Poem Tuesday

Blogger friend Claire Beynon at Icelines

has started posting a poem every Tuesday,

along with numerous other poets, and I've

decided to tag along. Thought I'd start

with something topical:

Easter

Barely ten, I bolted from Rose Chintz china

and linen, dinner still barely warm.

My pink coat, made over from another April,

another sister, lay rumpled beside white

patent leather and gloves soft as a rabbit’s ear.

The woods were green with four o’clock April light

and hardly a wind rippled the hazelnuts,

the nettles just beginning to line my path.

I ran and leapt over logs and ferns

until I reached the enormous maple

behind Rupert’s broken barn. I climbed

and swayed in the thinning branches,

stretched as far as that tree would allow

and sang as loudly as I can remember:

Jesus Christ is risen’ today, a-a-a-a-a-le-e-lu-u-jah.

Our triumphant holy day, a-a-a-a-a-le-e-lu-u-jah.

There was not a soul in sight

that green and billowing afternoon

from my bluejay’s perch above the world.

And no organ padded the velvet air,

no plaster saints, no crucifix.

I sang until I trembled with hoarseness

and felt the wind gone from my lungs.

Then silently I slipped branch by sturdy branch

to the earth. Took the long way home --

through the deserted orchard, past the filbert grove,

up a slow hill to my house.

Copyright, T. Clear

Originally appeared in Manzanita Quarterly

Scattered

Ghost:


Plum:



Misc.:

Marriage

Lingering over dinner, with the last of the wine and the stub-end of the bread, and tissue-thin slivers of butter.

All night: the sound of spring rain
through an open window.

Third Day of Spring

It was warm today in Seattle, I'm guessing upper
60's, and at 2pm I stepped outside to take in some sun.
I looked down at the lawn which is lush and bright
with the new spring green, and hasn't yet been mowed
so was soft, and decided to lie down, arms spread out,
face tipped upward to the sky, eyes closed. I could hear
bees out and about their business, an occasional car
passing on the street, the sound of air moving in and out
of my nose. Melinda laid out beside me, same posture.
We must have looked like victims of The Yoga Murderer,
posed in eternal shavasana on the front lawn of an
urban dwelling.

But we were very much alive, as was evidenced by the
groans of sun-pleasure, of grassy glee. I desired stasis,
desired the remainder of the afternoon
to contain nothing else but this rooted green mattress,
and this ceiling of warmth.

Alas.

Razzle Dazzle

The artist Melinda for whom I daily toil
(yes, that's an exaggeration, but I do love
the word toil) finally has some photos of
her new work, which she has generously
agreed to share with me.
(Please check out her blog here.)
So, without further ado:

Sanctified Imperfections

Holy Sixties Pop Culture Reference!

In my effort to post something New! and Stimulating! Here I am seated at the wheel of the original Batmobile (my son is on the left.) This was taken in Seattle in 2003. The story: one of my next-door bakery customers did body work on classic autos, and the Batmobile was in town for some kind of promotion, and needed a bit of touching up. Lucky me got to go for a ride and pose for photos. (Such are the rewards of charming ones customers.)

Sometimes the only medicine is a glass of good red wine. Tonight it's Quo Grenache from Spain. We buy wine by the case from Catherine Reynolds of Queso y Vino, a local independent wine seller. Last May Catherine suffered a catastrophic aneurysm, was hospitalized for many weeks, and yet has managed a remarkable recovery. She specializes in all things Spanish and Portuguese, and especially delights in wines that don't bankrupt your wallet. If you are in the Seattle area, please do check her out. You will not be disappointed.

Now it's time to get back to that glass of wine....

Two words and one symbol....

Pie = Love.

This is most remarkable (clink on the link below):

my small bamboo boats adrift beneath the sea ice of Explorers Cove, Antarctica

Holy Day of Obligation

I did not go to mass today like a Good Citizen of Ireland but I did consume my American corned beef and cabbage. My question, however, is:
Where is the sticky toffee pudding?

I do admit to downing a handful of multi-colored sprinx purchased at the Super-Valu in Westport, Ireland, several summers ago. They tasted like oregano, cayenne, curry powder, bay leaves, sage and asofoetida. Oh, and gumbo file. Fee-lay.

It's a grand fine day.

Re: previous post


Whirled: sounds as if I stuck my head in a blender.
More accurately, I stuck my head in a bottle of wine.
I woke up today thinking: What was I thinking???
And then I decided to delete the post, but a faithful
blog reader on the other side of the planet
was already up and chipper and had left a comment.
Seemed a sacrilege to delete.
Thus it remains: awhirl, aswhirl, atwhirl.


Here's something to mark the occasion of
All Things Irish, taken last summer
in Westport, County Mayo, Ireland:

Please Take Note

Sometimes we remember just why it is that we love the people we love.
(Dazzled.
Thunder-struck.
Whirled.)

Envy

Moss and lichen green:


Nettle green:


Cedar green:

Fern green:


Salal green:


Doug-fir green:


End-of-winter green:

Sacred

Christoph Niemann has a new post up at Abstract City. If you haven't discovered him yet, now's the time.

There's no one home.

There's a lovely beef soup simmering on the stovetop; leftover pot roast cooked with tomatoes and red wine etc. makes the perfect soup base. I threw in  4 cups of canned stock and some cabbage. Yum. It's easy to cook, if you pay attention.

Are you there?

Go ahead -- be brave. Be really brave. Leave a comment.