreak
vengeance and destruction
(and possibly pee on the rug)
or so saw the secretary
in the office
at the High.
down, girl.
sit.


ht.

14

Useful Things
found by the side of the road
are bound only in function
by my imagination
like a child
in a cardboard box-rocket
halfway to the moon
i am ethralled
by a heavy wire basket
salvaged from a garbage pile
wrestled three blocks home
(with the dog in tow)
sitting on my porch
awaiting transformation
my newest
Useful Thing

ht.

13/14

in spain

i wish i could have seen you
lifting stones decreed
by Rome
standing in the sun
arguing with your abuelo
in voices that echo
back centuries
over where to put them
(those stones)
for the next
millenia

ht.


los chihuahuas of doom

los Chihuahuas of Doom
bark all day
at a concrete squirrel
beneath the birdbath
chained
just out of reach
stupid stupid
Chihuahuas of Doom
bobble-headed imitations
of larger dogs
they imagine themselves
equal
and bark accordingly
poor stupid
Chihuahuas of Doom
reduced to peddling
TACOS!
of mystery meat and
inhabiting P. Hilton's
handbag
and trembling
in the laps
of people who tremble
inside
poor poor
Chihuahuas
they're doomed.

ht.

12

waiting
stretches the bond
between minutes
bowstring taut
and sharp
it sharpens
the tongue
and the wit
unlucky child
who makes me
wait.

ht

more important than poetry

(i know, what could be more important than POETRY?! read on.)

i realize our political sentiments do not all lie on the same side of the aisle, but the issue of "corporate free speech" must merit attention from people of all political strides. as you must know, the recent ruling in Citizens United v FEC entitles corporations to openly spend "their" monies in political campaigns at all levels. (i say "their" because they are not beholden to the wishes of their shareholders in their expenditures.) whereas this will make it easier to know who is buying our politicians, it will not give "we the people" the protection our democratic rights so justly deserve. what is a single vote worth when pharmaceutical industries are mainlining money into a candidate or politician? or oil companies (you floridians!), or monsanto, or anyone else who places the profits of their industry far above the public good? little. very little. yes, you say, but they still need my vote! yes, they do. but they only need it until they get into office. and then more corporate money spins into action to make everything they do look like a good idea.
there are multifarious examples in both parties. (and certainly among the "independents.") i am not asking you to set aside partisan politics, but to step above them to act to preserve any vestige of democracy we may still have. the following is a link (to cut and paste into your browser because i don't know how to make a real one) to the Public Citizen website. please sign the petition and contact your congress people. if you object to PC, please make your feelings known in whatever manner you see fit. just speak, people, for yourselves, for your children, for your country.
http://action.citizen.org/t/10315/campaign.jsp?campaign_KEY=28121
thank you.

11

stood up

how does waiting
make me tired
no great exertion
is mine
i could fuel
the twiddling of my thumbs
from now
until doomsday
on a cup of tea
but expectation
the pin and needle pricks
of anticipation
these are thieves
stealing breath
stealing time
i lost an evening
that was mine.

ht.

10

in the drizzling dusk
light clings to faded grass
leaves gather dark in the soft depressions
where sleeping children lie
i learn their names
by repetition
wishing them goodnight
tucking them in
to the corners of my mind
to wonder later
as my thoughts sift away into sleep
if when the spring comes
they too
will rise

ht.

yesterday's poem

9
o, the sun is gone
a momentary flicker
in an otherwise dark day

ht.


there it is. i wrote yesterday, i just didn't post. i wrote more than a few, but this is the only one i liked. except maybe for this one:

to be a crawfish
is an honorable occupation
for a crawfish
but i don't think
you'd like
what they have
to eat.

ht.

8

the sky is never black
over my town
but shades of blue
or gray
perfect velvet black
being held
for leafless branches
tangling the stars
or crows
however they fly
bird-shaped rents
in a winter
sky

ht.

7

on a sculpture class

a geometry of faces
an architecture
of our physiognomy
the mystery
of crow's feet
explained
lips that spill
soft and pink
from within
all that lies beneath
the smile and
the sigh,
but why.

ht.

6

all things
being equal
baby
running
only gets
you

gone.

ht.

5

evening rain, warm
closing down the night into
my small quiet box
of home.

ht.

as opposed to the low cal queen snake in the next cage.

4.

for the boy

i see you
when you're sleeping
not the tall, angry
slammer of doors,
but a small, wild
boy
who loved to follow
me
into trees
or the ocean
memories that fall away
when you wake
and look at me
that way.

ht.


(untitled)

quiet quiet house
listen to the tick of heaters cooling
the far-off hum of a busy road
an evening winding down
without a sound

ht.

3

the editor

my pen, a lance, a sturdy sword
holds sway and slays
the errant word
a strike, a slash
then rest again
all power lies within the pen

ht.
1.14.10


it has not escaped my notice that my first three days of poems are all rather mundane in topic: weather, tea, writing implements. it will get better. i am just warming up. however, i really do enjoy the beauty and power of the details. st. theresa was not kidding when she said, "god is in the boring housewife stuff." (so, i paraphrase...) all the same, i do promise that this will not be a year of poems written at my desk.
have notebook (and fountain pen), will travel.

day two

dream in yellow

saturday's snow has been cancelled
due to lack of interest
much like north georgia
and the dentist's waiting room
all things that we have gone too far
to retreat, but cannot bear
to continue
but do
instead it will rain
turn ice to mud
raise our hopes
stir deep the waiting buds
of spring
hidden beneath our sweaters
and wring a prayer
whispered before thought
...forsythia!

ht. 1/13/10



lest i should offend, let me explain classing north georgia with dentist waiting rooms. though i do think that it is a lovely part of the world, it has the misfortune (to me) of falling almost entirely in the middle of my drive to st. petersburg and back. after traversing the ENTIRETY of south carolina, poor north georgia could be gold-plated and not attract my interest. generally by the time we have reached the salt flats of south georgia, however, my spirits have revived, and the conversation turns to boiled peanuts and passing payne's prairie. counting down the last few miles to my natal shores takes on the hilarity of guy lombardo getting ready to drop the ball. so, my apologies.
side note: though it is forecast to be 55 tomorrow, it is 17 degrees now, and my tea cools before i can drink it.

ode to a cup of tea

too hot, i think, too hot to touch
in my homemade
potter's cup
steam in swirling pattern holds
fogs the windows
of my soul
i wipe my glasses and have a go
to drink
perchance to dream

ht.
1/12/10


and here begins the daily poem project. i will attempt to write at least one poem every day for the next year. some days the poem might include a photograph. maybe some days a recipe, or a political polemic, or some commentary on motherhood or romance. you will probably see more than one poem in praise of tea. 365 is an awful lot of days.
nothing is off the table. (though the nuclear option is unlikely.)

a lovely epitaph

i didn't write this. i found it in the new york times this morning, in answer to the question, "what book(s) have been with you and shaped your life that you could never leave behind?" (or something very like that.) this response made me laugh and tear up just a little. it reminds me of my brother gabe, my mom... and of me. here is to the reader harry, and all who are the books.


I Am the Book

There was a time, and it was quite a long time, in which I amassed books. What the wise heads nod are good books, daring books, deep books, great books. I read some, merely read from others. Some entered my bloodstream, others were a bore, but I kept on building my paper empire. Now, the question is not which ones to discard, since I’m the book, complete with spine and gray frontispiece, that will be discarded or remaindered, as the case may be, before very long. (Imagination dead. Imagine.) I once joked to a friend that my goal was to be the best-read skull in the ossuary. To an acquaintance who asked me if I read for pleasure, I replied by asking him if, as a devout Catholic, he prayed for pleasure. Between those extremities I’ve run my course as a reader. Now pious, now insolent; now real, now sham. One day soon, I’ll select the best of my books, and lay them out, for my grave clothes.

— Harry