Shere Delight

IN THE DARK

Pre-dawn dark, silence.

Nothing to still my clawing

Thoughts in this empty

House.

 

Cold stones echo

As I descend the winding

Staircase.

 

My dog, asleep on her chair

Hears me through her dreams,

Wags her tail,

Knows me. 

 

Knows me.

 

She stretches, comes to put

Her damp nose against

My hand.

 

Unshed, tears press behind my eyes.

My throat aches.

I hear my heart

Thud.

 

A burned and blackened child

Floats through my mind. 

I am afraid to look at it. 

It struggles for breth.

 

Black smoke fills the sky,

The fire burning all

That I love. 

 

February 1996

EARLY BLOOMS

A hot house it was, too small

For the four of us, who bloomed too early

In pots too small, were overfed,

Flowering quickly, before it was too late.

 

We struggled to blossom prettily

To become the right color and shape

Exude the most pleasing fragrance

 

It seems, though, that in the hot,

Close cramp of childhood there was

Too much heat, roots too shallow,

Desire too strong.

 

Or maybe our seeds weren't right

To produce those blooms.

 

Later, we tried to put down deeper roots,

To find good soil, nurture the tiny shoots

That could become the unique bloom of

Our lives. We tried to stop seeking

The gasp of admiration from strangers

 

To revel in our own odor, love

The thorny stems, jagged leaves, sometimes

Frumpy flower heads, and

Flaunt our own patchwork hues.

 

Sometimes, we succeed, and dance and nod

In the gracious breeze of evening,

Certain we are lovely, pleased

With ourselves.

 

At other times, when we are asleep,

Visions of the most beautiful and most beloved

Flower haunt our dreams, and

We awaken once again as weeds.

 

PRESENT TENSE

My future was before me, interminable

I had the time, I thought, to get it right.

 

Time to become the woman I want to be,

So nobody ever again could throw away

My secret treasures, or move them

So I have to ask where they are.

Over and over I tell myself,

This time, I will put them where

I will never forget. Over and over,

I lose them again, remembering

In dreams, only to awaken

Tantalized by the forgotten knowledge.

 

I thought that others

Hid from me what they knew,

Watching my confusion with\sly smiles.

 

But I see it was only me all along

Whose trickery left me

Baffled and empty handed.

 

For there is no one else here -

Only me, and still, I sometimes

Cannot find my things. 

 

To change, to find a special place

For what I want to keep,

Now is all the time I have.

JUNE NIGHT, FRANCE

June 19, 1995

 

Frogs by the hundreds belch lust

Into the June night.

Their croaking drowns

My thoughts so that

 

I am only muscle and bone

Holding soft insides:

Lungs, kidneys, liver, guts,

Shiny parts working together

To keep my heart beating.

 

I watch this moist

And glistening bag of organs

Moving slowly

Soft and vulnerable,

Like frogs

 

Part of the night air, the frog song,

The ripening summer.

DREAM CANOEING

 

We glide silently across still water,

like Venetian lovers.

My oarsman's deep strokes scarcely disturb

The black water, though I peer, anxious,

Over the side of this unstable craft.

 

We enter a narrow lock

Crowded with oblivious ships ,

This absurd vessel tipping

With the slightest shift;

 

I hold my breath to keep it

Steady, yet

Despite my care I lean too far,

Fall into the opaque dark..

 

I had feared to see deformed things,

Monstrous shapes, slithering in murky depths.

Instead, I discover glowing

green-gold light, empty

water, luminescence.

 

Suspended in transparent water ,

Dazzled by light, I rise, smiling,

Emerge to the sound of the oarsman's laughter,

His hands reaching for me

As the canoe bursts free from the lock.

 

6 February 1994

 

 

BREATHING OUT - AUTUMN

I sense the season shift,
Though outwardly, nothing much is changed.
The air continues warm.  In the afternoon,
It will be hot again.

Only an edge of coolness lingers
In early morning.  In the evening
Light mellows, shadows lengthen and
Deepen.  The sky is a paler blue.

Mostly, though, it is the hush,
As if all nature has exhaled and
Pauses before breathing in again,
Resting after the fervid passion of
Spring birth and summer's hot
Ripening,

Before  the slow glide into autumn,
A last fling of color and flower
Earned in summer heat
Before the absolute rest of winter.

August 15, 1995.

POST-MISTRAL

During the night a
Fearful wind battered the shutters
Against the stones, and
Screamed down the chimney,
A maniacal ghost whirling dead ashes,
Flinging the kitchen door open,
Smashing it against the wall,
Shattering the panes.

This silent morning-after,
Only broken glass, ashes everywhere
Witness to the night's frenzy.

Leaves in the grape arbor whisper,
Grieving the torn tendrils, while
Fig leaves, great flat hands,
Flutter  limp-wristed.

Sound leaps through the scoured air -
Down in the valley a dog barks,
Across the village a shutter screeches open,

From somewhere, the crystalline laugh
of a child, while
Dark cypress'  and silver olive trees
on the hill opposite stand etched
Beneath a garish blue sky. 

A sudden gust creates confusion
Among the leaves, blows hair and dust
Into my eyes, passes.

If the wind picks up again
I'll close the chimney trap,
Bring in the flower pots,
Close the shutters.

In the meantime,
On my sun-drenched terrace,
I sip my morning coffee,
Hot in a white china mug,
Sweet with sugar, smooth with cream.
Cherishing this time
Between the winds, knowing
This pause will
not last.

August 17, 1994