Day # 311: Day # 7 in Nov.

# 311

Do falling leaves count as birds?

Russet winged oak leaves

dropping from the sky in a

slow smooth glide to the water.

They have no call

nor ability to scare off foe

just a gentle flow

into the smooth silken surface.

I researched birds that live

here all year round;

chickadee, downy and red tail

are the three left for me to see

sitting next to this small piece

of avian paradise.

Lindy, "How long would it take a kestrel

to fly over to that hill?"

I estimate how far away the hill is.

I estimate how fast I think a kestrel flies.

I respond, "2o minutes." I do not know

how close my estimate is, but I show I care.

If I were a kestrel

would I fly there in a straight line?

or would I take detours to discover

mice near the old farmer's home?

Would I get distracted

by the feel of soaring

or diving or rising?

Humans are attracted to the

ability to jump off the tower

glide 8 miles to the next highest point.

I'm distracted by a memory

of sitting on Daddy's lap on

the terrace chairs.  He is

showing me how the shortest

distance between two points is a straight line.

 how the fastest way to get there

is as the crow flies.  We take rulers

and pencils and white drawing paper

I make scenes he can fly

between in a straight line with his ruler.

We draw the crow.

But I am not sure the kestrel

would fly like the crow.

I am not sure the kestrel

cares about a straight line

nor the quickest way.

My estimates are very rough

and more accurate for a crow.

How do I adjust for being a kestrel?

As you can observe, I am

closer to a kestrel than a crow.

I still draw scenes

connect them one at a time

jump from one to the next

A chickadee just flew by

Two more to see today.

Life is webbed together

my mind a ruler and a pen.

Day # 310: Both Concrete and Metaphor (Day 6)

#310

Visibility

The sun finally 

returned to me today.

It's face emerged from the oceans

of clouds.

The seas parted 

before my eyes

revealing a 

brilliant blue

for a few short hours

before my world surrendered

to darkness too early.

Tonight I will 

stare up at the stars

and wonder about what 

weather and seasons

are cycling 

in all the other worlds.

Hydrogen and oxygen,

gravity and proximity,

but l only notice

if it's within my visibility.

                              c GRACE

Since I was a young adolescent

I've thought about why people do what they do

Why they act the way they act

say the things they say?

Why would someone chose to hurt your feelings?

Why would someone not understand?

These questions were apparent.

Their answers a tangled web, a maze

to follow like a fool, drink tea, keep a journal

muscle through late at night.

I still ask the same basic questions,

they have just increased in complexity.

We talk about layers and perspectives

and cultures and what people know as normal.

They are the questions answered in novels

or discovered in movies, or a great play.

They are the questions mulled over on bike rides,

a sail on a warm day, just a hike in the woods

or at the dinner table with an older friend.

Day # 309: Woodpeckers

# 309

The kudzu is dying.

It is losing it's vigorous grip

on the pines and oaks.

I think I may be able to see

the mountains through the trees

any day now.

The rain is washing 

the leaves away

to reveal the trees' true forms.

Their lanky, naked bodies

will stand 

strong,

steady,

proud

through the winter months.

But the kudzu's roots run deep.

They'll seek and find 

their warmth 

underground

and wait for the time 

of their merciless ambush 

to come again.

            c GRACE

 This morning I began to clean up, a rare behavior when I heard a noise outside the door.

I heard Jays squawking and several other birds announcing their intentions.

Including the loud call of a woodpecker, louder than anyone I'd heard before

Upon the tree trunk was a ten inch red headed black and white, but slightly tinted green and red

bird pecking at the abundant insects on the trunk with jays and crows, a squirrel or two

yelling at him to go away.  He was not deterred from his feeding.

I took pictures through the screen of the porch, cardinal, a downy, several wrens

scolded me, told me to go away, but he did not seem to mind until I opened

the screen door to get closer, my lens pointed directly at his lovely red hooded cape.

He flew up into the vine tangled forsythia, red berries camouflaging him.

I sat down on the front stoop to wait for his return, counted the other birds

talked to the squirrels, waved to my neighbors, but did not see my Red Bellied Woodpecker again.

Was he like my true love who probably flew into my life years ago just

long enough to distract my good intent only to run away before I could comfort his nervous soul.  

Day #308: Poem Four

#308

White Fish and Reincarnation

My dad hooked up my dryer

for me today,

fixed a hinge on a door.

I paid him in white fish 

and French fries

at a senior discount

and talked with him

of his commune days

and reincarnation.

He said his biggest

qualm is that people 

always feel 

that they had to have been 

someone important,

like Cleopatra 

or Robert E. Lee.

I've come to realize

he's always been 

my best friend,

and I don't care who I am 

in my next life

as long as I still get to be

his daughter.

         c Grace

there is a line of muscle that runs

from below my shoulder blade to my spine

When it is rubbed continuously

i go from pain to still to comfort

I know no other place where that is true

It takes me to a place of contentment

quiet, calm, loving, warm contentment.

It's a lot like listening to Baroque music

or eating lobster even without butter

It's like reading that poem that settles right in

like floating in the pond in July.

When you walk out into the open field

that's filled with Tansy and Indian Paintbrush.

the touch of towel after a hot shower. 

Day #307: Photos, Poem and Elections

# 307

Indian Summer

There are oak leaves twice the normal size now brown and ready to drop. 

The edge of the river by the Bookmill is a steep slope covered in trees,

bushes, and vines, now lit by the bright mid afternoon sun of late fall. 

The sound of the river constant, loud and indistinguishable

as the sound of consistent water flowing off of fallen logs and rock beds. 

What I see and what I hear contradict each other,

give information that does not actually coincide,

but when taken in as a whole, made a whole, made one big picture

wraps around embracing all the senses.

 I am in a wooden building where sun shines through large windows that face

the river.  The sky is a deep blue and the sun shines bright,

 but shadows are prevalent, it is not the 3 o'clock sun

of a summer's afternoon on the beach.  It is the sun

of a late afternoon towards the end of the year, temporarily warming

the air, causing eyes to droop and house flies to try to buzz

An unusual temperature for November, warm enough

to sit outside and eat our lunch, warm enough

to leave the jacket in the car.  A final gasp, a final push

before the winds begin to howl and the snow flies.

Election Day 2010

Election Day 2015 (Do we have a new mayor?)

Day # 306: Poem Group Two

#306

Tiny Trees and Happy Plates

Eating supper

with Liam,

I pick out my broccoli florettes

and carefully place them 

on his plate.

I eat the bland blocks 

of the yellow-green stalks.

He offers me little bites in return,

and tells me 

it's very, very good, Mommy.

He shovels applesauce

into his mouth

globs sticking to the corners

of his smile.

I scrape the last bite 

from the bowl

and feed it to him.

Talk of tiny trees

and happy plates and bowls.

There will come a day

when broccoli 

is merely a good source

of fiber

and dishes no longer

have the capacity 

for emotions.

But for now, 

I'll eat the bland stalks

and smile 

at my boy

growing big and strong

across from me

at the kitchen table.

                      c GRACE

November pink

               creeps up slowly

               from behind the russet  mountains.

Begins to layer in brighter shades

sky a fuchsia

with dark behind.

Suggesting

Adjusting

Re-arranging

Clattered thoughts

tumbling, trying to find

their proper place

where they just slip in

settle down for the winter.

timing is everything

my watch slowed down

I lost my rhythm

I stumbled in the hall.

Something's not quite right

               ajar

               out of whack

               just out of reach

Something's not quite right

               slipped

               turned over

               just past my hand.

Suggest

Adjust

Re-arrange

November pink

               crept into my bed.

Attached itself to my soul

and ready or not

here it comes

ready or not

clattered thoughts remain

with the dark close behind.

My Word: Pam Mcrae; this is a valuable read for those of you interested in adoption.

Day #305: Poem Group

#305

So begins November.  Grace and I have made a commitment to write a poem a day for 10 days.  I will post my poems and sometimes Grace's.  Does anyone want to join us?   We would love it if you did.  This first poem is Grace's  (For those who don't know, Grace is my niece.  She is a writing teacher in the public schools in Georgia and a life-long poet.)

I was excited last Sunday

when I bought four and a half yards

of Japanese inspired silk.

It was a lively olive green

covered in shiny, gold dragonflies.

I bought it to make curtains

for my bedroom window

in my new place in town.

The window faces a parking lot,

and the street lights blare through

the blinds at night.

This artificial light tricks 

my rural brain

into thinking it's daylight 

and wakes me

disoriented 

throughout the night.

I sewed the first panel

of course without taking

any measurements

but figured I was being generous.

When I hung it in the window,

it fell short about nine inches,

reminiscent

of adolescent

pant legs.

In the strange lighting

the lively olive green

turned to a bland moss

where the shiny dragonflies 

became lost.

Now I'm left to wonder

what else I can make

with four and a half yards

of green Japanese silk.

I still believe

there is always a place

for all lost and lovely things 

to live.

c. Grace

 Jane Edwards says:: " I encourage those interested in preventing unnecessary adoptions to look at the their state laws and work to change them to allow mothers time to decide."

First Mother Forum


Red to Brown

mustard, cinnamon and amber

a layer of thick frost

turn the leaves the color

of your favorite brown

      suede boots,

naked branches

The line of storms weakened

to short spurts of rain.

Bright reds turn to burgundy

     and stillness

consumes the first day of early night.

Darkness at five.

I bake chicken and mushrooms

 stir ginger into my applesauce.

I try to balance the darkness as

     it begins

the new season of hibernation

sleep and revival. 

11/1/10