Emigrating

Emigrating

Back and forth we pump our legs,
my daughter and I, together on one swing,
husband/father on the other.
We swing toward each other and away again
toward each other
and away again.
He nods and we all stand up in unison.
We have practiced this at home
until we dream about it
but only he has ever made the leap before.
My daughter and I hold hands undeterred
by the multitude of observers below
and the distance
and the incessant force of gravity calling out
like the Lorelei to hapless sailors.
We focus on continuing to swing.
He nods again
and we swing forward, forward,
forward,
we leap
are caught and catch ahold
the bar is solid beneath our feet and we are
one on either side of him,
who faces where we've come from.
And we all swing together
shaky but triumphant
knowing grace is purely a matter of perspective.
From below we are seen as clowns, buffoons.
We honk our rubber noses and flap our arms in confirmation.
Audience laughter floats up
like the screams of shorebirds
dive-bombing a garbage barge.
But from here, to me,
it seems we are, all three,
capable of miracles.

For Your Birthday, age 7, November 4th...

On the day you were born
I wore an old sweater
that once belonged to my sister.
And a rain hat hand-me-down
from my grandmother.

I was braiding slippery strands of kelp on the beach
to see if it could be done.
It was overcast and beautiful,
all the colors so vivid and fragile,
with the world in turmoil,
and the smoke from September 11th
still a haze through which we wandered aimlessly.
Grieving.
A handsome buck froze unafraid
standing in the road ten feet away.
We chatted with two seals
who were treading water in the gentle rain.
And after the rain?
After the rain,
we saw a double rainbow over the harbor
portentous and magnificent
so we knew something was happening
somewhere.
But all the signs
were in a foreign language.
And I am painfully illiterate.

And it wasn't until a couple weeks later
when I got the call,
and then the package of pictures of you
at the hospital, with all your vital statistics,
it was then that I knew:
It was you!

A Warm Fall

In these uncertain times
when the yellow jackets swarm at the front door screen
thumping their Bibles
and the mosquitoes lie in wait
along the shady lane,
it is then that I long for the swallows,
who have flown early, on instinct,
for more stable climes.
Balance eludes us
in this stretch of bonus summer
so gorgeous and so necessary.
There is growing, yes,
but it is eclipsed by excess:
beans on the vine whose rotting tips touch the moist ground
mushy blackberries dangling like sickly ornaments
apples corpulent beneath their trees
the rat dispatched a week ago on the path to the outhouse.

And when the cold snap comes
and the election too,
then things will be decided
(and decidedly colder):
yellow jackets will hibernate in firewood niches
mosquitoes will drop like alder leaves
blackberries will drip to the ground and puddle in the mud
bean vines will be ready to feed to the goats,
who are bulking up for winter coats
and the lesser of two evils
will lead US.

Our Lady of Perpetual House for Sale

Our Lady of Perpetual House for Sale

For months I have been in Downward Facing Dog
I'm not even sure if I'll be able to stand again
when that time finally arrives.
But I have done everything I was supposed to:
~knees gently bent, elbows firm but not locked
~Achilles tendons stretched taut, bottom in the air
~cleaned the house from floor to ceiling
~found a real estate agent, listed the house, packed boxes
while my daughter was in school
~gave away the ballast that collects between moves...
...and still my face is to the hardwood floor
my hair framing the view in limp coils collecting dust.
Is there anything missing?
Then why am I still here?
My teacher says we must breathe slowly into
that which feels uncomfortable.
Not as an act of resignation,
but as an act of acceptance of the way things are NOW,
this moment.
I breathe slowly:
each breath a full moon cycle,
each breath drawing me closer to the reality of living in a model home.
I accept that I may never find my extra spool of black thread,
the spare Scotch tape, that piece of jewelry.
I accept that I have no response for every person who asks,
"So, when ya leaving?"
I accept. Palms to the floor.

Madeline Moss, August 2008

Food Chain is the Status Quo

Kingfisher, with his swoop-glide stride
like his woodpecker brother,
with his paralyzing call,
he rules.

From the azure necklace
to the regal crest
he holds court at the pond
and the frogs freeze at his command
while he picks them off
one at a time
like barnyard chickens
waiting for their audience
with the Farmer.
Frogs living their lives the way serfs do:
keeping a low profile, eyes on the road,
blending in with the surrounding,
hiding dreams in a haystack,
or under a dusty old hempen hat.
Ready to die with those dreams never spoken
for better bodies than dreams be broken.

Mighty King, we are awed by your beauty
stunned by your song,
may you in your infinite mercy and wisdom
live long.

Anarchy

The dog barks at people we know
and I cannot get him to back down.
We have a tense stand-off
until my husband arrives.
The dog obeys him
and I can walk away.

My hand will no longer
hold the pencil when I ask it to
hold the paintbrush
hold the dish sponge
it simply goes numb in protest.

My 6 year old too is unruly.
Not a shock so much as a given.

What happens to the weak-willed?
We have our sense of humor,
our moments of begging and pleading;
patience and humiliation
our daily compadres.

My helplessness is so complete
it comes with its' own accessories
and reusable decorative box.

Gra(ce)zing

Gra(ce)zing

I slip my index finger gently
around the neck of Queen Anne's Lace
or Dandelion
where stalk meets soil;
my other fingers
support the coil,
twist and pull.
The weed slides out easily
and if I was an elephant
harvesting roots
with the finger at the end of my trunk
my next step would be
to feed it into my mouth and chew
while methodically reaching out
for the next weedy neck.
Wind the Finger.
Gently Pull.
Raise to Mouth....

The sun beats down upon my back.
I am hot;
covered in dust.
I am surrounded by
people I love
who work nearby
and smell of heat and soil.

I hold the moment firmly,
give it a gently twist
and savor the juiciness.
My mouth waters
and then my eyes.

Sunstar on the Prowl

Words elude me.

Like a sunstar on the move
I will find those words if it's the last thing I --
I feel around the sandy bottom
identifying everything as I go
reading with every hungry tentacle:
anemone, coral, kelp, seastar flying away, clam too,
rock, more rock, a hiding fish in the crevice and no time to trap it.
Where are the Words?!
Geez, I hope they're not with my missing sock that disappeared from the laundry.
Although wet wrinkled words are better than none at all.
Words! Words! How I yearn for you!
Consumed with the hunt
I spread my sensitive tendril-fingers in all directions
searching....
Are there enough bon mots in the ocean? Never!
Insatiable Word Predator.

Being Cedar

Being Cedar

I want you to understand
that I am cedar:
sweet-scented, standing tall,
gentle fingers dance with breezes.
I breathe in what you exhale.

I am the smell of wool sock drawers,
my heart lies open on your hard-wood floors.

Evergreen Celebrate Spring

Sometimes it seems like only the deciduous trees really get to party when spring arrives, so I thought the Doug Firs and their ilk deserved a poem for Most Overlooked Spring Celebrants.


Evergreens Celebrate Spring

Wind stirs in the firs
convincing them
to let go the husks they wear
into the air - .
Released
the brown wrappers twirl away
unveiling
fir tree tips
like fingernails
painted punk green
and dangling casually
for everyone to admire.

(A contrast to the stately green
conservative color,
worn for everyday,
year-round display.)

Seized with fellowship
I lacquer my nails:
Extreme Green.

Here's one from earlier this year:

She Talks to Hummingbirds

My heart led me to Guatemala
to find you, mi amor, a missing piece of myself
like all daughters.
My new baby
everywhere we go
hummingbirds check in on you, whirring inquisitively
sent from the homeland like you
to this cold and dreary gray climate
wondering if I raised you right.
When you are inside,
they hover at the windows
until they find you and can make their report.
I always wave and hold you up
so you can see each other.
My hummingbird, you dance and chatter
your way through a meal -
you, who are quick to see the insult, take offense,
intercept it midflight
and bravely belligerently
stand between accuser and accused.
My tiny lawyer-hero
ready to right injustices everywhere.
Please do not sip
from the feeder of self-sacrifice,
I know you are tougher than any jaguar
you don't have to go nose-to-nose with them all.
I wish for you: a life of honeysuckle, bee balm,
and all the passion flowers you pursue.

Mother Spider

Stretching as far as I am able
I reach for the outermost sticky cable
with more line
to patch the tear
but from this angle I can see
more irregular holes in the shimmer:
I keep working steadily.
I keep my balance.

"I am in Repairs."
I say when asked for my occupation;
deftly tying another invisible bow
feeling around for the next thread in the pattern.
While, at the same time,
using another couple of hands to type at the computer
or hoe the soil,
or hug you tight.
My tangible contributions
to mending the Web.