mary-winslow - Hello Poetry

I feel the cold bites, mittened children yell they’re sewing sky flowers as they run with yellow or red kites ocean makes that great space with tides that linger over the rocks we fashion nothing like the clouds and feel small As storms build up I walk a coastal trail where ashes of an old beach fire left roasted pinecones littered an Osprey flies up above the shore’s edge and as I read your book, I feel the restless melody in your poems Tides flap and slop against sand the color of worn concrete ocean’s spoiled lives permeate everything, my skin tastes sea salt gargle gulls and passersby all watch the waves moving towards us I’m lingering here for too long and return to my car clicking heels behind me in the parking lot the castanets of other lives with their importance arouse such unpleasant thoughts, I walk back down to the beach hurrying until I no longer hear their rhythm But now the fog rolls in and the ground is covered with wings all the doors are locked when the sky drops down like this thunder knocks in the distance saying ‘“celebrate!” its echoes wake the clouds, rain gives an answer with applause on the threshold of storm I turn away from the ocean and look east a forested mountainside crowded with fading painted houses abandoned a single car on the road with headlights, we have hundreds of days of rain here in other words, most people forget anything but rainy weather the chill from Alaska reaches down only in gusts but snow is distant This Sunday when Netarts bay is full of kayaks and fishing boats Oceanside’s patch of beach is strewn with sea grass, people with their dogs walk amongst shed crab shells, a lone restaurant opens selling coffee and pies none of the people in rain slickers and hoodies move off as the rain falls

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Jan 9, 2018

Jan 9, 2018 at 12:30 AM UTC

Reading Elizabeth Bishop’s Cape Breton in Oceanside, Oregon

I feel the cold bites, mittened children yell they’re sewing sky flowers as they run with yellow or red kites ocean makes that great space with tides that linger over the rocks we fashion nothing like the clouds and feel small As storms build up I walk a coastal trail where ashes of an old beach fire left roasted pinecones littered an Osprey flies up above the shore’s edge and as I read your book, I feel the restless melody in your poems Tides flap and slop against sand the color of worn concrete ocean’s spoiled lives permeate everything, my skin tastes sea salt gargle gulls and passersby all watch the waves moving towards us I’m lingering here for too long and return to my car clicking heels behind me in the parking lot the castanets of other lives with their importance arouse such unpleasant thoughts, I walk back down to the beach hurrying until I no longer hear their rhythm But now the fog rolls in and the ground is covered with wings all the doors are locked when the sky drops down like this thunder knocks in the distance saying ‘“celebrate!” its echoes wake the clouds, rain gives an answer with applause on the threshold of storm I turn away from the ocean and look east a forested mountainside crowded with fading painted houses abandoned a single car on the road with headlights, we have hundreds of days of rain here in other words, most people forget anything but rainy weather the chill from Alaska reaches down only in gusts but snow is distant This Sunday when Netarts bay is full of kayaks and fishing boats Oceanside’s patch of beach is strewn with sea grass, people with their dogs walk amongst shed crab shells, a lone restaurant opens selling coffee and pies none of the people in rain slickers and hoodies move off as the rain falls

29

A living ball of white plastic twine its bulb of body conscious slim head pointed down towards the floor chaos of legs whirling knees bend inwards and go slack like a flower opening and closing a shimmering life the size of my kneecap hanging from a thread of silk spider as a puppet marionette legs flailing as they play empty notes in space haggling without gravity mused into waking they paw at the air smoothing the surface of imagination making and unmaking an invisible tapestry all these careless maids whatever their purpose might be whatever heartbreak is the encroaching ends of their creations meticulous in movement only when the sewing commences In the morning all the magic has worn off the spider is a tiny brownish common cellar spider a miniature Daddy Longlegs just the hull of what was massive and sentient in the night

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Dec 5, 2017

Dec 5, 2017 at 11:35 AM UTC

Seeing a Spider in the Bathroom at 2 a.m.

A living ball of white plastic twine its bulb of body conscious slim head pointed down towards the floor chaos of legs whirling knees bend inwards and go slack like a flower opening and closing a shimmering life the size of my kneecap hanging from a thread of silk spider as a puppet marionette legs flailing as they play empty notes in space haggling without gravity mused into waking they paw at the air smoothing the surface of imagination making and unmaking an invisible tapestry all these careless maids whatever their purpose might be whatever heartbreak is the encroaching ends of their creations meticulous in movement only when the sewing commences In the morning all the magic has worn off the spider is a tiny brownish common cellar spider a miniature Daddy Longlegs just the hull of what was massive and sentient in the night

34

Angels make the bouquets I see as I thumb through this Chagall book life is served on a bed of blue sky aspirations made of soft shells like molting ***** these flowers bloom risking penury to offer a glimpse of eternity make themselves windows of the blooming tree a prism in a subjective room they chose their lives in alternative and reflect themselves as canals of rainbows I sip a glass of wine and ponder this page the museums of silken selves the artist left for us Chagall painted old age so devoid of color and vitality because he knew as we age we empty our imaginations into the angels who then arrive holding flowers for the young

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Dec 5, 2017

Dec 5, 2017 at 1:06 AM UTC

Chagall’s Der Obstgarten von Philetas

Angels make the bouquets I see as I thumb through this Chagall book life is served on a bed of blue sky aspirations made of soft shells like molting ***** these flowers bloom risking penury to offer a glimpse of eternity make themselves windows of the blooming tree a prism in a subjective room they chose their lives in alternative and reflect themselves as canals of rainbows I sip a glass of wine and ponder this page the museums of silken selves the artist left for us Chagall painted old age so devoid of color and vitality because he knew as we age we empty our imaginations into the angels who then arrive holding flowers for the young

21

A living skin, a skein of green briars where a half-hinged door is wagged by the wind Good-natured god, decay’s stigmata-stained spires nettles paint the stairs splotch patterned, olive skinned Glass window shards grab a slip of silk curtain pick-pocket beetles engrave brute luck broadside Chimney thrushes cabined in ash are certain cynicism’s growing sums are rectified Blue jays opine time’s cuckoo clock mocking worms ply enormous copses, scrawl casts of clay Autumn gusts and rains whirl detritus stocking flung colors Pollocked, clutter’s chaos array Hours dissolve the acorns and soft seeds scatter as grasses grown tall have turned light yellow architecture’s flourishes are picked off crumbled valuables filched and turned to dirt tumult’s passages dug the driveway’s trough carrion feeders pull black quills from their shirt slugs smear a rainbow trail and mice scurry collapsed walls fall to the slush of leaf slurry

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Nov 30, 2017

Nov 30, 2017 at 1:14 AM UTC

Entropy's House

A living skin, a skein of green briars where a half-hinged door is wagged by the wind Good-natured god, decay’s stigmata-stained spires nettles paint the stairs splotch patterned, olive skinned Glass window shards grab a slip of silk curtain pick-pocket beetles engrave brute luck broadside Chimney thrushes cabined in ash are certain cynicism’s growing sums are rectified Blue jays opine time’s cuckoo clock mocking worms ply enormous copses, scrawl casts of clay Autumn gusts and rains whirl detritus stocking flung colors Pollocked, clutter’s chaos array Hours dissolve the acorns and soft seeds scatter as grasses grown tall have turned light yellow architecture’s flourishes are picked off crumbled valuables filched and turned to dirt tumult’s passages dug the driveway’s trough carrion feeders pull black quills from their shirt slugs smear a rainbow trail and mice scurry collapsed walls fall to the slush of leaf slurry

20

The bronze-scorched mud knobbed unhinged sculpture grows Cinderella down to root knots, ground is grubbed chapped hats of acorns hit porticoes before snows honeybees cake their hives closed and wax hubbed humiliation hardens as color dapples swelling seed-commas split beneath the frost piety’s ignored until next year’s apples night sky is grape-leafed, blackberry sauced ineffable brutes grow cold to the pinnacle rhetorical dross groundswells legislations the long-legged wind tramples our spectacle rains mock each leaf into pickled munitions rocks are nothing but hermitages sent by the moon prescient hardness sets its chin to the ground hankering for battle, totalitarianism thrives by noon each soldered twig unloomed, unraveled, uncrowned we have severed ties to reason’s substantial contents in the muddle it’s not the empowerment you had democracy dies bewildered blind with miscontents unhinged, unconcerned to find the hanging chad we’re scissored down to our primary chaos all paralogisms who dwell in a dream that justifies our fall.

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Nov 11, 2017

Nov 11, 2017 at 12:15 PM UTC

November

The bronze-scorched mud knobbed unhinged sculpture grows Cinderella down to root knots, ground is grubbed chapped hats of acorns hit porticoes before snows honeybees cake their hives closed and wax hubbed humiliation hardens as color dapples swelling seed-commas split beneath the frost piety’s ignored until next year’s apples night sky is grape-leafed, blackberry sauced ineffable brutes grow cold to the pinnacle rhetorical dross groundswells legislations the long-legged wind tramples our spectacle rains mock each leaf into pickled munitions rocks are nothing but hermitages sent by the moon prescient hardness sets its chin to the ground hankering for battle, totalitarianism thrives by noon each soldered twig unloomed, unraveled, uncrowned we have severed ties to reason’s substantial contents in the muddle it’s not the empowerment you had democracy dies bewildered blind with miscontents unhinged, unconcerned to find the hanging chad we’re scissored down to our primary chaos all paralogisms who dwell in a dream that justifies our fall.

22

Reading John's book Seal Rock sitting on a pile of burned driftwood on the beach where people are scattering like jacks beneath a beach ball slapped into the air it falls amongst the group a few dive for it someone throws it again While sanderlings dance along the fray of the waves the sun disappears in dark clouds I open Seal Rock put it over my head as raindrops fall poetry satisfying so many needs my wreath, my hat my shelter in bustling adversity I hop over puddles in sprung rhythm while gulls haggle over shells the words and memories trickling into my scalp right off the pages as we are all climbing towards the parking lot stones sliding beneath our feet a beach ball lodged under a boy’s arm I keep this slick shingle on top word pendant a dream shroud whispering shedding the storm.

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Nov 11, 2017

Nov 11, 2017 at 12:12 PM UTC

Reading John Haislip in Lincoln City

Reading John's book Seal Rock sitting on a pile of burned driftwood on the beach where people are scattering like jacks beneath a beach ball slapped into the air it falls amongst the group a few dive for it someone throws it again While sanderlings dance along the fray of the waves the sun disappears in dark clouds I open Seal Rock put it over my head as raindrops fall poetry satisfying so many needs my wreath, my hat my shelter in bustling adversity I hop over puddles in sprung rhythm while gulls haggle over shells the words and memories trickling into my scalp right off the pages as we are all climbing towards the parking lot stones sliding beneath our feet a beach ball lodged under a boy’s arm I keep this slick shingle on top word pendant a dream shroud whispering shedding the storm.

37

Ragged clothes on the sidewalk, toddlers murmur and cry cold morning air where abandoned row houses smell of whiskey, sage, and molded cotton diesel exhaust belches into light breezes forests of burning coffee beans mingle into their hearth, the children, this is their nostalgia everywhere leavings of life scatter driven by wind cover unhoused, distressed, makeshift families they stand shoeless as fortunate people drive past Glut of humanity smells of wet newspaper grey gulls picking at grimy cellophane cardboard litters muddy sidewalks above the billboard the wealthy jeer at them sitting by a liquor store with bars on the windows shut out of row houses with black wrought iron gates basement stairwells filled with trash men in alligator boots ready to lunge into the lives of slick, bright, vacant women this is the fate of feminine mother love Thriving in dead landscapes growing lost opportunity under skyscrapers where it is always almost dusk

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Nov 11, 2017

Nov 11, 2017 at 12:05 PM UTC

Squatters’ Children

Ragged clothes on the sidewalk, toddlers murmur and cry cold morning air where abandoned row houses smell of whiskey, sage, and molded cotton diesel exhaust belches into light breezes forests of burning coffee beans mingle into their hearth, the children, this is their nostalgia everywhere leavings of life scatter driven by wind cover unhoused, distressed, makeshift families they stand shoeless as fortunate people drive past Glut of humanity smells of wet newspaper grey gulls picking at grimy cellophane cardboard litters muddy sidewalks above the billboard the wealthy jeer at them sitting by a liquor store with bars on the windows shut out of row houses with black wrought iron gates basement stairwells filled with trash men in alligator boots ready to lunge into the lives of slick, bright, vacant women this is the fate of feminine mother love Thriving in dead landscapes growing lost opportunity under skyscrapers where it is always almost dusk

23

She lived along the Atlantic coast and had a collection of lobster pots by the porch and her lawn was trimmed for croquet smelled of clams at low tide the house was set near barnacle rocks just beyond a stand of trees. I found her by looking in a phonebook next to her name it said, "Poetry Journals," so I called the number, and said I was on my way. "Is that ok?" I added hesitantly. “Well, yes,” she laughed, “You can come buy one.” I passed the sign for fresh eggs and arrived at a black wrought iron gate that said, "Poetry Journals - 2 for $5.00." “You’re the first one who’s ever made it all the way to the house for a journal…” “In four dozen years," she said. Then she asked, “What’s your name?” “I don’t really have a name," I said. She nodded and understood. She'd heard from Byron that the Banshee drags souls out to sea but sometimes the nameless manage to float back looking for poetry these lost ones are like driftwood bringing a sense of chilly dusk a retrospective on the sea in a seashell appearing by happenstance at low tide "yes, I hear a distant mumble of waves," she might have said of me I was one of the lost turning her porch into a quay of despair the first one in almost 50 years who had made it so far to latch on until high tide when the rush of sea returned washed me out again clinging for dear life to a raft of poetry

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Oct 9, 2017

Oct 9, 2017 at 11:01 AM UTC

My Day with a Poetry Editor

She lived along the Atlantic coast and had a collection of lobster pots by the porch and her lawn was trimmed for croquet smelled of clams at low tide the house was set near barnacle rocks just beyond a stand of trees. I found her by looking in a phonebook next to her name it said, "Poetry Journals," so I called the number, and said I was on my way. "Is that ok?" I added hesitantly. “Well, yes,” she laughed, “You can come buy one.” I passed the sign for fresh eggs and arrived at a black wrought iron gate that said, "Poetry Journals - 2 for $5.00." “You’re the first one who’s ever made it all the way to the house for a journal…” “In four dozen years," she said. Then she asked, “What’s your name?” “I don’t really have a name," I said. She nodded and understood. She'd heard from Byron that the Banshee drags souls out to sea but sometimes the nameless manage to float back looking for poetry these lost ones are like driftwood bringing a sense of chilly dusk a retrospective on the sea in a seashell appearing by happenstance at low tide "yes, I hear a distant mumble of waves," she might have said of me I was one of the lost turning her porch into a quay of despair the first one in almost 50 years who had made it so far to latch on until high tide when the rush of sea returned washed me out again clinging for dear life to a raft of poetry

44

The red maple tree was a chord you set down planted at the edge of the lawn when I was born you said it was for the butterfly catcher who will grow up to gather up the cosmos I disappointed by staying low, a shrub no taller than your irises Your granddaughter inherited your songs instead understands tempo that shapeless country of time signatures that counts ideas in seeds She rambles across sheet music turns that scattering into the glitter of song You've crossed the bridge of night now you are lost in the stars, You add to the Milky Way your off-beat insights still singing poetry with Kurt Weil, Lenya, and Lees your words traveling through the heavens with Mackie Messer who knifes the mysteries You give it all verse counting inspiration in the deep your genius out there where the moon's white mask appears on stage each night with requiems and prayers giving stage directions to the earth below.

0

Oct 9, 2017

Oct 9, 2017 at 1:37 AM UTC

Kurt Weill for My Father on Father’s Day

The red maple tree was a chord you set down planted at the edge of the lawn when I was born you said it was for the butterfly catcher who will grow up to gather up the cosmos I disappointed by staying low, a shrub no taller than your irises Your granddaughter inherited your songs instead understands tempo that shapeless country of time signatures that counts ideas in seeds She rambles across sheet music turns that scattering into the glitter of song You've crossed the bridge of night now you are lost in the stars, You add to the Milky Way your off-beat insights still singing poetry with Kurt Weil, Lenya, and Lees your words traveling through the heavens with Mackie Messer who knifes the mysteries You give it all verse counting inspiration in the deep your genius out there where the moon's white mask appears on stage each night with requiems and prayers giving stage directions to the earth below.

35

The only thing brighter than hope is loss it chews into the goldsmith that makes the soul and gnaws me into colors each part of me flying down into the wilderness I am fluttering as the farmer ploughs me into earth where my intensity can rest. In full dress once I left an economy of boughs, the candle isn't lit, a wick without its crown I leave the world schooled in lean and lithe, a yogi, I am here to study my own neglect. The rest of the world, lion bodied, glances at my century of rough. But I robed the ground with my convictions I couldn’t keep them seasons burst out of me even if I wanted to hoard my greedy treasures for myself I couldn't thus robbed of my enfranchisement I mutter in time to the wind sorrow gave me this reason-flayed second purpose Which is to feed others, my body now a spilled nut I am birded by the sowing belly of earth my bells are rained and pinched by this tapering I am being shrunk to get through the door to death only snow will enter in the end when I am covered white and immaculate together we give up color for the season of bones.

0

Oct 9, 2017

Oct 9, 2017 at 1:33 AM UTC

The Falling Leaves

The only thing brighter than hope is loss it chews into the goldsmith that makes the soul and gnaws me into colors each part of me flying down into the wilderness I am fluttering as the farmer ploughs me into earth where my intensity can rest. In full dress once I left an economy of boughs, the candle isn't lit, a wick without its crown I leave the world schooled in lean and lithe, a yogi, I am here to study my own neglect. The rest of the world, lion bodied, glances at my century of rough. But I robed the ground with my convictions I couldn’t keep them seasons burst out of me even if I wanted to hoard my greedy treasures for myself I couldn't thus robbed of my enfranchisement I mutter in time to the wind sorrow gave me this reason-flayed second purpose Which is to feed others, my body now a spilled nut I am birded by the sowing belly of earth my bells are rained and pinched by this tapering I am being shrunk to get through the door to death only snow will enter in the end when I am covered white and immaculate together we give up color for the season of bones.

32