A found poem, inspired by an excerpt of A Christmas Carol and shared with our poetry group:
Apples, oranges
chestnuts on the fire
Golden goblets, tumblers
a jug of kind spirits
Family round the hearth
in the sight of heaven
Merry Christmas to us all!
God bless us every one!
Fern and ivy and crackling leaves,
Moss-covered rocks, a hint of a breeze,
Footbridges, garden paths, geese out for a swim,
Redwoods that rise like a silent hymn,
Saw my first holly, red berries and all,
Presage of Yuletide though it’s still fall.
Paused to admire the fountains’ dance.
Their choreography left me entranced.
Gigantic toadstools fashioned from mums.
A pool with pink ones reflects the sun.
Anemone mums play a starring part,
Undulating bonsai go right to my heart.
Chimes that charm as they ring from a tower
Overlooking a pond where I could spend hours.
Though summer’s ended and winter impends
Gratitude lingers for this day that I’ve spent.
Longwood Gardens, Kennett Square, PA
* Title excerpted from "Liberation" by Louise Glück
I once read a philosopher who asked:
What would you kill for?
a straightforward question
my answer just as simple: nothing.
I’ve journeyed to the Capital
by bus and by train
carried signs, marched, sang
at ground zero of world power.
(I thought singing my heart out
would change other hearts.)
Let those in far-off lands
solve their problems in their own way,
I demanded.
One day, a bystander challenged me:
If it were only that easy!
Really
it's that difficult to stop killing our brothers and sisters?
But wait--
career generals
defense contractors
military alliances
distrust of the Other
national pride
lust for hegemony
thirst for oil
That’s why peace is not so easy
and why to liberate we kill.
Out for a walk as storm clouds gather
Got to beat the pending hurricane
Joggers and hikers share my idea
Darting as fast as they can
The asphalt-paved railbed soon will be plush
With a carpet of rain-soaked leaves
The mossy rug lining the craggy rocks
Will turn a deeper emerald green
Incense will rise from the pungent wet grass
As crickets call from their hideouts
And as though they’re in love with autumn itself
The birds’ chirping will sound like a kiss.
Though my heart feels like
it’s sitting on an iceberg
and fears the measle-pox
still it stalks the sunshine
like a hungry mama bear
circles a cottage
seeking food for her brood
like a bride
bedecked in bows and lace
while guests fill her purse
with coins of hope
or like a lioness stroking her young
with proper leonine pride
my heart caresses dreams
of a robust spring
I wrote this poem as an assignment for my poetry group. It was a fun exercise requiring us to read a piece written by another poet, choose some of the imagery, and reuse it in a poem our own. I chose the magnificent "When Death Comes" by Mary Oliver. The images borrowed from her poem are in bold.
They trudge on foot
teeter on train rooftops
jam into rafts
crawl through stinking sewers
suffocate in cargo trucks
They flee starvation
bombed-out cities
torture, massacre, rape
give all they have to smugglers
their backpacks filled only
with memories and hope
They swim rivers
scale walls, fences
huddle in the brush
evade the patrols
They wash onto beaches
live in tent cities
in hovels ten to a room
grateful to pick our mushrooms
and manicure our lawns
A better poet than I
sang of this wretched refuse
these tempest-tossed arrivals
and promised they’d enter
through the golden door
Whenever I hear the word wizened
I see his face…Uncle Chick.
(His last name was Ciccarelli.)
Lean and leather-skinned,
he rocks on his porch and smiles at me.
Seven-year-old me
doesn’t know what to say to an old man.
He’s short on words too
never having learned much English.
In the house
Grandmom and her sister Antoinette,
Chick’s wife,
gossip in Italian dialect,
“E chi là, là… e chi là, là…”
Meanwhile, we sit for days,
or so it feels,
Uncle Chick and I,
exchanging occasional smiles.
Until…
pushing against the arms of his rocking chair,
he rises and resolutely approaches
the porch steps.
His venerable frame arched forward,
he plods across the street and disappears
into a mom-and-pop grocery store.
About a year
later
he steps onto the porch again,
extends his craggy hand and,
smiling that wide, wizened smile,
gives me a Hershey bar.
My confused teen self
could not support you,
though I heard his threats
ring in the night,
saw the cut above your eye
the next morning.
No one took your side
or came to protect you.
Knights in shining armor don’t exist,
not even when you’re married
to the Black Knight.
Our nuclear family,
a soap opera in perpetual rerun,
detonated periodically.
The fallout left us both contaminated,
you -- fatalistic,
me – withdrawn.
Projected endlessly
onto memory’s small screen,
its two adult stars long dead,
the family classic plays on,
while the juvenile actress-- now aged,
still begs the writers
for a happy ending.
It’s time to start believing
That You’ve forgiven me,
For the years grow long
But the days grow short.
I’ll breathe in the cool breeze,
Live on music and bird songs…
Your recipe for happiness.
And I’ll write poems and knead dough,
For peace, the poet said, comes dropping slow.
