The Keeper

for Stephanie Gail, Sister-Mother

Though howling wind rushes
round these old stone walls
and through her thumping heart,
The Keeper of the Candles sees
which ones have been blown out
and which still burn.
In her mountain
hermitage she mothers
the memories of orphans of fate,
while she melts tallow
from the black-wicked stubs.
The wax has scarred her arms and hands,
but she is faithful
to her tender watch and
lights flames with sacred simplicity
before the gray altars of times past
and green kingdom-come.
She re-peoples the world
with yesterday's children
and remembered stories,
filling these crypt-like spaces
in our lives
with light and song.

The Owner of the Shop

for Mr. Donegal Square

He has great hands, great feet
and a great grin.
A strapping boy, the pride of his mum,
he grew into a horse of a sport with a tongue
like the clapper of a bell
and a ready laugh.
Sure, and he could sell a fur coat to a cat
and charm the last cent from
a parson's pocket. A hand-knit
sweater for Mrs. O'Grady--who knits--
and a cream pot for her auntie, who takes
her coffee black.
That Harris Tweed jacket
goes home in a box for Mr. Adair,
but has he seen the new pyjamas, too?
And some candy, then, for Sean
and little Colleen?

"I'll just put the cap
on our hat-stretcher, Ma'am,
and down the stairs he goes
to pull the hat between his hand
and big shoe. Watching him there
his staff laughs hard enough
to embarrass themselves. Upstairs again
he hands the lady her stretched hat
saying earnestly, "I'm sure that'll do,
and you won't be washing a tweed hat
for your son next time, will you?"

He's a showman, but isn't he the one
for lending an ear to your
troubles or your jokes?
And isn't he the man
with the truck you can borrow
or the room you can use?
You can't park for free when you
work for him, but who else will
lend you the money to pay your parking fines?

To the Mother of a High School Senior

for Joanna and Janeen

My dear friend,
do not be surprised
if the hinges of your heart,
which have worked
so perfectly every day
while your child
ran in and out,
are suddenly rusted shut.
This is not permanent.
You may lubricate them
with tears or take them apart
to sand.
You may even be tempted
to return the whole
darn thing.
Don't.
It is only a measure of time--
maybe several million heartbeats--
before they're
swinging wide open
once again.

There were three ravens...

This is a poem written after a year of family losses: my brother's wife to leukemia; my sister's two sons and our well-loved Golden Retriever.

Evening News
   
for Brendan, Jane, Jeremy and Barley

There were three ravens sat in a tree
Down a down, hey down, hey down....

Three young crows sat on the shingled roof.
A flatulence of thunder danced over the lake,
ended humbly in the ditch. Crow One
sprung to the sky, flapping
crepe wings and trailing parched curses.
Or maybe it was laughter--how could I tell?
He flew like a fine black line drawn
straight to the heart of the storm, and
he didn't come back.

Two needed no Weather Channel.
She cranned her neck, pressed her breast
against nothing and lifted scrawny wings
to catch the next gust of wind.
Crooning hymns and love songs
she flew, flew, flew.

Last crow had flown far.
He shuffled a worry dance on the roof beam.
Late he tried to nest against the chimney,
but lightening took the whole damn thing.

The golden dog in the yard
below barked and chased off after them.

This is a tiny story set against
the events over the hill--
wars and AIDS and thieving politicians.
We always like to end the news with
something close to home.

Coffee Break

I pour myself a cup of afternoon habit,
though it's too hot both outside and in.
Ninety three degrees under the generous hydrangea,
with its petals blushed early.
An orange cat sprawls, just visible beneath
the bush's drooping limbs.  This year September
in Paradise is repulsively hot, reminding me
of the day we drove our late summer vacation van
through downtown Skowhegan
where the bank's thermometer read ninety-nine.
We bought a few cheap fans to cool the cabin
where normally we built fires against the morning shivers.
We were just starting to feel cheated out of
"the way life should be," when one night the temperature
tobogganed. Suddenly we were "under wool"--
a husband-coin we've spent in our family ever since--
meaning we were snuggled in blankets. Outside
in the crisp-apple air the starry, starry sky
poured over the reflecting lake and over the bleached fields
and over the silhouette of pines, air so clear
you could almost see the loon laments.

This oppressive heat takes me further back--
the summer when my clothing sheathed
my pumpkin belly. I awaited our equinox baby
in the stillness of late Pennsylvania summer,
when farmers judged the days of harvest for the last corn.
My hairdresser told me of spending the weekend
with her mom and aunt, cutting kernels from the ears
and freezing over a hundred bags. I could just imagine
sweat pouring from the women in that kitchen
as they worked, and the satisfaction as they closed
the freezer door and poured themselves
a cup of coffee.

Last Will

My friend's mother died suddenly last week leaving

                piles of leftover,

                slopped puddles of self pity,

                an opened packet of variegated strife seeds--

                             few left that hadn't been sown.

Her grown children gather in her home

                to sweep and dust her memories,

                and pack her volumes,

                all the while searching for some 

                             half-remembered jewels.

When I leave you, my own dear offspring,

                hear the bell of rope

                against the harbor masts and miss me.

                Bake chocolate chips together,

                             thinking of hospitality and

                             laugh at my greatest guilty pleasure.

                 Wash up with those infernal hand-made

                              dishcloths that I gave out every year.

Whatever I have I give you now.

Whatever you must throw away, throw away now

                               with all your hearts.

Only then, can we finish this poem.

                

Sharing My Poems

In my mind my poetry is for my family and friends. In the spirit of this thought, I am going to publish it in this blog, a poem at a time. I hope the individual poems may speak to the individuals in this group, perhaps a person at a time. They will be in no special order, but all have been written since I've come to Maine.


                                         The Fashion of Belfast Bay


What colors will she choose today?
I have never seen a woman
wear so many clothes.
She changes from pastel pink and yellow
chiffon peignoir
to azure blue with white lace.
Later, a morning dress of
crinkled crepe, herring gull-gray
with parasol of black filigree
shows her mysterious side.

In the afternoon she frolics
in a dotted Swiss to flirt with
all those admiring sailor boys.  Ah, coquette!
Cocktails she takes in a stunning
sheath of purple, gold, and occidental red.
Late dinner in blue-crushed velvet.

Hush now. Hold your breath,
for underneath the moonlight she waits for you
wearing nothing but diamonds.