Autumn Porch Days Some days, all we can do to see a wider world is lie quietly in the sun, faces curved to sky, watching leaves drop color and die, as clouds paint a bleached collage of our other places. All this radiance and warmth must surely reach something deeper than skin, higher than your mountains and stars, less broken than my in-between lovers. Yet, why does the wind winter swiftly? If I fade to sleep, dreams will pull me to body tired Autumn nights in Boone; Perseus chasing Pegasus across a dingy lens. Do you remember? Somewhere, far to the south of my dreams, you climb toward a circumpolar view, where your lens is robbed of my brightest star. I envision your weary form in these clouds as you drag a trail across that uncertain heaven. If you are seeking peace, come home. Our days apart are beyond the stack of peaks. All that is left is a calming stroke of hands, the sharing of pictures in winter clouds. That is enough for me, if I am with you. If you are seeking redemption, come home. You will discover the best of it here, in my heart. Years become mountains. We both know the trail. When will you remember me? Shirley Alexander © 2011
and all around me, life goes on
Daddy
What My Father Planted
He was a short man,
but there was a certain way he stood;
his silhouette strong and familiar
like a steeple in times of worry.
It was a determined stance,
glance to sun, hand shading frown,
tongue moisture over dry lips.
He timed breaths by till of hard soil.
If he chanced to catch me watching,
he was quick to harvest a smile.
We’ll be okay when it rains.
God watches over farmers and fools.
He was a short man,
but there was a certain way he stood,
tall and strong like a church steeple
towering toward heaven.
Shirley Alexander
2011
Ghost Prints
Ghost Prints
Walk softly, the old woman said.
Leave nothing disturbed.
Children and warriors knelt near campfires
to be warmed by the wisdom of her life.
They left no path through green woods;
thanked Mother Earth when they hunted;
prayed the good soil of their bones
would replenish what was taken.
I think of my ancestors when I walk in forests.
I think how this land must have been graceful,
accepting the music of soft footprints on ground,
leaving nothing disturbed.
I think of them, too, when I walk here,
where wisdom of elders is locked in antiseptic halls,
and grey city streets are paved
with deep prints in stone.
Shirley Alexander
May, 2011
Without A Proper Eulogy
Without A Proper Eulogy
I am as a miner on his mountain of grey,
calculating the loss of sweat for profit.
The land I hold writ to name my own
will choose to remember nothing of me,
save plastic scars and scent of dusty bones.
And when I am gone, mourners will rush
to add insult on the careless print that was me.
They will stack weak stone tall in my honor
where wild flowers should forever be free to grow.
And I will sigh into the dirt, and mourn all losses.
Shirley Alexander
2010
Things That Go “Bump!” In The Night
Things That Go “Bump!” In The Night
A thin layer of my mother’s womb still covered my face at birth.
When that ominous veil was lifted, the only sight I saw was reality.
But, I have the gift of caution from every glance of my mother’s eyes.
The life line on my right palm is broken into four sections;
each wanders off in a different direction from the rest.
This means nothing in years. It is the mark of individualism.
I have a space between my two middle toes, and the next toe
is longer than the biggest one. This does not make me Lord
and Master of the house. It makes my feet hurt in dress shoes.
I read cards, tea leaves, stones, pluck petals from unfortunate daisies,
and the only thing it gives me is time to think about time wasted.
Heaven is all that is in the stars for me, and that is too far to reach.
So, when I see you look at her, your lips curled in anticipation;
or maybe it is memory of some moment shared, I am reassured
by the knowledge that signs mean nothing in the larger picture.
Shirley Alexander
Jan. 2011
More Than She Knew
More Than She Knew
She sits by a bright, bare window
in a chair that has seen too much wet.
She is picking on days in her past,
fingers digging nervously into scalp.
Her nails are unkempt and bloody.
It’s an old habit, this searching for answers
in any place her palms can reach.
Last month it was a sore on her knee;
the month before, she became convinced
a bone was coming through her ankle.
She felt for it continuously, with vigor,
until a round bloody hole was dug.
The dirty bandage is still there,
though no one will ever visit to see it.
Sometimes she can do nothing but scream.
Her voice carries down hallways to haunt
the dreams of someone else‘s company.
Strangers wonder what torments her so.
They walk by her door; see the frail body,
eyes closed, mouth open, hands searching.
They look away, and walk away, quickly.
The young doctor comes every Tuesday
to perform a cursory update in her chart.
Depression. Obsessive. Compulsive.
Possible history of post traumatic dementia.
But, when the hall lights go down at night,
she remembers a happy house on Crystal Lake,
and a girl who searched for answers in her palm.
Shirley Alexander
2010
Background:
I was a volunteer in a local nursing home for several years. I would help with baths, do manicures, brush hair, clean dentures, read books out loud, and (more often than not) just sit and listen. I saw so much pain.
This poem is really a compilation of many characters. There actually was a lady from a place called Crystal Lake, or so she said. There were screamers, women who scratched holes in their scalps, and one man who dug for bones in his feet. It always seemed to me that they were digging for answers, mostly as to what had happened to bring them to this place in their lives. It broke my heart every time I went, but I went, because most of them expected me.
All of the women, and sometimes the men, I talked with told me they were going home soon. None of them knew their houses had already been emptied and re-occupied by other people, usually the very family members who never visited.
I quit going to the nursing home when I started taking care of my brother. I have not been back, and most of the people I knew there are gone now. I doubt I will ever do it again. I am getting older myself, and I have already seen too much pain for my years. Still, it worries me when I think of myself, and of Dude, and where we might be, not so many years from now.
Geode
Geode
He wrote a simple poem, the kind best read alone;
no pretences, or awkward dictionary interruptions.
But, one line went around in an intriguing way.
It was broader, deeper than what I had first seen.
I inserted myself into the crevice, pushed
against walls of understanding, until
the whole thing fell apart in my head,
and what I found inside those words
was magic
Shirley Alexander
2010
Filed under poetry
Red Mourning
Red Mourning
The day we buried Eddie, it snowed.
We gathered like penguins on ice,
all in black; black suits, dresses,
black umbrellas turned against gusts.
Black veils shrouded our hearts in grief,
and draped into the open hole of his life.
But she stood like a wounded heart,
splayed and bleeding its fire,
dressed all in red; red dress, shoes,
red umbrella kissing the sky.
Scarlet veils bled love from her veins,
and dripped into the open whole of his life.
People will talk. She said nothing
until the last flower was laid in snow.
Red is my love’s favorite, she whispered
to those silent men with black shovels.
I want to know he looks down from heaven;
smiles me vibrant in this cold and lonely world.
Shirley Alexander
2010
Fear of Falling
Fear of Falling
Fifty years ago, my sister and I raced across a long, high porch;
jumped off the end to fly across daffodils and old barking dogs.
That was before my sister fell.
She sprained her arm on harder ground.
Afterward, I would run across the porch,
leap into abandon, arms open to sky.
My sister would run to the edge,
brake a full stop, sit down, and cry.
I never understood her fear of jumping,
or the tears she shed for what was lost.
I spent a lifetime long jumping from one thrill to the next, fearless.
Then, one day I took the highest leap, for love. Now I understand.
Shirley Alexander
2010
Wilt
Wilt
Dog days of summer;
heat index rises.
Rain does not fall.
A ghost of autumn color bleeds across green.
Trees lean toward the empty creek bed,
like women long dry of love, and early to wilt.
I stand in a brown pasture,
back turned to a forest of reminders.
I pray for rain.
Shirley Alexander
© 2010
