Poetry in Emulsion

RECIPE from the New York Times

Nog: The Hard Way

Ingredients

• 4 cups whole milk
• 3/4 cup sugar
• 5 large eggs, separated
• 1 cup heavy cream
• 1 1/2 cups dark rum
• Whole nutmeg

Preparation

1.

In a saucepan, heat 2 cups milk but don’t boil. Turn off the heat.

2.

In a mixing bowl, gradually add the sugar into the egg yolks and whisk until thick and pale.

3.

Whisk 1 cup of the warm milk into the yolk-sugar mixture. Add this back to the milk in the pan, stirring over low heat until thickened and blended. Turn off the heat and quickly stir in the cream.

4.

Place pan in a large bowl half-filled with ice water. Stir occasionally, until chilled. When chilled, stir into punch bowl and add rum and remaining milk.

5.

In a mixing bowl, beat the egg whites until they form soft peaks. Then fold them into the nog. Top each serving with grated nutmeg. Serves 8.

stuck.

stuck...
mud is also
thicker than water.
when i was ten
Grampa and i
took a long walk
up the road
through wet cow pastures
for a stroll on the moon
across the orange fence
on fresh concrete and mountains
of dirt acres high
bulldozers, grazed out,
slept in peace
still warm
i know, i climbed on
small muddy hands
left streaks
someone left the keys inside
i told Grampa we should
get in and drive it home
he told me to get down
now
i did.
i wasn't to get my shoes
muddy
on a construction site
in the rain
but that smoooooth puddle
looked exactly as deep
as the sole of my sneaker
i might skate
just under the limit
but
it swallowed my thigh.
Grampa's back was

so much taller
moving away fast
but he said
Don't. Get. Muddy.
my lips were sealed
my voice in the bottom
of my shoe, full of mud
it held fast
warm as a mouth
sucking on my leg
balanced on one shoe
stretching for a blade of grass
the color of concrete
i wondered if anyone
would find
my chubby body
curled into a circle
at the bottom of the mud
like pompeii
and if my mom
would miss me.
help. please.
my held breath
escaped
all i had left
were my eyes
begging Grampa to hear
he did. 
in one stride
small back 
became large hands
even he, tall angry man
had to pull
with all his coiled size
the fear in his face
hurt more
than the teeth in the mud
it took my shoe. 
Grampa swore. 
i stood next to a puddle
in the rain
listening 
to my faults
as my ribs cracked 
under the strain 
of keeping sobs inside
and my eyes
grew an ocean
in unspent tears
i limped home
behind
across cow pastures
one shoe
still stuck
in shame.
(h.t.)

lost dog

the dog darts up the driveway in the dusk
i am sitting on the porch steps in almost spring
listening to peepers and drowsy wrens
having not barked a jogger, she sits facing
her head turns side to side
an ear cocking for every distinct note of evensong
a lonesome beagle a block over, the distant great dane
she doesn't turn her head for the buzz of a scooter,
but ever silver pickup she follows with her nose and tail extended
every hound dog inch stretched against the invisible line of fence
she holds to promises longer than i do.
her little heart does not forgive.
the gathering dusk always finds her waiting.
she sits beside me on the steps
glossy black ears, red collar
she smells of compost and hay
like summer days on the farm.
the smell of  someone else's dinner
wafts across the porch, wrinkling her long, black nose
she sits with me
but she's not my dog.
she lost her heart.

13 march 2012

songs for the cemetery

empty
of word
thought
action
full instead
of sunlight
wildflowers
birdsong
far off
the stink and roar
of traffic
of air conditioners
of living
here instead
a buzz and hum
of insects
wind and
wings
rampant, teeming
life.
4.18.11


i do love the graveyard
unmowed
all things equal
tall grass, periwinkle
rabbit tobacco, phlox
iris and astor
stock and rose
the democracy of neglect
creates
wild abundance.
4.25.11

number 38

and so the poetry 365 project lives. apparently it will take more than a year, but eventually there will be 365 poems here. unless, of course, civilization crashes and i am relegated to scratching in my notebook with carbon scraped from the woodstove. in that case, there will be 365 poems in my notebooks. let's hope it doesn't come to that. regardless, you are welcome to come along for the ride.
lovepeace
heather

exit stage left

in Shakespeare
even the minor villain
expires pursued by a bear
i perspire, very much alive,
in the graveyard
perused by gnats.

ht. 4.11.11

goodnight

at last
the house slept
those within coiled
so tightly upon
themselves
corkscrewed
into dreams
already through
the silent door
and gone
leaving the tiny house
with the tic
 of the cooling stove
and the hum
of the refrigerator
night music
the song of every night
quiet, the house, dark, alone
a wing extended
curled in darkness over
the sleepers
until dawn.

ht. 3.24.11

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