Apology

I wanted to shine a bare bulb
on that moment when I thought
I was right and you were wrong.
I wanted brash. Wanted glaring.
Wanted blatant, flagrant proof.
Now, in this moment of darkness,
I don’t care about right or wrong.
Don’t care about fault or blame.
I long to bring you starlight,
candlelight, firefly light—
the kind of glow that touches
everything with tenderness—
even our most prickly parts.
And whatever light lives inside us—
the light we house but do not own—
I want to discover that now
so in this darkest moment
we might find each other,
might find, even, ourselves.

 

Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, ahundredfallingveils.com January 22, 2022 

Mornings at Blackwater Pond

For years, every morning, I drank
from Blackwater Pond.
It was flavored with oak leaves and also, no doubt,
the feet of ducks.

And always it assuaged me
from the dry bowl of the very far past.

What I want to say is
that the past is the past,
and the present is what your life is,
and you are capable
of choosing what that will be,
darling citizen.

So come to the pond,
or the river of your imagination,
or the harbor of your longing,

and put your lips to the world.
And live
your life.

 

Mary Oliver, Red Bird (Beacon Press, 2009)

On Memorial Day

I think of every human
who has given their life
to fight not for war
but for peace. I think
of every mother and father
and son and daughter,
every baker and painter
and teacher and builder
who has learned to use
a weapon to save
the people and places
they love. I think of love—
how the Ukrainian woman
said tonight she had
never been more aware
of how good humans can be—
and how she’s learned this
midst bombs and blood
and broken trust and shattered
glass. I think of how peace
is a choice we make with
every smallest action we take.
I think of the pen in my own hand.
What will I do with it?

 

Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, ahundredfallingveils.com May 26, 2024

Talk the Everyday

Let’s talk the everyday world:
the weather, the recent misgivings,
the funny story. Let’s smile
at the right moments, nod
our heads with a listener’s intent,
lock our eyes only for the few
seconds polite society approves.

While we are busy looking for
the red carpet to roll out
or for the door to open in welcome,
we don't notice the unspoken conversation,
the one our hearts speak to each other
in the sacred meeting ground between us;

where we test the water for safety,
hold a wet finger up to heaven
to feel which way the wind blows,
and hold out our empty hands to show
we have sheathed our weapons.

On the surface, I may say
“I am fine, and you?” but,
in the other conversation,
I say "my heart is broken open.
How about yours?"

 

Nick LeForce, nickleforce.com April 22, 2022

Tucson hospital, waiting room

The visitors outside the icu,
                   After first greetings, don’t have much to say.
And yet, an idle gazing on the view
                   Of cars parked in the warming desert day,
Waiting themselves in silence, will not do.

And so, they speak of where their children live,
                   Now that they’re grown with children of their own,
Of one’s tenacity or initiative,
                   A grandchild’s trophy, grades, or broken bone.
No detail is too trivial to give.

Their voices hide those distant beeps and hums
                   That hint of purposes they only guess.
And as they laugh, that place, it seems, becomes
                   One where old women praise a young girl’s dress
And she, in turn, shows off her speed at sums.

But when, from time to time, a nurse appears
                   And summons someone through the heavy door,
They leave off reminiscing of past years,
                   And find the window’s blazing scene once more,
In silence wondering whose disaster nears.

 

James Matthew Wilson, The New Criterion vol 42, #7 (March 20, 2024)

But I'm Tired

If I weren’t so tired, I’d get out there in that garden
and grow some green beans, stringless and tender
and fleshy. I’d grow some grapes, then peel them
and pass them out to all my friends.

If I weren’t so tired, I’d plant some garlic for my mom.
I’d bake gingerbread men. Houses, too.
And then I would scamper up a mountain
the way goats do, and I’d do all that before noon.

If I weren’t so tired, I’d introduce a goldfish
to a gorilla, and then write a play based on
what they’d say to each other. I’d laminate maps
for migrating geese they could wear around their necks.

Yeah, I think I’d go to the tropics and pick up
all the old tails that geckos had lost and return them
to their owners. And I’d make special pillows
for baby giraffes to land on when they’re born.

So much to do, I’ve got grasshopper mind, jumping
and leaping all the time—from how I might help
the glaciers grow to how I might make the galaxy go
just a little bit slower so that there’s more time

for us all to sleep so we’re not always too tired
to do all the things we want to do. Like grow
some grapes, and peel them, too, then offer them
to good friends like you. Or just wash the dishes,

Or get dressed, make the bed. I would, you know, if …

 

Merry Wahtola Trommer, ahundredfallingveils.com August 25, 2014

Scaffolding

Masons, when they start upon a building,

Are careful to test out the scaffolding;

Make sure that planks won’t slip at busy points,

Secure all ladders, tighten bolted joints.

And yet all this comes down when the job’s done

Showing off walls of sure and solid stone.

So if, my dear, there sometimes seem to be

Old bridges breaking between you and me

Never fear. We may let the scaffolds fall

Confident that we have built our wall.

 

Seamus Heaney, Poem in Your Pocket Day, The League of Canadian Poets, poets.ca