O heart! oh blood that freezes, blood that burns! Earth’s returns For whole centuries of folly, noise and sin! Shut them in, With their triumphs and their glories and the rest! Love is best. —Robert Browning’s “Love among the Ruins“
I. A Father’s Love
Twisted vines hem him along A sun ball shimmers on the tarn The hill globs the valley’s tongue Morning bends over the barn
A ribbon of light cuts through the dark The bridge hitches the road And now he hears the red dog bark And readies his heavy load
After spring fuses the lilac bushes And all sweet love is pining He’ll breathe a sigh that never pushes The twisted veil from vining
Then night will gather him in her arms While the red dog will be straying Over the bridge that fastens the charms That fetch her soul to praying
II. A Mother’s Love
Rosemary, basil, sage Tomatoes growing on the vine Thyme in her purple blooms Fat, round mushrooms
Creatures gather in the coven Black eyes light the night Stirring the air with zest Pulling the bread from the oven
Beating the drum, swirling the broom Blue veil sweeping the living room Standing stone still before the clock Listening to the cradle knock
She draws your heart across her mood Listening for your silent nod She thirsts to be well understood Before the day of burning sod
They cannot give her What they do not have As their tortured souls Tout the grave
III. A Brother’s Love
He failed to appear But I feel I know his anguish I have seen it in the eyes Of many men and boys
I think I know his confusion As clearly as my own But he never bullied me And I love him for that
IV. A Sister’s Love
Cotton candy at the fair Bubbles popping here & there Little princess decked in pink Unicorn bobbing in the drink Never Never Land on the moon Raindrops shelling lost pontoon Donkey honking up the train Scarecrow yellow-bricking brain
V. A Son’s Love
A chicken & an egg go for a walk Two chickens return & split on separate ways
The moon spies on the earth For the sun who sends reports To the eye of God
The tree of life stands on the hill Birds tweet songs in the branches Then lift & scatter across blue worlds
Day & night the marbles roll Respecting gravity’s need To hold tight to things
Grace & beauty tangle As the wind lashes ashes From the urn of hope
The storm subsides Mothers fade & animals flee
VI. A Daughter’s Love
As a calf loves a horse As a zipper loves a button As rain loves an umbrella As a nose loves an ear As a spider loves a cat As a shoe loves an earring As a tooth loves a diamond As snow loves a tree As a marble loves a bird Maybe love’s too strong a word
VII. A Blank Page’s Love
Yes, dear , you would not understand— But that’s not necessary. Besides, I don’t understand either.
But here we are. And you know not why— Lest I sound arrogant, I’ll just say, Neither do I.
Your blankness fills my mind With thoughts of melancholy And fairy-dancing ethereal glumness.
O, how your brother likes to bolshevise. But that’s neither here nor there, Request an answer
That you have already Decided is pure crap. Hee, hee, hee, hee, hee.
O, wait—shee, shee, shee, shee, shee! Just a retro response To a distraction.
I know the blank page Is luring me to blaspheme And cauterize thoughts
That have been roaming The ether for centuries— Go, go, go, girl
You know the fingers Of joy . . .
VIII. God’s Love
I’m not a good daughter Mommy and Daddy could attest to that— But God loves me
I’m not a good sister My sister wholeheartedly agrees— But God loves me
I’m not a good niece My aunts and uncles would say that’s so— But God loves me
I’m not a good cousin My cousins would not sing my praises— But God loves me
I’m not a good mother My children gladly confirm— But God loves me
I’m not a good grandmother My grandchildren can back that up— But God loves me
I’m not a good aunt My nieces can corroborate— But God loves me
a stream of consciousness runs through the landscape Dali has pitchforked brain cells:
little girl with dog in photo off to my left, and Vincent in Saint-Rémy 1889 look a long way off, you look for yourself in the landscape you are not walking across the meadow & you are not marked on any hill so I insist the clouds have gobbled you up those great Vincent-swirled cotton-tails that crawl up the hills, over the blue paint stroked open legs not my legs my legs are off to the left under the dress of that little girl reaching out for her dog trying to smile at the blasted camera the sun hurting her damaged little eyes the sun always hurting her little eyes, sitting on grass always hurting her, the fat little arms, chubby little cheeks always hurting that poor little girl is not in the landscape either she is hiding inside the cottage in the middle of some painting: kissing
your luscious lips kiss over, kissed-off she runs to Dali
The following entry is from my unpublished memoir “My Life in Little Stories”:
49. Spot
My mom and I were outside walking in the yard one warm summer morning, and we saw what we thought was a hog lying outside the gate. We walked over to look more closely and discovered it was not a hog, but a Dalmatian dog. We named him Spot and kept him for the next twelve or so years, until his death.
Does a girl really choose it, even after she becomes a bleeder? Why does she lose it, after that first drilling? And how can she know for sure that she was willing? If she hisses on a hot bed of kisses, and he pries her legs apart, why will she remember it as if he gave her his heart?
Does the fear of innocence shine on her face like a yield sign? Is she an invitation waiting to be mailed? Perhaps this world is an anvil, and she is just a horseshoe to be heated up, hammered out, and nailed.
What is it? Why is it like death to lose it down by the river in the back seat of a car? Maybe it’s that she can never get it back—it’s not like a knife wound that heals smooth even if it leaves a scar.
She starves Her body & her mind Stands vacant haunted She’s dying To be thin She’s not Concerned With curves She wants Angles Points Narrow Hollow Spaces What she craves All starvers Understand A bulge around the middle Is a sin against God Thighs that spread out over a chair bottom Make you sick Breasts that mound under a sweater Make you gutter for breath Round arms full face big calves wide hips double chin A mighty army marching over your skeleton Capturing your pleasures Holding your life hostage You’re a prisoner in a guardhouse A dog in a pound Weight and measurement Are not useful tools They are obsessions She has starved Her body Thin But she cannot Exorcise that last Ghost of flesh That ghost that keeps adjusting the damn mirror that throws Back a size in your face a size that screams Just a little smaller Just a little thinner And then Everything Will be okay . . .
Every Spring along the Whitewater I saw that some mysterious hand Had rearranged the rocks and sand. The path I followed the Summer before Had slipped off into the water.
I did not know whose force Could drive that water among the reeds And make it shift in its bed And every Spring draw me to its side.
Whose arms had muscled To uproot those trees?
Whose fingers had dropped those stones In patterns along the edge?
I thought only that Winter Had frozen those images And after they thawed They were just not the same.
A musical version of the poem “River God” retitled “River Spirit”
Fog lifts morning off the pond. A fish flops up out of the water, Fires the early-bird fisherman’s hopes. He sees his pole bend, almost break Against the weight of his haul.
Noon sun bleaches the rocks along the bank. The little girl dips her toe in the shallows Sees her sister crossing the bridge Coming home from town.
The frogs begin around sundown. Their chorus performs long into the night. Campfires rim the edge of the water. Beer shouting dies down around two.
Fog settles night over the pond. Fishermen doze over their fishing poles. The little girl sleeps in the house on the hill. Her sister gets up early To watch the fog lift again.
This poem appears in my published collection, Turtle Woman & Other Poems, under the title “On the Pond.”
This one nests once: Basho’s warbled seasonal tunes. Dickinson’s kindly stopped for her On his flight through eternity. Yeats’ soared backward into the green past And yielded to the one in gold-enameling. Tagore’s bows to the Lover Divine, touching The edge of her wing.
Mine flew into my cupped young hands. They have caged his little soul my life long. He has shivered on my shoulders. Perched in my brain, brightening my ear, Never suffering me to sing dark sins, He has never risked flying far away. It’s not his fault I sometimes confound The chaff with the wheat.
A slightly difference version appears in my collection of poems, At the End of the Road.
Each winter sprite has walked the air a slave To circumstances she once deemed her joy. New rime that lined the stillness of her cave Fetched folded hands of time to hold her buoy.
If sudden gales mount rushing at her back Forcing chills that numb her mind to stone, She will tame and temper every track And feel the fasting marrow of the bone.
With pains she strains aloof becoming strong Yet slowly limns the glad road down to time Where never any being can belong Without a pardon for an unknown crime.
Now she is slogging unbowed through the storm To fling the book of frost to light and form.
Day and night, day and night I wait for signs divine On the path I have chosen. My heart and mind keep praying deep. Bowing my head, I listen for sacred whispers— O joy is mine for I may soon see the star!
The moon is humming soulful tunes. Sunlight beams blazing in a holy hymn Leading me softly through my days. I pray my songs shred sorrows and woes. Bowing my head, I listen for sacred whispers— O joy is mine for I know I’ll soon see the star!
The moon is slipping silently away. The sun lights the way on my sacred path Though the glory of each day. My laurels will be blessed by all that shines. Bowing my head, I listen for sacred whispers— O joy is mine for I know I now glimpse the star!
I sing and dream of a night that is clear. I sing and dream of lifting every veil
That hides my eyes from my Belovèd Divine— My music now hums in tones gold, blue, and white. Bowing my head, I listen for sacred whispers— O joy is mine for I now see the star!
Linda's Literary Home 
