Butterfly Laughter

In the middle of our porridge plates
There was a blue butterfly painted
And each morning we tried who should reach the
butterfly first.
Then the Grandmother said: “Do not eat the poor
butterfly.”
That made us laugh.
Always she said it and always it started us laughing.
It seemed such a sweet little joke.
I was certain that one fine morning
The butterfly would fly out of our plates,
Laughing the teeniest laugh in the world,
And perch on the Grandmother’s lap.

 

Katherine Mansfield, poetrychangeslives.com March 22, 2023 

Blessing for the Brokenhearted

There is no remedy for love but to love more.
  Henry David Thoreau

Let us agree
for now
that we will not say
the breaking
makes us stronger
or that it is better
to have this pain
than to have done
without this love.

Let us promise
we will not
tell ourselves
time will heal
the wound,
when every day
our waking
opens it anew.

Perhaps for now
it can be enough
to simply marvel
at the mystery
of how a heart
so broken
can go on beating,
as if it were made
for precisely this—

as if it knows
the only cure for love
is more of it,

as if it sees
the heart’s sole remedy
for breaking
is to love still,

as if it trusts
that its own
persistent pulse
is the rhythm
of a blessing
we cannot
begin to fathom
but will save us
nonetheless.

 

Jan Richardson, uuwestport.org Accessed on March 26, 2023 

Lies My Mother Told Me

If you keep eating raw spaghetti
         you’ll get pinworms,
         then I’ll have to make
         a necklace of garlic for you to wear
         each night while you sleep,
         until they go away.
If you’re mean to your younger brother, I’ll know
         because I have a special eye
         that spies on you when I’m not home.
         You cannot hide from it,
         so don’t try.
If you touch your “down there”
         any time other than when using the toilet,
         your hand will turn green and fall off.
If you keep crossing your eyes
         they will stay that way
         until the wind
         changes direction.
It is bad luck to kill a moth. Moths are
         the souls of our ancestors and it just
         might be Papa paying a visit.
If you kiss a boy on the mouth
         your lips will stick together
         and he’ll use the opportunity
         to suck out your brains.
If you ever lie to me
         God will know and
         rat you out.
         And sometimes
         God exaggerates.
         Trust me —
         you don’t want that
         to happen.

 

Elizabeth Thomas, From the Front of the Classroom (Antrim House, 2008)

Hitchhiking

The only time I ever hitchhiked,
my thumb attracted the driver
of a sixteen wheeler.
He said he needed
company to stay awake,
been on the road for eighteen hours,
hauling a huge caterpillar
on the back of his rig.

I was headed to my home town
a hundred miles away
to visit friends,
cruise familiar streets,
and dance to rock and roll.

Nodding his head
for me to climb in,
he reached for second gear,
then slumped forward
onto the steering wheel.

Panicked he might be dead,
I shouted and shook
his shoulder fiercely.

In one smooth move, he woke,
stopped the truck and asked,
Do you know how to drive?
I said I’d driven grain trucks on farms.
We exchanged places, and he told me
to double clutch between forward gears.
Then he fell asleep.

When I reached forty miles per hour,
the road looked narrow like a path on the prairies,
and the speed seemed like sixty.

The first town I entered, and the only one
I would pass through with a stoplight,
I tried to slow,
but I didn’t think to double clutch
down through the gears.
Thank goodness it was dinnertime
and few drivers were on the main street.

The next stop was my hometown.
I managed to halt the truck on the outskirts.
The driver awakened and thanked me.
I was still shaking as I climbed out of the truck
and stepped down onto the safety of solid ground.

 

David Hecker, Natural Affinities (Moon Path Press, 2017)

Sunday Morning Early

My daughter and I paddle red kayaks
across the lake. Pulling hard,
we slip easily through the water.
Far from either shore, it hits me
that my daughter is a young woman
and suddenly everything is a metaphor
for how short a time we are granted:

the red boats on the blue-black water,
the russet and gold of late summer’s grasses,
the empty sky. We stop and listen to the stillness.
I say, “It’s Sunday, and here we are
in the church of the out of doors,”
then wish I’d kept quiet. That’s the trick in life—
learning to leave well enough alone.

Our boats drift to where the chirring
of grasshoppers reaches us from the rocky hills.
A clap of thunder. I want to say something truer
than I love you. I want my daughter to know that,
through her, I live a life that was closed to me.
I paddle up, lean out, and touch her hand.
I start to speak then stop.

 

David Remtvedt, Dilemmas of the Angels (Louisiana State University,2017)

St. Vith, December 21, 1944

 Cut off in front of the line

that now ran through St. Vith,

the five American tanks sat

in a field covered with snow

in the dark. And now they must

retreat to safety, which they

could do only through gunfire

and flame in the burning town.

They went, firing, through the fire,

GIs and German prisoners

clinging to the hulls, and out

again into the still night beyond.

In the broad dark, someone

began to sing, and one by one

the others sang also, the German

prisoners singing in German,

the Americans in English,

the one song. "Silent Night,"

they sang as the great treads

passed on across the dark

countryside muffled in white

snow, "Holy Night."

 

Wendell Berry, beautywelove.blogspot.com December 21, 2021

To My Favorite 17-Year -Old High School Girl

Do you realize that if you had started
building the Parthenon on the day you were born,
you would be all done in only one more year?
Of course, you couldn’t have done it alone,
so never mind, you’re fine just as you are.
You’re loved for just being yourself.

But did you know that at your age Judy Garland
was pulling down $150,000 a picture,
Joan of Arc was leading the French army to victory,
and Blaise Pascal had cleaned up his room?
No wait, I mean he had invented the calculator.

Of course, there will be time for all that later in your life,
after you come out of your room
and begin to blossom, or at least pick up all your socks.

For some reason, I keep remembering that Lady Jane Grey
was Queen of England when she was only fifteen,
but then she was beheaded, so never mind her as a role model.

A few centuries later, when he was your age,
Franz Schubert was doing the dishes for his family
but that did not keep him from composing two symphonies,
four operas, and two complete Masses as a youngster.

But of course that was in Austria at the height
of romantic lyricism, not here in the suburbs of Cleveland.

Frankly, who cares if Annie Oakley was a crack shot at 15
or if Maria Callas debuted as Tosca at 17?

We think you are special just being you,
playing with your food and staring into space.
By the way, I lied about Schubert doing the dishes,
but that doesn’t mean he never helped out around the house.

 

Billy Collins, Aimless Love (Random House, 2013) 

Breaking Up Is Hard to Do

On Friday afternoon David said he was divesting his holdings
                     in Stephanie dot org.
And Cindy announced she was getting rid of all her Dan-obelia,
                and did anyone want a tennis racket or a cardigan?

Alice told Michael that she was transplanting herself
                        to another brand of potting soil
And Jason composed a 3-chord blues song called
                   “I Can’t Rake Your Leaves Anymore Mama,”
then insisted on playing it
                         over his speakerphone to Ellen.

The moon rose up in the western sky
                           with an expression of complete exhaustion,
like a 38-year old single mother
                standing at the edge of the playground. Right at that moment

Betty was extracting coil after coil of Andrew’s
                              emotional intestines
                   through a verbal incision she had made in his heart,
and Jane was parachuting into an Ani Difranco concert
                    wearing a banner saying, Get Lost, Mark Resnick.

That’s how you find out:
out of the blue.
And it hurts, baby, it really hurts,
because breaking up is hard to do.

 

Tony Hoagland, Hard Rain (Hollyridge Press, 2005)

Poem Bathing

Poem bathing.

An hour spent reading

favorite poetry.

Sometimes there is ecstasy,

a respite from care,

sometimes reassurance

that the world has meaning

there is wonder and awe

and how to find peace in the mystery.

Sometimes there is rejoicing 

Sometimes there is lamenting

Sometimes, the words are a beautiful music

or a necessary silence

as the poem ends in a soft hush, ineffable beauty

as in the forest.

Sometimes the poem is like a letter

that begins, my dearest, I am so sorry

or I love you.

Even on days when I do not have an hour

for a full poetry bath

a sponge bath made of Haiku

or one precious line or two,

murmured over and over,

restores the deep breath that calms,

recalls what is of value,

melts the knots of doubt,

the mute voice in me is liberated,

the poem has left me its wings and wisdom,

the windows of perception are cleansed,

I sing myself awake again.

 

Gail Onion, janicefalls.wordpress,com November 16, 2022

The Sweetness of Dogs

What do you say, Percy? I am thinking
of sitting out on the sand to watch
the moon rise. It’s full tonight.
So we go

and the moon rises, so beautiful it
makes me shudder, makes me think about
time and space, makes me take
measure of myself: one iota
pondering heaven. Thus we sit, myself

thinking how grateful I am for the moon’s
perfect beauty and also, oh! how rich
it is to love the world. Percy, meanwhile,
leans against me and gazes up
into my face. As though I were just as wonderful
as the perfect moon.

 

Mary Oliver, Dog Songs (Penguin Press, 2013) 

Cultivating

The hugs we give our kids, the prayers we pray;

the ways we serve our parents, spouses, friends;

the sins forgiven, wealth we give away;

the strangers whom we welcome, ways we bend;

the paintings, poems, stories, songs we play;

the time spent listening, the words unsaid—

the mundane faithful acts of each new day,

though sown unseen, produce a garden bed.

 

You said this world would hate us, wage a war

against your love—and yet you send us forth

as farmers against fortresses: to tend

this fallen garden that you seek to mend.

We know not how your kingdom comes—but sow

in hope that roots and leaves and fruit will grow.

 

 Michael Stalcup, thecultivatingproject.com September 17, 2021

What Do Teachers Make?

(Or, If Things Don’t Work Out You Can Always Go to Law School)

 

He says the problem with teachers is

What’s a kid going to learn

from someone who decided his best option in life

was to become a teacher?

He reminds the other dinner guests that it’s true

what they say about teachers:

Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach.

I decide to bite my tongue instead of his

and resist the temptation to remind the dinner guests

that it’s also true what they say about lawyers.

Because we’re eating, after all, and this is polite company.

I mean, you’re a teacher, Taylor.

Be honest. What do you make?

And I wish he hadn’t done that

(asked me to be honest)

because, you see, I have a policy in my classroom

about honesty and ass-kicking:

if you ask for it, then I have to let you have it.

You want to know what I make?

I make kids work harder than they ever thought they could.

I can make a C+ feel like a Congressional Medal of Honor

and an A- feel like a slap in the face.

How dare you waste my time

with anything less than your very best.

I make kids sit through 40 minutes of study hall

in absolute silence. No, you may not work in groups.

No, you may not ask a question, so put your hand down.

Why won’t I let you go to the bathroom?

Because you’re bored.

And you don’t really have to go to the bathroom, do you?

I make parents tremble in fear when I call home:

Hi. This is Mr. Mali. I hope I haven’t called at a bad time,

I just wanted to talk to you about something your son said today.

To the biggest bully in the class, he said,

“Leave the kid alone. I still cry sometimes, don’t you?”

And it was the noblest act of courage I have ever seen.

I make parents see their children for who they are

and what they can be.

You want to know what I make?

I make kids wonder,

I make them question,

I make them criticize.

I make them apologize and mean it.

I make them write, write, write.

And then I make them read.

I make them spell definitely beautiful, definitely beautiful, definitely beautiful

over and over again until they will never misspell

either one of those words again.

I make them show all their work in math

and hide it on their final drafts in English.

I make them understand if you’ve got this [brains],

then you follow this [heart],

and if someone ever tries to judge you

by what you make, you give them this [the finger].

Here, let me break it down for you, so you know what I say is true:

Teachers make a life-changing difference! Now what about you?

 

Taylor Mali, Rattle#27, Summer 2007 

Because You Left Me a Handful of Daffodils

 I suddenly thought of Brenda Hatfield, queen

of the 5th grade, Concord Elementary.

A very thin, shy girl, almost

as tall as Audrey Hepburn,

but blond.

 

She wore a dress based upon the principle

of the daffodil: puffed sleeves,

inflated bodice, profusion

of frills along the shoulder blades

and hemline.

 

A dress based upon the principle of girl

as flower; everything unfolding, spilling

outward and downward: ribbon, stole,

corsage, sash.

 

It was the only thing I was ever

Elected. A very short king.

I wore a bow tie, and felt

Like a third-grader.

 

Even the scent of daffodils you left

reminds me. It was a spring night.

And escorting her down the runway

was a losing battle, trying to march

down among the full, thick folds

of crinoline, into the barrage of her

father's flashbulbs, wading

the backwash of her mother's

perfume: scared, smiling,

tiny, down at the end

of that long, thin, Audrey Hepburn arm,

where I was king.

 

Max Garland, The Postal Confessions (University of Massachusetts Press, 1995)

So Loved

A child plays on the banks of a mountain stream.
He slips, falls into the icy current.
His mother's heart falls also—crashes—yet leaps,
with a parent's deep love-panic.
She rushes down the bank, out into the water.
Of course she will endure the rocks, the cold, the danger,
she will grab her child and bring him to safety.
She doesn't care how disobedient he was to go there.
She doesn't care that he told her he hated her.
Doesn't care he ruined the couch yesterday,
woke her three times last night, and is going to need braces.
Without reserve she plunges in and holds him tight.
Of course. Because she loves him no matter what.
This is how God so loved the world,
not in sending a rep, not in working a deal,
but by rushing down, diving into the pain,
saving us from ourselves, and holding us
without judgment or condemnation
because she will never abandon her flesh and blood,
never.

 

Steve Garnass-Holmes, unfoldinglight.net March 2, 2023 

Called to Become

You are called to become
A perfect creation.
No one is called to become
Who you are called to be.
It does not matter
How short or tall
Or thick-set or slow
You may be.
It does not matter
Whether you sparkle with life
Or are as silent as a still pool.
Whether you sing your song aloud
Or weep alone in darkness.
It does not matter
Whether you feel loved and admired
Or unloved and alone
For you are called to become
A perfect creation.
No one's shadow
Should cloud your becoming.
No one's light
Should dispel your spark.
For the Lord delights in you.
Jealously looks upon you
And encourages with gentle joy
Every movement of the Spirit
Within you.
Unique and loved you stand.
Beautiful or stunted in your growth
But never without hope and life.
For you are called to become
A perfect creation.
This becoming may be
Gentle or harsh.
Subtle or violent.
But it never ceases.
Never pauses or hesitates.
Only is—
Creative force—
Calling you
Calling you to become
A perfect creation.

 

Edwina Gately, There Was No Path So I Trod One (1996, 2013) 

Lent

Lent is when we go downstairs,
down into the basement of our souls,
into the dark, dingy, dirty places,
and clear out the junk we need to get rid of.
In Lent we don’t need to beat ourselves up.
We need to lighten our load,
bag up those fears and desires
that are leaking all over everything,
take our guilt and shame out to the curb.
It’s not easy to lay our hands on broken things,
to look deep into the gummed up works.
That’s why Jesus shines with his light,
shines so we can see our way down into the dark,
see to lift up the junk and hand it over,
so he can haul it out into the light
of the dumpster.
The light Jesus shines is good with dark places,
so we know even from the deepest hole down there
we’ll come out. The light will lead us. We’ll be OK.
Mucking around down there we get dirty,
and we come up with grime on our hands
and ashes on our foreheads for everybody to see.
But we’re free of all that blame and disappointment.
And the darkest, deepest cellar hole
becomes an empty tomb.

 

Steve Garnass-Holmes, unfoldinglight.net February 20, 2023