Bird in Flight
It was mid-July when you left.
Everything
was carefully packed, including the
violin
Aunt Betty gave you. This morning
I snagged my linen dress on a
rosebush
near the walkway. I remembered
how you swept past me in your brown
shawl, and the swallows we fed in
Capistrano
when you were young-- I marveled then,
how they always found their way home.
Is it February?
Today, while driving, I forgot on which
road and in which direction I was
traveling.
Right then, the month and year
evaporated
from my mind. In passing
bougainvilleas
near the freeway, I found myself
begging
them for direction; and so I made my
way home.
You turn on the water and hum over
the dishes.
The kettle lets out it's half-whistle, and
then
you walk into the living room with a
magazine and a cup of tea. As I reach
for my crochet hook and thread, our
tabby takes up her position
on the arm of my chair.
As I set the rocker in motion, two legs
dangle like furry pendulums: back and
forth, back
and forth-- Her eyes stare ahead;
occasionally
she purrs. I wonder how
knowledgeable she is;
does she know this is February?
I can't
be certain of anything--but your
presence.
It was mid-July when you left.
Everything
was carefully packed, including the
violin
Aunt Betty gave you. This morning
I snagged my linen dress on a
rosebush
near the walkway. I remembered
how you swept past me in your brown
shawl, and the swallows we fed in
Capistrano
when you were young-- I marveled then,
how they always found their way home.
Is it February?
Today, while driving, I forgot on which
road and in which direction I was
traveling.
Right then, the month and year
evaporated
from my mind. In passing
bougainvilleas
near the freeway, I found myself
begging
them for direction; and so I made my
way home.
You turn on the water and hum over
the dishes.
The kettle lets out it's half-whistle, and
then
you walk into the living room with a
magazine and a cup of tea. As I reach
for my crochet hook and thread, our
tabby takes up her position
on the arm of my chair.
As I set the rocker in motion, two legs
dangle like furry pendulums: back and
forth, back
and forth-- Her eyes stare ahead;
occasionally
she purrs. I wonder how
knowledgeable she is;
does she know this is February?
I can't
be certain of anything--but your
presence.
White Flag
Out there, left of the pier,
an undertow swirls--most people
don’t even know about it. And here,
this is my favorite spot, by the flat boulder.
Around the pilings mussels cling to tarry
poles as waves shift, back and forth. I feel
the damp morning sand soak into my jeans.
I read your note the other day.
From behind the large sloop’s sail
in the horizon, a seagull appeared--
I thought it was a white flag,
then decided, no.
At the Pier
Sea gulls perched on the pier rails
as the sun took her evening bath.
Passing restaurants on the boardwalk,
we stopped near the live crab tank.
Stacked side by side, six deep, they
stared through the glass with blank eyes.
I convinced myself they felt no discomfort.
Still, an eerie sadness permeated the area.
Today you were worried about deadlines,
and said harsh words to me. We sat silently
in our small office, back to back.
Perhaps tonight we will walk on the beach,
then go back to stare at the crabs.
Karen's Bio
Out there, left of the pier,
an undertow swirls--most people
don’t even know about it. And here,
this is my favorite spot, by the flat boulder.
Around the pilings mussels cling to tarry
poles as waves shift, back and forth. I feel
the damp morning sand soak into my jeans.
I read your note the other day.
From behind the large sloop’s sail
in the horizon, a seagull appeared--
I thought it was a white flag,
then decided, no.
At the Pier
Sea gulls perched on the pier rails
as the sun took her evening bath.
Passing restaurants on the boardwalk,
we stopped near the live crab tank.
Stacked side by side, six deep, they
stared through the glass with blank eyes.
I convinced myself they felt no discomfort.
Still, an eerie sadness permeated the area.
Today you were worried about deadlines,
and said harsh words to me. We sat silently
in our small office, back to back.
Perhaps tonight we will walk on the beach,
then go back to stare at the crabs.
Karen's Bio
A Whisper From Wenatchee
As breezes draw in from the sea and
transform
wind chimes into a xylophone,raindrops
catch the crown of my swaying palm.
I’m making bread-- the way grandmother
did.
Soon my home will smell of whole wheat;
I’ll remember spring in Wenatchee,
marbled skies,
apple butter sandwiches, and even my
cousin's piano tunes floating beyond the
orchards.
On my patio, geranium pots brim with
water; a few birds
dart beneath an oak as the storm moves
further inland. I roll the first bite of warm
bread around
in my mouth, settle in grandma’s old
chair and hear her whisper--you forgot
the caraway seed!
Perceptions
She eagerly anticipated my arrival.
In her mind she pictured an infant with
brown hair and dark eyes; but I was born
blond and blue.
She longed for a daughter to hold tight
and prattle over, someone to enthrall as
she turned each story
book page. I was fidgety and didn’t like
sitting on laps.
Later, she spent hours making frilly
dresses, painstakingly
sewing together girly colors, adding
flowers with ribbons to match-- When
done, I told her they felt scratchy.
She praised my brother’s behavior, saying
he was
a sensitive boy, thoughtful and easy to
please.
Somehow, I thought I was her favorite
child.
As breezes draw in from the sea and
transform
wind chimes into a xylophone,raindrops
catch the crown of my swaying palm.
I’m making bread-- the way grandmother
did.
Soon my home will smell of whole wheat;
I’ll remember spring in Wenatchee,
marbled skies,
apple butter sandwiches, and even my
cousin's piano tunes floating beyond the
orchards.
On my patio, geranium pots brim with
water; a few birds
dart beneath an oak as the storm moves
further inland. I roll the first bite of warm
bread around
in my mouth, settle in grandma’s old
chair and hear her whisper--you forgot
the caraway seed!
Perceptions
She eagerly anticipated my arrival.
In her mind she pictured an infant with
brown hair and dark eyes; but I was born
blond and blue.
She longed for a daughter to hold tight
and prattle over, someone to enthrall as
she turned each story
book page. I was fidgety and didn’t like
sitting on laps.
Later, she spent hours making frilly
dresses, painstakingly
sewing together girly colors, adding
flowers with ribbons to match-- When
done, I told her they felt scratchy.
She praised my brother’s behavior, saying
he was
a sensitive boy, thoughtful and easy to
please.
Somehow, I thought I was her favorite
child.
Copyright © 2007 Lavender Isis. All Rights Reserved.
| Poetry by Karen Kelsay |
