A New Poem: Mabel's Mermaid

My friend Gail and I were sitting in my living room recently, talking and sharing poems, as we do, and looking at the mural hanging from the mantle that my nine-year-old granddaughter gave me two years ago, and I realized it deserved a poem.  Here is a small section of the piece:

And here is the poem:

Mabel’s Mermaid

 

Once there was a girl child

who lived (sometimes) in

an enchanted, watery world

of visions and dreams and art.

One day, the girl learned that

her grandmother was very ill,

and so she brought to her

a smiling mermaid

with purple hair and tail,

swimming in an azure blue ocean

with yellow and coral-colored fish.

She swam alongside a sandy beach

laden with shells and other

treasures from the sea.

Every day, the ailing old woman

lay in her chair by the window,

her eyes drawn to the mermaid,

blue eyes shining back at her,

lavender hair streaming out

through the dancing waves.

She would return the mermaid’s smile,

her heart easing just a little bit.

After the grandmother recovered

and no longer spent all day languishing,

she kept the mermaid in her purview,

never tiring of the smiling face

that lifted her spirits, the precious gift

of her precious girl.

 

 

Some Days - A New Poem

Some days

you wake up

and discover

that you slipped

into the underworld

during the night.

The body aches and

the mind is haunted

with doubts and fears.

Some days

you watch a spider

drop down on the

window pane, and

you envy its deliberate,

graceful dance, its

simple, steady work.

Some days

when age is

what you feel,

when all you see

is fog or gloom,

then it is time

to straighten

your spine and

your resolve.

This day

is the day

to raise

your hands

and greet

whatever comes

out from the depths.

This day

is the day

to sing to

the morning light.

Morning Poems

Boy, the morning pages do pile up!  I spent some time this morning going through the ones I flagged to revisit, this batch mostly being poems.  I put post-its on pages I think are worth keeping because I toss everything else after a few months (not wanting my kids having to go through the volumes of it after I'm gone).   It's funny - so much of the time I think of my morning pages as just a bunch of garbage writing, just a string of blah-blah-blah. But then, like today, I see how much I'd thought was worth keeping, and I'm surprised at how much there is.  It reminds me of the stories of the women like Psyche and Vasilisa having to sort piles of seeds.

 So, here are some of the rescued morning poems (fresh and only briefly edited).

Morning Pages

  

The studio is filled with

Hawaiian slack key music.

The last cut on the CD

cues up.

I am trying to complete

three long-hand pages

of morning writing.

There is no inspiration 

arising.

What is here? 

An empty mug, 

now drained 

of cinnamon tea,

flickering candles on my

writing table, 

a fully overcast sky

outside the window.

Another morning.

Another chance.

What feels so old and rote

might feel like a gift, a blessing.

Ah, the things we take for granted

before they disappear

forever.

Contradictions

I am spinning in

the contradictions

of this world of

blood and bile,

pus and decay,

of violence and war

and the greed

of the elites.

And yet,

and yet,

this Spring morning

dawns with sunlight

pouring down the avenue below,

lifting the mist from the hills, and

brightening all the greens of

the redwoods, pines and maples,

the vines twining around my deck.

It is still, then the

breeze arises in

the cloudless blue.

Suddenly there is  

a burst of bird flight,

circling, circling, circling,

lifting up the morning.

A New Day

Because you are old,

            you easily fall

            into stale thoughts and habits.

But this day is opening to you –

            the sun washes down the avenue below this hill,

            the cloudless sky and cool air cover the city,

            the chickens are clucking in the pen,

            the vine’s new green growth is waving

            in the breeze right outside the window.

You are alive, alive, alive.

At any moment, the little birds nestled

            in the pine trees on the avenue

            will take off and circle

            in a tiny murmuration,

            marking the morning’s arrival.