Afternoon Run: a poem

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I saw the wind blow
a thousand petals
from a tree; beauty,
wrenched and scattered,
like velvety kisses
tossed from on high,
stolen to give away

each branchy finger
released its grip,
bending with the wind
and reaching with
uncurled hands for
what the thief had stolen
before returning to
standing tall

IMG_8262Don’t forget to leave a comment on this post for a chance to win some great books!

 

Black Crow (For Jeffrey on His Seventeenth Birthday)

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“You’ll never be sixteen
again,” I said, words misting
like white doves in the air.

I don’t remember
what the weather was like
on the day you were born.
this morning, it snows—
tiny, frail flakes, drifting

I drive away, you still
sleeping

it’s hard to know when
a boy becomes a man,
switching out smooth stones
in his pocket for car keys.
you used to leave the kitchen
table smelling of syrup and
milk; now you enter the day
clean-shaven, all soap
and mint

what do you remember
of the days gone? Do you
recall when a maple seed
held all the world in its
wingspan? when a pine
cone was the grandest prize?
a flat of frozen creek, hoisted
your victory dance? the
trophies you seek now
I can’t hold in my hand.

one black crow in the parking
lot when I arrive. he pushes down
on the air with wings longer
than his body, languid in his
escape.

“where will you go?”
I ask with my white-bird
words.

Image by Dennis. Sourced via Flickr.

Weather Forecast (a poem)

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this will be remembered
as the Christmas of sixty degrees
when we went walking in shorts
and wore flip-flops as we sat
on the patio in the fading light
of day

the trees adorned with flashing
wings; morning drips from gray
branches; the meadow covered
in white mist

I have two sets of eyes, two sets
of ears; my skin holds the memory
of life hoped for, taken, healed

I am a sponge, filled with the water
of dreams, your voice strong
inside me, like the north wind,
all my worth measured by
the light in your eyes

beauty is a wild thing I stalk,
gathering fog by the armfuls and
heaping it onto yesterday

the lights on the Christmas tree
glisten, winking in reflection on
naked branches outside the window

the weatherman calls for rain.

Satyagraha: a poem

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Art is the act of nonaggression. We have to live this art in our daily lives … Carry the poem away from the desk and into the kitchen. That is how we will survive as writers, no matter how little money we make in the American economy and how little acceptance we get in the magazines. We are not writing for money and acceptance, although that would be nice. Our deepest secret in our heart of hearts is that we are writing because we love the world … ~Natalie Goldberg, Writing Down the Bones

Last Friday I rose from sleep and piddled as the sun lifted from a foggy bed. Morning chores, walk the dog, sit in study for a time. I didn’t open the paper or turn on the news. I didn’t lift the gaping white screen to check the email.

After a time of study, I picked up my journal. As is my practice, I penned the date at the top of the page.

9/11/15 …

My fingers froze above the page and I was unable to write anything more. My heart has been sitting shiva ever since. It is day seven and the pen is moving once again, but my heart stills each time I remember.

::

we wandered into
an unkind forest
they left their gods
on the sidewalk with
shards of glass and metal,
ashen skin. the earth
shifts when I say
your name.

you walk among the stars now
but I remember
a boy who rollerbladed between
the stacks—books
on every side

that night
you danced until
your skin glistened…
your dreams are the
rich soil of tomorrow
I carry the poem with me

we finish our days
with a sigh,
pick our way through
the underbrush by
the light of the moon

on the trees. moss grows
thick on stones and the fine
filigree of new grass is
soft on the ball of a foot.
your comet leaves a long
tail and I awaken
with this word on my lips:

satyagraha. satyagraha

Playdates with God: Nightsong, a poem

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the silver underpinnings of the maple leaves shimmer
in the fading light of evening
I touch the grasses of the meadow with my mind and
walk through the myth that I am separate from all this

the sky opens it’s many eyes one-by-one, dropping light
like moist breath onto my dry bones
I remember how Kate looked the other night, so young
with no makeup on, so vulnerable and tired

Jeff says this is when she is most beautiful, no mask
I remember how her mother carried her on one hip
the thought of her in white lace feels like Eden; the river
forks again

we had too much to drink, laughing in the grass as
music played. I felt the bass drum echo through my ribs,
his hand in mine an anchor. the beads on the abacus of
time no longer make that sharp clicking sound as they meet

we sit together as night begins to sing.

::

Every Monday I share one of my Playdates with God. I would love to hear about yours. It can be anything: outside, quiet time. Maybe it’s solitary. Maybe it’s loud and crowded. Just find God and know joy. Click on the button below to add your link. I try to visit a few of your stories every week, so if you are a new visitor, be sure to let me know in the comments so I can welcome you. Grab my button at the bottom of the page and join us.

Laura Boggess