Starlings On Otmoor

over the roof’s slant

in your lengthy fuss
aligning your cameras
you two had ignored us
not recognizing our powers
thinking you knew better
to look beyond for hours
for trolls, leprechauns or elves to fetter
only to find ones not so fine
at a Norwegian store?
in Nashville? Waiting in line?

we wore no tights
nor pointed slippers, ick!
we don’t like fights
nor live under bridges
with those ugly mud skippers, sick!
you searched and searched
to no avail
we were right in front of you
how could you fail?
to see us, your own magic beings
over the roof’s slant
on the ridge of the park’s
water treatment plant

russian olive

its shimmering leaves invite the western gardener
as it contrasts with the native plants in the west
something exotic, unusual in the united states
sometimes considered a weed, sometimes an ornament

recently mikhail suprun had been detained
for gathering facts in the russian archives
as one might gather olives for oil
only to find that the russian olive branch has thorns
that threaten consequences for rewriting his story
about german populations in poland and ukraine
who disappeared under stalin

the olive
russia’s forbidden fruit
records on its leaves
marked like trails of blight
cyrillic stains of ink
interred under institutional shade
threatening to be found and exhumed
to uncover russia’s fabricated history

often majestic in the sun and wind
each silver leaf reflects the skies
of a vast frontier of the ancient east
of rugged nobility
they are like ancient sirens
veiling twisted branches beneath
to confound the history of arctic gulags

on the occasion of the anniversary
of the invasion of poland
seven decades ago
by germany initiating the second world war
vladimer putin writes an open letter to poland no less
declaring in defense of stalin no less
that one can not be so sure of history
we each perceive it differently, he writes
after all 27 million russians died
to fight hitler’s advance
so who can blame who?
(he asks of a people that continue
to mourn their dead from stalin’s bullet and sword)

under the olive’s shimmering and slender leaves
hide twisted branches
but also its life giving fruit
yes, here the history of 27 million dead is the same
as the history of the countless dead from poland
left cold in the fields on journeys toward slavery
on the battlefield as conscripts of stalin’s army
at the front door, the streets, the church steps
continuing for generations after the war
and generations before the war
when the concept of being polish
was to be exterminated
putin you deny that our histories can be the same

poland ukraine slovakia
lithuania hungary georgia
czeks slovaks and others still cry
(they have kept their documents too, you see)
as you cry for stalin’s honor
and for those 27 million
in death they share the same history
as our dead
and we both continue living it

suspension

looking
beyond our
own universe we
have for centuries traversed
across treacherous voids suspended by
fragility and allures of
distant landscapes toward
mysterious realms
unknowable

Autumnal Transitions

 
1.
Four and a half mouths, this year,
She teetered on the line between states:
Fever, then none; consciousness, then un-
Sitting, mostly laying;  hi and bye;
Fighting, surrendering; breathing, not.
From flesh to ashes, from body to spirit,
As ancient now as the Parthenon. I mourn.

2.
Now we have just moved them
Into another home
With various sorts of care.
Parent/child roles have switched.
We hear, “When are we going to eat?”
“We have just eaten.” he says. Minutes later—
“When are we going to eat?” she asks,
“ I should set the table.”
“We have just eaten,” he says.
Laid bare in her words are 60 plus years
Of speech, a repertoire of speech, patterned on
Her life of managing a household—we mourn.

3.
The end of summer
The beginning of fall—
Daily increments of color change,
Falling leaves and temperatures,
Silence of naps,  rustling of middle schoolers’
Comings and goings through piles of leaves,
The boob tube screaming
About money and power or anything bizarre,
Or the naive programs of our childhoods,
The right and the left, pro and con,
Old and new, old and young, old and older…

 4.
…and in all these above are layers:
Layers of color, layers of wakefulness,
Layers of truthfulness and honesty,
Layers of meaning, of clothing, of nakedness,
Of confidentiality, openness and protection.
Peeling layers of pasts, photographs.
Peering to anticipated futures,
Headlights and rearview mirrors.
Autumn, full of loss and reminders,
As the leaves change and fall, they dry.
Autumn, both subtle and startling,
Is for now our map .

Each with Different Patterns

 

Some say that the human body is 99% space
And 1% substance.
Of that one percent substance,
Some 90% is water.
They have calculated the cost
Of the chemicals that comprise our bodies.
Our ashes fit in small containers.

Each leaf is different from the other.
No two faces are precisely the same.
Like snowflakes,
They offer incomprehensible variety.
But there is only one word for leaf,
One word for snowflake and one for face…

There is often conflict
Between the particular and the general.
Sometimes the general helps us to grasp,
Other times it blinds us.
Our failure to see the particular for the general
May be the actual Original Sin,
Symbolized by the generality of apples,
And overlooking the significance of a particular one,
Until it was too late.

They say the brain’s multitude of connections
Create electric objects
—Constellations in inner galaxies—
From which we each construct our own universes,
Precepts taken for knowledge,
Each with a different pattern,
But generally recognizable,
Like leaves, like faces, like snowflakes.

Magicians know this.

Amy Floating

Suspended in green freshness

over depths unknown,

limbs unaware of gravity now

but of the sun, yes…

she floats,

slightly uneasy about her new predicament,

learning to trust both the water

and her jacket,

so that she can enter her present,

her living now.

Suspended in green freshness

in sweet syncopation

of ripples and waves,

she relents,

losing herself cautiously to the cosmos

for moments at a time.

Suspended in green freshness

she finds the safety of light,

her new compass,

by closing her eyes.

Credit: Photographed by Marsha Pearson 9-13-2009, Lake Monroe, Indiana

five levels of claude monet

bottom

surface

reflection of tree

reflection of sky

reflection of mind

Skin 2

S            k            i            n

How thin that transparent, blue skin!

That layer of air from which we all

partake! That protecting blanket

of elemental gases nourishing

the blood of every creature

and all herbal substance,

while feasting our eyes

with glorious sunsets!

This membrane that

we all share is not

for sale! All lives

of this orb rely

on air–right

down to a

solitary

living

cell.

Lepidoptera

I
never thought
of butterflies having
scales on their colorful
wings as their
name subtly
implies.

I
never thought
about how their
antennae, unlike the moth’s,
are thin, extended
and unnoticeably
club-like.

I
never thought
how butterflies survive
violent storms and rains.
Do they hide?
Drift like
leaves?