Angel's home

Badness be an angel

Badness be an angel

Never done the

right thing feels OK

don’t feel wrong

Not good enough

That’s the truth

that be the girl

I know who is tough

Badness be an angel

Always trying to be more

that be the girl

that is me

Cascading down the river

Carried over the falls

feels right, feels OK

don’t feel wrong

First planning ahead

Then in the moment

movin’, movin’ on

trying not dying … yet

That be the girl who’s smilin’

Badness in her soul, but trying’

            tears in her heart

            eyes watchin’ … you.

White Point Garden

“Count them happy

who for their faith

and their courage

endured a great fight.”

The Battery--marked throughout

with memories of the manned redoubts,

the warriors, the fighters for freedom;

from ship to sub, pirate to historian

capstans, rifles, mortars, and guns--

bears no regret.

You stand upon that point of land

framed by fort and isle and sand

dedicated to struggles lost and won,

but it is the trees, patient and gracious

that say, “Stay, stay a while with us;

you are safe.”

Overspread with carpet grass and leaves--

carelessly brushed by the ceaseless harbor breeze,

White Point reigns as Charleston’s bowsprit.

Bounded by the sea wall, facing off the sea,

in a dulcet undertone, she whispers,

“Bring it on.”

“Count them happy

who for their faith

and their courage

endured a great fight.”

Is it not an apt verse for human life?

Standing on white sea shells, alive;

pointing outward to our soul’s delight;

resting inward,

We too endure.

Charleston, July 15, 2012

Perfect form

Perfect form.

Perfect surface.

Perfect moment.

Standing there

in stillness

he and I.

Both waiting

I could have stayed with him

until all the others left

the noisy admirers,

the dutiful,

until we were alone together;

until we were locked up in darkness.

Forever.

But it seems that

despite his eternal gaze,

his pure white skin,

his immobile stance--

stone resting in his hand,

the strap cast over his shoulder and back--

his ever ready watchfulness

his confidence and clear intent,

that I am the one

who is actually alive;

I am the one who is breathing.

I am the one who must move.

Not so. David.

What have I learned about Italy?

(Chaperoning 9 Ninth graders for 10 days in Italy)

We were an amoeba.

A group of cells--

living and breathing

stretching and pulling this way and that--

usually with imagined purpose

doing what we were designed to do:

seeking nourishment

like krill in a whale’s bale.

We were a messy lot.

We came, we saw, we conquered nothing.

The Italian peninsula is big and hilly--

full of stones and grass and trees

and cities rich with reminders

of those who came before.

It has sought to tell their stories

of discontent and relief;

of desires of family;

of struggle and victory;

All the stories.

It has done rather well at that.

It is a good thing we were together--

our hearts and minds

willing to see, to take in.

Busy with picture taking and

memorizing tableaus

of our foolishness,

whether I realized it or not,

our amoeba was seeking joy

and joy we received.

Ciao Bella! 

Sad little demitasse cup and saucer...

We hold onto things

                                   

PART I

I folded over the table

where I was  folding newsprint paper

around a picture of something

I wanted to hold onto.

But I couldn’t; I folded it tighter

hugging my fist wrapped picture

to my forehead,

but the tears just came anyway.


It was a picture of a toddler

in a tiny swimsuit

with safety bubble on her back

by a swimming pool.

She is carefully guiding the pool skimmer pole

with her little hands

gathering those annoying bits of leaves and fly parts

that she doesn’t want to swim with--

--little master of her domain.

A sweet moment captured in a frame

a symbol of all the moments I am holding onto. 

                                     *** 

                                    PART II

I have held onto so many things.

There are millions of emblems

bouncing around me.

with their nagging little voices:

Remember me, Love me, Save me;

receipts, old financial papers—

how long do I keep these?,

pictures of everyone I ever knew,

a broken demitasse cup—

a little glue and it would be like new;

an earring missing a pearl—

surely I can find a little pearl to restore it--

handmade baby clothes—

really? Do I need handmade baby clothes??

                                    ***

                                    PART III

This moving thing is not just about packing:

save, give away, trash. Oh no, it’s much more than that.

At my age, I am jettisoning huge tracts of my life,

entire chapters in the shredder, debris down the drain.

Is there any reason to be reminded of any of it anyway?

I shall relegate all memories to that “Where did I put my keys?”

region of the brain.

Their work is done.  Those memories made me.

I need not carry their detritus around with me anymore. 

I need not trail a dust cloud of impertinent minutia.

It is time to fly the coop, leave the nest

of accumulated possessions and lessons learned

and just be.  

So I can just go…

                                    ***

                                    PART IV

Each successive move, I strip more away.

In both possessions and memories.

Soon I will be living in a hut.

Thinking about the present.

Inspired by Suzanne