Running Ruminations

I'm jealous of all you
with blue crosses tattooed to your backs.
You, that have hope
draping around your necks on chains
and hymns bleeding from your eyes.
I'm chanting my way
through the swamp,
"please, please, please,"
as if my politeness
is all I'll need.
And yet, I'm trying to cross the road
a blind mole.
So please, just leave me some
tall grass to bed down in.

The Terrible Hodag and the Animal Catchers

I read this book to the boys awhile back. The book is about a creature that lives in the Northwoods. The Hodag is 40 feet tall, has the head of an ox, feet of a bear, back of a dinosaur, and tail of an alligator. He is, however, not terrible at all. He is sweet and gentle and loves to eat blueberries. The loggers of the Northwoods, led by Olee Swenson, love and respect the beast. So when city slickers come to catch the infamous Hodag to send him off to the zoo, the loggers have to take drastic action to save him. And the Hodag, unfortunately, has to scare the zoo keepers off- by roaring and chasing and generally being a monster, which he (apparently) is not.

Auggie shook in his boots, sucked his thumb harder, was rattled to the core. An escalation ensued- one with me yelling something about 'there's no such thing as a Hodag. It's made up. It does not exist! Now go to bed' and, him crying harder, 'he's here in the house. I feel him.' I couldn't understand how he couldn't understand. It was my weakest moment as a mother. And I haven't been able to shake it.

So, of course, I write.

I've been carrying around this scene
deep in my pocket-
its edges are curled from reuse.
You are center stage
with a face painted red
from exasperated panting.
Backstage is your brother,
watching in support,
lisping the words along with you.
And I regret
every time I uncrumple that night
that I didn't lay sooner,
next to you;
that I didn't pull back
the curtain of your fears,
or shush them silent,
to prepare you for
the next time they wriggle free,
from under your bed.

Winter's Passing

They said your funeral
would be down in the valley.
And that the women
would wear white muffs,
in your honor.
I can picture the boys
in their hand knit hats
and me in the boots
I wanted to test out.
I would be standing at
the podium,
weary with your loss.
But I would say something like,
"I'll think of you each December
when I see,
through my side view mirror,
my dog's ears flapping in the arid breeze
and the geese,
who don't know which
direction to fly."

G. Plimpton

This Saturday marks the anniversary of my best friend's father's untimely death. Our friendship was still new and underdeveloped at the time, so I'm not sure I supported her in all the ways I would have if it were to have happened today. But that's a moot point. I did the best I could. She was devastated to learn her father died of a heart attack in the night. I remember the sadness enveloping her, the likes of which I have yet to see since....nor do I hope to. I think the literary world, as well, wore a shroud for some time as Medora's father was this man:


George Plimpton.

If you don't really know who or what he did you can read about it here. He sounds like an amazing man. I wish I could have met him, especially on the night he lit up the Vermont skies with a fireworks show at Medora's wedding. I wish I could have met him to see what parts of Medora are him. I wish I could have met him to see what parts of him are Medora.




I think Medora probably would say that she genetically acquired his zest for life. She certainly gives flavor to mine.

Having not ever had a friend to lose a parent, I didn't know quite what to do 6 years ago when Medora was deep in her darkness. The grieving process is difficult and different for everyone. I tried my best to listen and to be there for her. But I also wanted to let her know I was thinking of her...often. This poem surfaced. This is Mud's voice and mine.

You gave me most.

I'm trying to picture
You holding me
(were You crying?)
for the first time.
Sirens screaming by-
(they were Your muse-
weren't they?)
It was NYC.
1 am.
You loved my mother then,
me too,
Until the day you died.

You used to toss me up in the air,
huh? Your stature screaming
up to the gods "take her Up"
higher than life...
you wanted that for me.
you wanted more.
you gave me most.

You were higher than life,
bigger than big,
better than the best.
You beat the winners and
found victory in losing.
You gave yourself to this
and made something out of it.

And yet, I held You up at my wedding,
roles reversed.
Oh, but we laughed and You held on tight.
Until I left You at our outdoor altar
for another- larger than life- man,
who holds me up now.

But I am still that child, inside,
who swung from Your branches,
who swayed in the wind with You..
Your larger than life You.
You're bigger than big Big-
it's still in me; and life is good.
Because You gave me most.



Thinking of you Mud, on Saturday, and all the days that surround it.

Turn to Me

There was room in the trees
To ruminate over you.
Always thinking you were selfish
For wanting more back,
But you had less self,
As it stands,
For making sure everything
Had fresh water.
Now the tracks lead in both directions-
A mossy runway this way,
A green ferny pasture that.
I don't think you can lose.
Both paths look generous.
You eat a bear's berry.
Its sweetness stings your teeth.
Then cross a dry stream,
And pass dreams covered in tarps,
And wipe silky cobwebs from your bare arms,
As if they were FINISH line tape
At the start of it all.

Sweet Sleep

Sweet Sleep,
Place me in a lighted wood
where the paths are clearly marked
and mistakes are buried under
overturned rocks.

Sweet Sleep,
Lay me on a life raft in the middle of the blue ocean;
let me drift in destiny's wind.
And, in time, wake me up quenched and satiated,
and certain about the tide coming in.

Sweet Sleep,
Float me through a meteor shower, like you did once before.
Cleanse me of all my self doubt.
And fly me higher to all the layers of heaven, and
their wooly blankets of protection.

Sweet Sleep,
Push me under and hold me down
and let me see the euphoria in a last breath,
so that when I wake, I find
My light.

Spring on the Homestead

On Winter's Disappearance


The fragrant dance is about to start.
But beware: it only lasts a few days.
Its sweet siren's song will spring forth,
And let winter's whisper fade away.

I dream of sleeping on beds,
Made from your scented petals.
Or perhaps unfurling myself in your sails,
As we drift quietly in a cool nights' breeze.

How easy I forget my winter's frozen blood,
How quickly it washes into the stream bed,
When the silent slumber in your stalk,
Finally, stretches in the sun.








Things are..








About to...










POP!

Welcome to my world...

Well, welcome to my world. I'm not expecting anyone to read this, but welcome anyway. I'll just clarify that: I'm not expecting anyone to read this, which is why I'm starting off my first post with a poem that I just constructed. I'm a sucky, wannabe famous, writer. But anywho, I was writing it while my twins were eating dinner...my daughter's off at a slumber party at her best friend's house, which is so gloriously sweet I can't even explain. The twins, despite knowing that dessert doesn't arrive until dinner is finished, were up playing with Paul Bunyan's (that's my husband) 12' tape measure. Twin A was pulling the tape measure all the way out and announcing that it (his distance) was "9 below 20 hours zero" which it sometimes gets that cold up here 'in our neck of the woods', especially when you're measuring in inches on a tape measure. Despite the cold, our house is situated so that we have the most amazing sunsets, which means we are facing west (duh), and it (tonight's sunset) inspired me to write this little ditty for Paul Bunyan, whom I sometimes forget to kiss before he goes to work.

If only I could remember to love you

Like I did when it was only you.

And the world stopped rolling,

When you waltzed out that door.

I was certain your life staggered on its edges

Without hugs and kisses from me.

If only, even after all this time,

You still needed me to touch you.

In passing from room to room,

From world to world, arm to arm,

Hand to leg, foot to foot,

We could feel each other's skin,

And remember cold kisses on top of mountains.

If only it wasn't about dump runs, and fire starting,

And putting kids to bed, and dishes.

In the din of it all, if only we could

See each other clearly....just us,

With no clutter getting our love moldy.

If only I could remember what sunsets,

The famous ones from our photo albums,

Looked like, when kisses mattered, and

Weren't required, and I could see their bright pinks

Clearly through finger printed windows.

For those who don't know specifically, Paul Bunyan was a giant lumberjack, who, with the help of his blue ox, Babe, performed various superhuman feats. I'm just using Paul Bunyan as a metaphor for the love of my life, and well I'm not too unlike Babe either:)